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a stone on simmer

Saturday, April 19th, 2008

IMG_5457, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

Handing me back the piece of paper with the single word on it, my student says,

“Um. I’m not sure I know what this is…”

Part of the mission of my work (in experiential education) is that of fostering eleven (what we call) “core values” in our students. It’s a tricky agenda because there are no simple equations or lists of instructions with which you can assist students in the tasks of realizing such intangible concepts as, “interconnectedness”, “authenticity” and “compassion.”

In fact, giving the word itself away too directly could even prove itself quite detrimental as it is in the nature of any teenager (or for that matter, inquisitive individual) to be suspicious of anything offered too freely. We also have to be careful of words over-quoted and sometimes, these days, even mass-marketed; any word that has made the tagline of coca-cola has most likely lost everything but its jingle.

So much like the popular party word game Taboo, it is our objective to have the students struggle not only with the answer (that we don’t name), but also the equation. And yes, they hate this game at first; especially because we don’t even tell them we’re playing it. (I’m realizing as I’m typing that this is likely to add a lot of fire to students’ friendly fire accusations that the leader team is, “secretly strategic.”) In any case, now that we are two months into our semester of intensive experiential lessons, we have seen our group, as individuals and a whole, give us easy evidence proving that they are now quite experienced with (even if they cannot name or define) all eleven of our core values. We’re confident that they have harvested all the raw vegetables necessary to put this recipe together.

Back to the student holding the word and prompt with which I started this post. And let me add the disclaimer that it is quite ironical that the student in our group who embraces and exemplifies the quality most doesn’t know that her most natural inclination is the very definition of the word in her hand (adding the final mark of purity to her quality).

Yet I am not going to fault her English teacher or general education for this vocabulary mishap. In fact, I’m going to enter some very dangerous territory and suggest that the responsibility might lie on the broad shoulders of American culture and society. But before anyone calls me a separatist or unpatriotic, please hear me out as I make the case by serving it in compliment-sandwich (a sneaky way to pass to some tough meat). For just as we (group leaders) encourage constructive criticism in our group, I think, as a country, we should also be taking some time to gently and compassionately give and receive the feedback that will evolve us to our highest nation.

With our students, after having them work to discover and define the words, we then asked them to each choose the “core value” that they, deep inside, intuitively know as the next most appropriate step in their personal development.

Now I’m clearly going to take some liberties here and choose a word for the United States of America, of which, if it matters, I am a citizen. And I hope to make the case a little more edible by emphasizing that the States does embrace many of our core values exceptionally well. As a country, we have proven ourselves quite skilled in the categories of, “courage,” “responsibility,” “ownership,” and “curiosity.” And then there are some classes in which we understand the term or goal even if we’re still sorting out which verbs we actually have to put into action to complete the realization of the lesson. But I’m looking for the word that we, deep inside, intuitively know as the next most appropriate step in our country’s personal development.

And the word I choose is Humility.

Now just as my student didn’t know the meaning of this word, I think this term is so far from the mind of American culture that we can barely conceive of a sentence to put it in. But let’s reach for a minute.

(And I know I’m predictable, but…)

Let’s reach across the world to my personal and favorite teacher and Guru-ji of all.

India.

For while India has her own set of core values that are in particular need of development (perhaps actually, even the same that we in the West have mastered), the quality that I have witnessed her culture, society and people to embrace with eloquence and grace, on both conscious and subliminal levels, from sunrise to sunset and from child to great grand parent, is that of Humility.

Modeling by example, let’s work on the definition first.

And instead of words, like a good experiential educator, I am going to use that which I’ve actually witnessed.

I am quite fortunate to be living between six sacred temples near Tulsi Ghat in Varanasi. The sacred pool outside my door is called, Lolark Kund and beside it is a temple dedicated to the planets with which our own is in orbit around the sun. So I need not step father than my doorstep to watch the following: a family approaching the temple, the father kneeling down and touching his forehead to the front step of the entrance, the youngest daughter delicately holding a string of fresh flowers between her hands clasped in the “namaste” of respect, the mother covering her head out of modestly (to the gods) and gently lowering her 4-year old toddler grandson from her hip so that he too can touch his head to the ground.

The family enters and proceeds in their circumambulation of the inside of the temple. They approach the statue of Ganesha, touch his feet, ask for him to give them the wisdom to remove the obstacles from their life, and place a mala of orange carnations around him. They approach the mother goddess Durga, light incense, and ask for her to bless upon them the weapons of her protection. They approach the monkey God Hanuman, offer him his favorite sweets (usually Ladoo), and ask for him to bless them with his unfaltering devotion. They approach Vishnu, bow to his feet, and light a butter lamp praying for the preservation of their good health and prosperity. They approach Shiva, represented by a lingam, offer milk and throw flowers while chanting mantras that might invoke his blessing of finding the fortunate new beginnings within his destruction.

In this way, the family proceeds to each enthroned god, lowering their heads, humbling their beings, bowing their respect, and making offerings to those divine beings and virtues that they host closest to their hearts. When they leave the temple, the dare not turn their back on the Gods, but walk out of the temple backwards, reaching down with their hand to first touch the step, then their forehead, and then their heart — in a symbolic gesture of holding themselves at the feet of their beloved.

Yet this family does not leave their humility in the temple. When the family returns home, they walk in the door and approach the 98-year old great grandmother. Each person — father, mother, daughter, toddler — before any chore or toy, approaches the elder and touches her foot and then their own head to symbolically swipe the sacred dust from her feet. Depending upon her mood, the great grandmother will either accept the gesture or, humbly, push it away. Either way, and even if only for the pangs of labor through which she birthed the existence of this family,
she deserves this show of respect.

The daughter in this family is of the age to marry. Contrary to what you might expect, she does not cry every night wishing she had been born in a Western country where she might have had the opportunity of a “love marriage.” Most likely, if you ask her, she will say that she respects, even more than the Indian tradition, the advice, experience, guidance, and ultimately, the choice of her mate by her parents. She questions her own lack of years and experience. She trusts their better judgment. She loves her parents and is loyal to trusting their love of her. She knows that they will make the decision that best befits her long-term and overall happiness. She shows her respect by submission and trust in their ultimate decision.

Okay. NOW let’s get out the dictionary and define the word on the piece of paper that my student is still holding…

hu·mil·i·ty (noun) the quality or condition of being humble; modest opinion or estimate of one’s own importance, rank, etc. a lack of false pride; freedom from pride and arrogance; An act of submission or courtesy.

So where do we take this as a culture and as a nation? Well, the truth is, while I’m great at isolating problems (aren’t we all?), solutions are never as simple. And even if I had one, neither would I be allowed to provide something so easy. For just as with the definition, it would be stealing something to give away the answer. We owe it to ourselves to allow and embrace the struggle, for only through that process can we ultimately claim full ownership of the resulting revelation.

So what we did with our students was simply ask them to hold the word in their minds.

humility

To see where it would take them.

For I think as individuals we have to do this first, as it is only in our collection, that we become a nation.

Perhaps it sounds like a funny recipe: to just “hold” the word in our consciousness. But as I learned from my favorite childhood storybook, “Stone Soup” – sometimes the best way to start is to just put a rock in the pot and then add as you may; stewing and stirring and building upon your stone ’till the soup starts to smell good. Perhaps even forgetting, in the process, with what (now irrelevant) intention we may have started.

Funny, actually now that I think about it, is that it would seem that the first step in recognizing our humility would be the very act of recognizing our lack of it!

In any case. Humility is the rock in my pot and I now have two weeks trekking in the Himalayas to stew on it. So do be patient with me as this post feels like it’s only at a simmer and still missing some key ingredients. Maybe I’ll find them growing in the mountains? In the meantime, will you just help me by holding this stone for a minute?

Posted in culture, gratitude, india | 4 Comments »

arranged love marriage

Saturday, April 5th, 2008

IMG_5263, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

One of my students recently quipped, “…arranged marriages give me faith in marriage.”

And as quickly as I agreed with her, I wondered, “what a once-foreign idea with which I have so naturally nodded my head in agreement!”

It’s one of the subjects on India of which I find to be the fullest of misconceptions and unfounded, ethnocentric judgments. But I never wag a finger at a new student of India when he or she comments, “Can you just imagine?! Not marrying for love?!”

Because I know my students will soon enough be living with Indian families, surrounded by Indian brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers. And that each of these family members will have his or her own story to tell which will illustrate that there’s a lot more hidden variables in marriage math. I have enormous faith that my students, too, will not just learn, but witness that Love, in the East or the West and regardless of method, is still just as likely to find itself on the other side of the equal sign in the wedded equation.

My first Hindi teacher is 24 years old and was married last year. Aside from a 1×1 inch passport photo, he did not see the face of his bride until after his marriage to her. My second Hindi teacher has been happily married for 41 years. He didn’t glimpse even a photo of his wife until hours after the wedding rituals were completed. What do these two men and generations have in common? A respected cultural tradition that accepts and pursues (with great faith) a committed and self-sacrificing investment in the lifetime partnership of parenthood.

I’ve visited and shared meals with both families. The young couple is no less caring, loving, and challenging-yet-functional, than any of my friends’ young married relationships. The older couple has not a single less story of compassion, sacrifice, tolerance, perseverance or tender love than that of our own Western parents.

What my student was saying is, “if people here can have perfectly successful and loving (arranged) marriages with someone they don’t even know, doesn’t that mean that opportunity exists for ANY two persons?”

(Whether we actually have an advantage in being able to choose our partner is then what becomes debatable!)

Let me provide two interesting linguistic examples that illustrate some of the differences on East and West perceptions in regards to their definitions of two of life’s most important social pillars; I’m going to start with “religion,” but stay with me as I’ll then return back to, “marriage.”

Hinduism in India is actually not as much a religion as it is a culture and way of life. Even the name, “Hinduism” was originally only a term created to characterize the, “people of the Indus Valley.” So essentially, it was a name invented by outsiders to categorize a group of people with a different “way of life” in order to differentiate it from their own.

If you you keep this definition in mind, it begins to make sense why there is no word in its scriptures or pressure within the “religion” to cultivate the spread of Hinduism. Nor can one, even of his or her own choice, really “convert” to being a Hindu. And finally, this would also perhaps provide logical reason for why there are no historical accounts of war or violence in the name of “saving” or “forcing” a group of non-Hindus to convert to practitioners of the “faith” of Hinduism.

For that would, plainly, be silly. It would be like Italians invading Montana and forcing them to make their pasta from scratch and drive scooters. Silly. And so if you translate religion to “culture” or, “way of life” then it makes perfect sense why on, more than one occasion, I have found different Indian persons challenging me with…

“What do you mean, you have no religion? Do you not have parents? Were you not born in a country?”

Because despite my soft claims that, “I chose to stop being, practicing and calling myself a Christian when I was 21,” this sentence is no more rational to an Indian than me saying, “I stopped being an American when I was 21.”

Let me interject my disclaimer now that this understanding is only my own; it’s a subtle and simple (and perhaps opinionated) observation that I’ve only hypothesized from the confused pauses before, after, and between sentences.

But what I was getting back to was the topic of marriage, and the link between the above example and the next, is only the similar confused pause at the end of the sentence…

“What do you mean you’re not sure you believe in marriage?”

For just as religion equates to culture. The term “marriage” is easily transferable with the words, “life” and “family.” And to challenge the existence or desire of marriage is quite equivalent to denying the existence of life or desire for love.

Now I can hear someone in the audience stirring in their seat and raising their hand with the following question: “But what about dowries (a type of early inheritance or investment paid to the groom’s family by the brides), and the fact that not only is the marriage arranged, but that the bride is little more than sold, for a price, to the most appropriate bidder?”

Well. I certainly do not doubt the likely correlation between the social construct of dowries and the social norm of preferential sex selection and even female feticide. But as is often the case when I investigate a stereotype or preconceived idea and begin to explore the more intimate details of the (Indian) relationships near me, I hear quite interesting stories.

Like that of my best friend here in India who, even as a Brahmin (the highest caste and often demanding of the highest dowry), accepted only a single symbolic rupee (equivalent to about 2 US cents) in dowry for his arranged marriage to his wife. And of his and his wife’s relationship, I can say that I would truly be tried to find a more accepting, self-sacrificing, committed and loving relationship than theirs on any continent. (Would you know by witnessing the tenderness in the above photo that there’s a 3-year old screaming for a toy in one corner and a 1-year old trying to eat Vaseline in the other?)

I’m not out to prove anything. I only want it down for the record that, from my experiences here in India, I have gathered absolutely NO evidence that would lead me to believe that a “love marriage” has any greater chances for “success” (which would take an essay of its own to define) than that of an arranged marriage. And if you have any doubt or questions, I challenge you to find any Indian couple who’s been married for a few dozen years, and sit down and have chai with them and hear out their stories; of anxiety, of fear, of desire, of bliss, of routine, of duties, of immaturity, of overwhelm, of challenges, of loss, of self-sacrifice, of commitment, of pride, of trust, and of the continuum and construction of love. And I challenge you to see if that story is really any different from those of the elders of the country where you were born. And if you come to any interesting conclusions, I’d like to have tea with you too.

Posted in culture, india, on love | 7 Comments »

interview with a village family

Tuesday, March 11th, 2008

India is the home of almost 1/6th of the world population; 1.13 billion people and around 80% of this population lives in rural areas.

Last weekend I spent a long weekend in a small, rural village on the outskirts of Varanasi of which I’ve visited and fostered some lovely friendships over the course of the last six months. Our students each lived with different families in the village and we gave them a set of questions (constituting a sort of, “anthropological survey”). We, as well, lived with one of the families and spent a day gathering answers to the same survey questions. The following are excerpts from the information gathered…

(I start off by addressing my questions to our 14-year daughter of the primary family occupying the house.)

Me: So this is the only Brahmin (highest caste) family in the village?

Daughter: Brahmin? What is this? I don’t know.

Me: You know, the caste system?

Daughter: No. I don’t know what that is.

Me: Do you know where the women of the village give birth?

Daughter: Now? Now, babies are born in the hospital. Before they were born in the house. But now, in the hospital.

Me: When do you worship and or make puja (prayer)?

Daughter: Sometimes we go to the ashram. And we make puja also in the house. The whole family participates. But mostly my grandfather does it. Which god we pray to depends on the day of the week and/or the festival.

Me: Do the kids in the village go to school?

Daughter: Yes. All the kids in the village go to school from 8am – 3pm, Monday through Saturday. I go to a special school because the teacher at the village school is very lazy – always sleeping. Many girls here study to class 8, and then they usually make marriage.

Me: Do you know who is the prime minister of India?

Daughter: Oh… I can’t remember his name.

Me: Do you know who is the president of the United States?

Daughter: Ummm. One of my friends is telling jokes about someone called, George Bush. And there was a big bomb blast in America in 2001, no? One of my friends is also calling me, Bin Laden. (She is particularly famous in the village for being a fireball with a temper who is ever eager to instigate brawls and fighting with, even, village boys.)

Me: Can you help me draw out your family tree?

(We draw out a tree of the 43 persons she knows to be in her family. After finishing, we take a chai break and move downstairs, where her uncle is sitting. I turn my next questions to him…)

Me: She told me that she doesn’t know what, “Brahmin” or the “caste system” is…

(The uncle calls his niece into the room and says,)

Uncle: What “janti” do you belong to?

Daughter: Pandey.

Uncle: Pandey is your (last) name. You are Brahmin, na?

Daughter: (She bobs her head in hesitant agreement.)

Uncle (addressing me): Did you know her grandfather (who lives here) was a freedom fighter for the movement with Gandhi?

Me: Really? The man whose feet I touched in the fields? That’s amazing.

Me: So here’s the family tree she and I drew together…

Uncle: (He looks at it for a minute and then asks me for a piece of paper. He then draws out the complete family tree of 64 persons.)

(The uncle leaves and the father of the house returns from working in the fields. His English is limited so I enlist the help of his 20-year old nephew to help me with the rest of the questions…)

Me: So what is your family business/trade?

Father & Nephew: Having land. Other families have shops and sell buffalo milk. We have land.

Me: And in addition to your family, you employ people to work on your fields? How much do you pay them?

House Father & Nephew: Those that work in our fields are paid in rupees, rice paddies (or land), food and jaggery. How many rupees? About 80 rupees per day. The government pays its field workers a rate of 110 rupees per day. But we also provide, each year, a plot of land to each worker. Then, they get 5 kilos of food from the fields they work on each day. And spices and essentials, like jaggery (sugar cane sweetener). We also make meals for them every day. What do we serve them? You know, because you eat the same thing. We all eat the same food. The same meals you are eating here for breakfast, lunch and dinner, are the same that they eat. Are they happy? Yes. They are happy because they have their own land and can do what they want with it; grow what they want on it.

Me: What about the caste system? How does it work here?

Nephew: If you’re in another caste, there is no thinking that another can’t come into your house or anything. We are always wanting and looking forward to nice things happening to all people. Many times I have gone to the “untouchable” part of the village and helped students to do these interviews there. I go into their houses too and we talk.

Me: Who is in charge of the village?

House Father & Nephew: The government leaders are in charge. But ours is a bad drunkard. He is a milker – because in our village, this is an important caste. He is still here, but he only likes to drink and lay around. He uses all the money that the government gives to the village for bad things. So now two others of the village have taken over managing the village. My uncle is one of them.

Me: And what happens when there are conflicts in the village?

House Father & Nephew: If there is a problem in the village, there is a panchayat (a committee of five elders chosen for their life experience and wisdom, to proceed over community disputes). The problem is taken to the panchayat to help. People can also choose their panchayat, if they want. If both people are not happy with the resolution of the panchayat, then they will go to the police.

Me: What happens in cases where people steal, or in the case of a woman who is raped?

Nephew: It’s never happened in my village that I’ve seen.

House Father: There is so much work for the women in the village. Hard work. They work till 12 at night; with the baby,
in the fields, cleaning, cooking…

Me: And the men work hard too?

House Father: Yes. But the women work harder.

Me: Is this fair?

House Father & Nephew: No.

Me: What is the water system here?

Nephew: Rain, when there is rain. But we haven’t had rain for four years. When is the rain season? July. No. September. Hum. I don’t remember, it’s been so long since we’ve had a rain season. The village had to make wells. The government didn’t make them, but my uncle, he had a contact with someone who makes wells for the government and so this family put two wells in: one inside our house for our family, and one outside the house for the village to use. These wells are 350-420 feet deep. This is very deep, and each year we have to go deeper. The government made a water tank two years ago. Six months ago, it started working. It costs 18 rupees per month to use, but it also costs 800 rupees for the connection. That well comes from the earth, 345 to 400 ft. There are maybe 10-12 wells in the village, but only six of them still work.

Me: Does the village have electricity?

House Father & Nephew: Yes. We have electricity. When? From about 11pm to 5pm. But we don’t really know the times because it changes every day. For example, since you are coming, we haven’t had light. The electricity is most important because we need it to pump the water in the fields. 75% of the village has electricity. Normally it costs 70- 80 rupees per month, but most people are using the lines without paying for it by just taking it.

Me: What forms of fuel do you use here?

House Father & Nephew: We use dung from the animals for cooking. And some wood. One time, each year, we go up to the mountain and take wood from the forest. We take 2-3 bushels and use 1-2 small pieces per day. Are we running out? No. We only go a few times a year. There is so much wood. And we use diesel for the tractors.

Me: What kinds of electronics do you use here?

House Father & Nephew: We have TV’s. But ours is in the closet. There used to be only two or three TVs in the village, but now everyone has one. Not everyone uses them; sometimes we use to watch cricket matches, political news and serial pictures which the government plays for free on weekends. We use FM (radio) too – to hear the news. We have three cell towers here, and 30% of people in the village have cell phones. CD players too. Chinese players are so cheap on the black-market in Varanasi.


Me: What is the possession that you treasure most in the house?

House Father & Nephew: Our family.

Me: Where does the food that you cook the meals with come from?

House Father & Nephew: Mostly from the fields. Sometimes we get some vegetables from the market (in surrounding villages). Right now we grow (and are eating) carrots, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, lentils, green peas, chick peas, zucchini, garlic, onion, potatoes, mustard seed (and oil), cabbage, cauliflower, spinach, ginger, bitter gourd, different leafy vegetables, sugar cane (and jaggery), and chili peppers. Soon we will begin to plant and harvest our summer foods: watermelon, cucumber, mangos, pumpkin, and rice when the rain season comes. Normally, we sell our surplus of these things in the city, but because we haven’t had a rain season for four years, we have just enough food for our own family.

Me: And the animals, what is your relationship to them?

Newphew: Do you know the Hindi word for animal? It is, “janvar.” This word means, “he who will kill himself for you.” Our animals take care of us. When my aunt died, we left our house empty (to attend to her death rites), and our dog watched over the house. We only have dogs and water buffalo here. We are Brahmin. So we do not eat any meat. If a Brahmin eats meat, another will say, “Don’t sit on my bed. Sit over there.”

Me: In the case of medical emergencies, what happens?

House Father & Nephew: Here, there are some doctors, but they are not very learned. For fevers and critical cases, people go to the hospital in the city. But it’s hard to get there; some people die on the way.

Me: Do you have any preventative health treatments, natural medicines?

Nephew: Yes. We pick natural medicines from the mountains. We use trees, grasses… I don’t know. My grandfather makes all the ayurveda medicine for our family. He still does it. What happens when he dies? It is so bad for the family. Because no one knows how to make the medicines. No one has the time to learn these things. But he will teach it, if anyone wants to learn.

Me: So when and for what do you go to the city?

House Father & Nephew: For some weddings, government work and to buy electronics. But, everything in the city – milk, vegetables, chick peas, rice, spices – comes from the villages.

Me: Interesting. So really, if there were a major disaster in the world that cut you off…

House Father & Nephew: We’d be fine.

Me: What are the things your family fears most?

House Father & Nephew: Separation of family.

Me: You mean physical separation? Like people moving away, to the city or other countries?

House Father & Nephew: No. I mean, if we don’t have nice relations with each other.

Me: Is there anything else your family is afraid of?

House Father & Nephew: Yes. Also drought and terrorists. Naxilites walked by our village once, two or three years ago. They just walked by. But there is a fear that they will come again and begin to kidnap persons.

Nephew: My uncle wants to know what you think of our village?

Me: I think it all works very well together. The community and family are such a strong and functional foundation to the village. And I think this emphasis is so important. I also see that while there are less material things here, there seems to be more peace and general happiness. Tell him that I think his village is beautiful.

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in culture, india | 1 Comment »

india is an arranged marriage

Monday, January 28th, 2008

Village Faces, U.P. India, originally uploaded by seekingsol.


(This is an excerpt from a personal journal entry from the first week when I arrived in India. I sometimes cringe and curse at the weird way my sentences wrap around each other in odd-measured rhyme when I get writing. So know that it’s unintentional, but just the way my thoughts get scribbled. You see. A curse.)

india is an arranged marriage

There is no courtship with India. The face peering back at yours from behind the curtain does not bat her lashes or bite her lip. It is the lack of fear behind her stone stare that makes your heart race with unnamed emotion. The sterile passport-sized picture of her given to you does not invoke the vision of her as the mother of your dozen children. Yet your story with her seems dimensionless and pregnant with a million incarnations that could be conceived of the union. India is not coy. Nor is she shy. And you sense a thousand secrets, hidden millennia deep, when she finally chooses to give your gaze relief. India does not rank high by conventional standards and comparisons of beauty. But her features are sharp and distinguished and clues of a character that will not fade when fairness and years are incrementally dismissed. India does not flaunt, but neither does she hide. She does not rely on the skin she shows, but that which she doesn’t, to tantalize. India lowers her eyes. Not in feigned defeat, but in respect to that which she knows hides under the shadow of Earth’s own sari. India does not pretend — to know you, or that you know her. She knows that those worlds will take exponential lifetimes to explore. India hasn’t the time to, without prompt, monologue an explanation of herself to you. But she will reward each individual and invested question with her most straightforward and simple truth. For although India is a young bride, she feels no rush to attach herself to only one of her multiple lives. India dreams. And she trusts. She still calls it fate and questions those who say it’s not. India raises a candle to the sun. She feels no need to draw the theories when she can see the likeness clearly. India knows not what, but, that she doesn’t know. She doesn’t guess, but answers the biggest questions, honestly, with her silence. India knows she will grow old and, with time, wrinkle, but that is not how she remembers the line of women that came before her. She’s comfortable with her youth being shed and only hopes to inherit the pride of those whose footsteps left the path before her distinguished and well-tread. India trusts her ancestors. She counts on their mistakes to give merit to the wisdoms they pass along, even if the logical connection is ages lost or forgotten. India has great heart and hope. She sees no advantage in allowing herself to wander the fantasies of failure. India did not choose you. Neither did you choose her. Someone, something — above, older, wiser — of this proposal, was the organizer. And yet, the plank over this apparent divide, was the subconscious consent stated in the silence from both sides. One can insist on free will and draw a line. But, as India points out, fate can always draw another one, just an inch behind. Yes. India is wise. She’s an old wife, who has outlived her partner but lives on to share the recipes — for food, in love, of life — to any of those who bother to lean in and listen to the creaking treasure chest of her whisper. Perhaps you are circling India now, taking your wedding vows as she follows your steps around the sacred fire. You may not have ever seen her face, but you know she is there, a step behind you. Waiting for you to gather your courage, take her hand, lift her veil, and finally face her.

Posted in culture, on love, prose & ramble | 5 Comments »

being & becoming

Friday, November 23rd, 2007


“To a western observer our civilization appears as all metaphysics, as to a deaf man piano playing appears to be mere movements of fingers and no music.” - RABINDRANATH TAGORE, India’s greatest poet, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913

“If a man can realize his divine nature with the help of an image, would it be right to call that a sin? Nor, even when he has passed that stage, should he call it an error. To the Hindu, man is not travelling from error to truth, but from truth to truth, from lower to higher truth. To him all the religions from the lowest fetishism to the highest absolutism, mean so many attempts of the human soul to grasp and realize the Infinite, each determined by the conditions of its birth and association, and each of these marks a stage of progress; and every soul is a young eagle soaring higher and higher, gathering more and more strength till it reaches the Glorious Sun.” - Paper on Hinduism, At the World’s Parliament of Religions Chicago, 19th September 1893

“Science is nothing but the finding of unity. As soon as science would reach perfect unity, it would stop from further progress, because it would reach the goal. Thus chemistry could not progress father when it would discover one element out of which all others could be made. Physics would stop when it would be able to fulfill its services in discovering one energy of which all the others are hut manifestations, and the science of religion becomes perfect when it would discover Him who is the one life in a universe of death, Him who is the constant basis of an ever-changing world, One who is the only Soul of which all souls are but delusive manifestations. Thus it is, through multiplicity and duality, that the ultimate unity is reached Religion can go no father. This is the goal of all science. All science is bound to come to this conclusion in the long run. Manifestation, and not creation, is the word of science today; and the Hindu is only glad that what he has been cherishing in his bosom for ages is going to be taught in the more forcible language and with further light from the latest conclusions of science.” - Paper on Hinduism, At the World’s Parliament of Religions Chicago, 19th September 1893

“To the Hindu, then, the whole world of religions is only a travelling, a coming up, of different men and women, through various conditions and circumstances, to the same goal. Every religion is only evolving a God out of the material man, and the same God is the inspirer of all of them. Why, then, are there so many contradictions? They are only apparent, says the Hindu. The contradictions come from the same truth adapting itself to the varying circumstances of different natures.”- Paper on Hinduism, At the World’s Parliament of Religions Chicago, 19th September 1893



“The Hindu religion does not consist in struggles and attempts to believe a certain doctrine or dogma, but in realizing – not in believing, but in being and becoming.” - Paper on Hinduism, At the World’s Parliament of Religions Chicago, 19th September 1893

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in culture, india | No Comments »

chai with Agam-ji

Sunday, October 21st, 2007


*picture from our 2004 chai sessions*

This is not my first cup of chai with Agam-ji.

While the kinship I feel for him might well transcend centuries, Agam has already become a revered character in one of my many lifetimes within this one; I studied the art of silversmith under his mentorship, three years ago, on my first trip to India. But in our many hours sitting cross-legged in the tiny carpeted studio attached to the shop showcasing his craft, I spent far less time melting, hammering and buffing than I did sipping, listening and laughing. And while my silver may have laid battered and unbuffed, my understanding of India was shaped and polished by Agam’s stories; of his beautiful arranged marriage, of his father’s life work and its distribution among his sons, and of his business, art, love and skill – silver – all in one.

Agam was the first star I found in my evening sky of India; my first friend born of the country. And on my last day in Banaras, I ran into his shop and asked him to mark our memory of times together, to which he agreed, as always, with a humor-her chuckle. He took out one of his tiny silver earrings and sharpened its blunt end to a piercing point. I stood with my back flat against the wall and when he told me to take a deep breath, as he’d instructed the hundreds of Indian women before me, I filled my lungs and exhaled my complete trust in him. What remains is the little star-like stud, on the left side of my nose, which I wear to this day.

Today, three years later, I find myself again in Agam-ji’s shop, wafting on the memories that the scent of silver dust in the air has yanked from past to present – as the smells of all the best stories do. And now, with a night sky full of Indian friends, I recognize just how lucky I was to have found such a North star: his character is un-faded by time; his charm as luminous, and wisdom striking, as the day I met him…

I look up over my chai cup and shout my surprise, “Agam! Look at all the little birds sitting above your shop door! That must be auspicious!”

He tips his wire-rimmed glasses up from the tiny earring that he is shaving with a hair-thin wire and with a chuckle says, “Well, yes, it is. And I am also feeding them!”

I laugh, stand up, and walk over to the doorway. I move slowly, but the dozen little finches and sparrows, in one great wing of wind, scatter to the tree across the street.

Agam laughs out loud and says, “They don’t know you!”

“Do they fly away when you go through the door, Agam?”

He laughs again, as he does with every response, and says, “well of course not!”

He instructs me to reach up and feel the top ledge of the metal door and as my fingers scope out inch-deep divide, I feel, with the tips of my fingers, a thick layer of seed lining the length of ledge.

“One day,” he begins as he holds up the earring for inspection of his work…

“One day, a bird came to my store. It was May. A very, very hot day. In the hottest month of the year. Everyone was hot and thirsty and this little bird came to my store. And it opened its mouth like this, breathing without closing its mouth, doing this, what is that called? Panting? Yes. Panting. It was panting and I thought to myself, “this bird is thirsty.” And I had a glass of water by my side and thought, “it does me no harm and it will make this bird happy if I give it water.” And so I put some of my water in a little dish and this little bird flew right to the dish and drank the water. And then I thought to myself; I wonder if this bird is also hungry? It will do me no harm to feed this bird and then the bird will be happy, isn’t it? So I went out and bought a bag of birdseed – which, in the market – it costs nothing. Only one rupee a day and this bird will be happy. And so I put the seed on the top of my door and the bird came back every day to eat and drink and it made me happy to see his bird happy. Then one day another bird came. And the two birds were happy and came back every day. Soon a third bird came. And the two birds did not like this one, and chased him away. They are very fun to watch; how they get along with each other, just like we do. But the third bird came back, and then a fourth came, and now they are many. Sometimes there are thirty or forty. They come for lunch at 11:30 and they come for dinner at 5:30. Everyday, they come at the same times. And they are very happy. Do you hear them singing? They are happy knowing that if they can not find any food that day, they can always come to my shop and have food. Do you know what it’s like to be very, very thirsty? Or very, very hungry? I am very happy to know that when they are feeling this, they come here. And that when they receive food, they give me their blessing. And this blessing is the blessing of a thousand. Because when you are very, very thirsty, or very, very hungry, your gratitude is of a thousand. And it is good karma to have thousands of such blessings sent into the world each day.”

He continues…

“Some people, they come into my shop, and they complain that the birds leave seed on my doorstep or their shirt– they say the birds make things dirty and ask me why I feed them. But I ignore them. It is nothing to me. I only need to clean just a little bit every day. Every morning I only need to use a rag to wipe the ledge and a broom to sweep the step, and it is so very little work for me to make the birds happy, isn’t it. Just a little bit of work every morning. Human beings are so selfish. We do not want to give, even when it costs us nothing. Only 1 rupee a day and look how many birds we can make happy. Look how many blessings we can have. And they chatter and sing and are beautiful to watch and they are happy and they are free.”

The smile fades from Agam’s face as he puts the piece he is working on down and raises his voice with an edge (not of anger, but of strength) that I have never heard before…

“Now, I go sometimes to a person’s house and I see a bird in cage. And I ask that person, ‘What are you doing! What are you doing to this bird? This bird is not happy!’ And that person says, ‘Well, I’m feeding it, aren’t I?’ And I say, but that bird is not free. Look at it. That bird is not singing or playing or fighting or flying. That bird is very unhappy! Why do you have to cage it to feed it? Your bird is unhappy and you have only one lonely and unhappy bird. Why only have one unhappy bird when you can make many, many birds happy and they will come to you the same, but they will sing, and fly and be happy and free?”

He puts the finger down that he was using to make his points in the air and picks up a soft cloth and starts to softly buff the silver while at the same time softly explaining…

“So this is my rule. Every morning. The first person who walks into the door of my shop. If it’s me, or one of the workers, or my trainee; no matter who it is, if you walk through the door first, it is your job, first, to clean the ledge and to sweep the step and to feed the birds. And if he, who comes through my door first, does not do this….”

Agam looks up at me above the wire rim of his glasses and says with a winking smile,

“Then I do not give him money for his breakfast either.”

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in culture, india, story time | No Comments »

Footprints in Peru, Day 10: collective breaths

Sunday, August 26th, 2007

Our bridge is only a few hundred hauled-stones away from completion when I wander up the hill following a rumor that the men of the Quelqanqa are constructing a traditional “earth oven” or pachamanca in which the feast, celebrating the completion of our mission, will be cooked.

Indeed, on a hill overlooking the soccer field, I find a few dozen men squatting, squinting and otherwise overseeing the construction of the last of three pachamancas. The process of stacking the stones is quite similar to a game of reverse-jenga; it’s a delicate equation in which the placement of every stone is crucial to the whole of the balancing act and yet a single weak or teetering point can send the whole thing tumbling down.

And tumble down is exactly what I watch the aspiring pachamancha do twice before I add my own two hands to the twelve already collaborating. Our strategy is to slowly build up, and then hold down, the vertical walls, while making a bridge of locking vertebrae stones that will function as the skeleton of the pachamancha.

After ten minutes of careful construction, we reach the roof of the dome and, with a collective held breath, finally connect one side to another. At the same time, we each quickly reach for smaller stones to stuff and support the cracks. But we pay dearly for this lapse in concentration as the entire pachamancha crumbles, in a mere fraction of the time it took to construct, to a clumsy pile of rubble on the ground. All the men lean back on their squatting haunches and exhale the long breath of tested patience. And I do what I always do in most situations of emergency, exhaust or fury: I laugh. In response, one of the men tosses out a comment in Quechua to which all the rest fall in fits of laugher and then he turns to me and says, “Every time, you laugh!”

He says it with a sincere smile, but I suddenly take into account, for the first time, that I am the only woman represented at this party. I begin to fear if perhaps I have crossed inappropriate cultural boundaries, or even worse, will be blamed for cursing the work! I’m horrified at these prospects but shake the new fear from my hands and follow quick suit as the men all lean forward to begin construction again.

I work on a small front wall and begin to pride myself on how sturdy my interlocking rocks are proving themselves. When the stones on the top of the dome finally begin to reach across and link solidly together, this time, without lapsing our concentration or held breath, we manage to swiftly snap into piece all the smaller supporting stones until every hesitant hand has slowly released its grip and we tumble back in a simultaneous gasp of satisfaction.

I am particularly happy that I have proven myself not to be a curse and, unable to hold back my laugh any longer, am delighted when everyone joins me in sounding our shared joy and relief.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in culture, peru | No Comments »

getting to the period

Thursday, April 5th, 2007

getting to the period

Africa is a guru, of whom any and every encounter provides another opportunity to master grace in the practice of patience.

And just as my lids close down and wipe clean the board of expectation with a limp rag of exhaust, our 5th, 6th and 7th passengers arrive simultaneously — confirming that lessons can’t be bothered with run-on endings; once they are got, they get to the period.

A hasty duo of a man with a young boy wearing a fresh cast on his arm take over the middle seat. A young girl squeezes into the seat next to me.

*dhunk* *dhunk*
*dhunk* *dhunk*

Four doors suddenly slam. An engine shakes awake. Bodies assort themselves into the first bearable arrangement of interlocking limbs. And we are on our way.

The girl sitting next to me is different. Is it her fashion jeans? The bottled water she sips on? Her quick and confident manner? That she’s traveling alone? Or her indifference to my presence? She finally takes note of me, casually offers me the bottle of water, and asks me if I’m a Peace Corp volunteer.

This, by the way, is the common assumption of any single traveler in Senegal. If fact, because Peace Corp volunteers do predominate the toubab population pie, they have created a rather unfair assumption and expectation that all foreigners in Senegal should speak Pulaar and/or Wolof (the local languages of the country). Quite contrary to the lovely, little, warm back packs I’ve received by locals for my petty attempts at Hindi, Nepali, Tibetan and Thai, the most common response to my greetings in Wolof has been:

“What? You speak terribly! That is pathetic. If you are in a place that speaks Wolof, you must speak Wolof! Your attempts at our language are a shame.”

No harm is meant by the bite in this criticism. Like Africa, Africans like to get to the point and, unlike Americans, feel no need to cushion criticism inside a sandwich of fluffy white-lie compliments. I can respect that. Besides, my Wolof, frankly, IS a shame.

But I’m not speaking Wolof with the girl; we’re chatting in French. And her clear pronunciation and patience confirm my suspicion; she deals regularly with the toubab population and is quite accustomed, perhaps even to the point of boredom, with the presence and manners of foreigners. It turns out that she manages one of the small guest houses that accommodate those travelers venturing inland and into “the bush” for a little more colorful experience than that provided by the white sandy beach resorts of Senegal’s coastline.

I’m not a Peace Corp volunteer, but I do work for an organization that brings students from the States to Senegal, and, oh yes, she knows my company because her little brother was adopted by our group when they came through last summer, and what a small country and community this is, because, look, I have his (her brother’s name) written right here on my notepad of people I’m supposed to seek and meet!

Small indeed. But let’s get straight to the period on a case demonstrating, perfectly, the simultaneous small, big, and all-around-ness of African community.

We actually don’t have to even get out of the car, because it IS the next stop on this taxi ride, and stopping is where this chapter starts…

a community affair

Please, try with me, to follow this next sequence of events:

The taxi pulls over. The man with the boy with the broken arm gets out. They get their bags out of the trunk. Someone approaches and talks with the man. He looks frightened. He wants to get back in the car. He puts the boy in the car. The boy starts to cry. The two men start to fight. The taxi driver starts to get impatient. He gets into the driver seat and makes to leave. The man jumps into the car and shuts the door. We drive a few blocks. A woman runs into the road screaming. The taxi stops. The screaming woman is followed by two more women. One is crying. The other is holding the crying woman’s arm in support. More people follow the women. The father of the boy with the broken arm averts eye and generally appears to be at fault for something very bad. The screaming woman is yelling at him. The crying woman cries louder. The boy begins to wail. One of the women in the crowd opens the door and starts to pull on the arm of the boy. He shakes his head and screams. The dad gets out of the car. The crying woman lunges at him. She stops crying and starts screaming. Neighbors pour out of the houses and encircle the taxi. The dad starts to scream back. The boy wails.

The mad woman. The people behind her. The passengers from the taxi. The father of the boy. The neighbors. Everyone is throwing around animated gestures heavy with accusation. The taxi driver thumps his head against the roof of the taxi and throws desperate motions back. Suddenly a man, whose presence commands attention, parts the circle. He stands in the middle, between the screaming dad and woman. He talks to one. Then the other. Both scream out their cases. The mediator eventually turns to the man and with a calm hand chops out a declaration with which the father of the boy is clearly unhappy. Fifty minutes have passed and the taxi driver is livid. A few kids from the village point at me and sing out, “toubab! toubab!” I ask the girl what’s going on, but my French is simply not good enough to make sense of the story. I ask her to repeat the story. But still follow nothing. So I pretend to understand and she tells me that she’s going for a walk and starts to stroll down the street. The big mediator man talks to the taxi diver, talks to the screaming women, talks to the dad. And then the Dad and the crying/screaming woman get into the car. The boy wails. The taxi driver slams all the doors. We part the waves of what must be the entire town, and drive down the street. We stop at a house. We pick up the girl who was sitting next to me. The man and the woman get out. They come back after 15 minutes. We all squeeze in. And the frothing and fuming taxi driver slams his foot on the gas.

mad feels good

We do not drive. We FLY. Wheels spend most their time suspended by the strings of fast turns and risky overtakes. Not a single word is spoken as the anger of the taxi driver fills every inch of space not taken up by body.

I’m alert. And quite scared for my life by the speed and jolty punches that the driver is throwing at the road in absence of a human recipient. There is something about his driving that feels…. entitled. Yes. Entitled and excited. Like this is the way he has always wanted to drive and isn’t it nice to be entitled to a little madness in life every once in awhile? I think about the doors I’ve slammed in my life, and wonder what it is about total loss of control that makes the swing and sound of a slamming door feel so strongly satisfying. Yes. Mad feels good.

After forty minutes of daredevil passing and drag racing, we screech to a whip-lashing stop. The mad taxi driver slams open the door (which I think is possible), slams it shut, slams open the trunk, slams luggage onto the ground, slams the trunk shut, and slams himself back into the driver seat of the car.

Even the crying/screaming woman recognizes that the driver’s anger-entitlement trumps her own and not a squeak escapes her as the three slip their way out of the taxi. The boy’s cast arm has barely cleared the door when the taxi peels off the side of the road living the family in the dust of the taxi’s final sigh of anger and disgust.

a community affair

So it took me two weeks to figure out
what happened that night. And not because I finally logically put together the clues and puzzle pieces, but because, to my incredible luck, a half a moon later, I just happened to find myself in the company of a friend fluent in French AND the girl that sat next to me in that car that day. And yes. The circles in Africa are just that small.

Now proceed with caution. And if you find that the answer is as confusing as the question, we share a boat. Also, I might have gotten some of the facts in this story wrong, but I’m pretty sure that it doesn’t matter.

My friend translating:

Okay. She says, do you remember the boy with the broken arm? Well he had just broken his arm. Did the Dad break his arm? No. She doesn’t know how the boy’s arm broke. But the Dad took the boy to the hospital, which was in a town a few hours away. And the mother of the boy was angry because the father went without her. So she got on a bike and started riding to the town. She ended up riding into the night. The dad and the boy spent the night in town. And when the dad found out that the mother wasn’t in the house, had left it, he began to assume that she was having an affair. Since it is illegal, in Senegal, for a woman to have an affair, the man called the police and asked to have her arrested. The police found the mother, arrested her, and put her in jail. The mother was livid, and supported by her family, because she had been in jail and accused of having an affair when, as she claims, it is the father having the affair, multiple affairs actually. The big man who appeared and parted the crowd was doing a little community mediating; a common role for the village leader.

First, I feel relief that it was beyond not only my French, but also my English comprehension to have understood this story the first time it was told to me.

Second, I ponder for a moment; I try to imagine my neighbors encircling my marital spat while the mayor mediates and a taxi driver waits. But I can’t. Because I don’t know who my mayor is or even who my neighbors are, and the thought of any public transport attendant paying attention to anything aside from the clunk of my quarter is just unimaginable. Let us not even get to the implications for half the general American population, including a lengthy list of past presidents, if it were illegal to have a marital affair in the United States. Although, I’m pretty sure it is only illegal for women to have affairs in Senegal, and in that case, Bill at least, in this dawdling daydream, is cleared.

But where are we going with this story? Have we arrived at anything? A destination, finale, ending, enlightenment or conclusion?

No we haven’t. And never do we. I’m exhausted with this ride. Aren’t you?

As is life, love, cake, kissing, laughing, walking, dancing and everything I’ve ever found pleasurable in this life; the story has little to do with the conclusion and everything to do with getting there.

And so I slam the door and let the end of this story wind off into the darkness into which our taxi disappeared that night.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in culture, mis-adventures, senegal | 5 Comments »

if it be the will

Sunday, March 18th, 2007

if it be the will

“Just pulled into Tamba. Don’t worry about me okay?”

I type in and send the text message to Mbouille on the cell phone that he insisted I buy. By now I know the phone isn’t actually necessary for my safety as much as it is for his emotional ease with my absence. But it has come in handy and I find it childishly fun to be so fussed over by such an unfuss-ing man.

My phone immediately vibrates back with a return text: “Sister! I’ve been waiting all day to hear from you! Late afternoon and only in Tamba? I will try not to worry. Please be careful. I hope you arrive before nightfall. Inchallah.”

*****
Wikipedia: Insha’Allah
Muslim scholar Ibn Abbas stated that it is in fact obligatory for a Muslim to say Insha’Allah when referring to something he or she intends to do in the future. If carelessness leads to the omission of the phrase, it may be said at a later time upon the realization of the omission.

The Spanish word ojalá and the Portuguese word oxalá (I hope, I wish) are derived from law šaʾ allāh, a similar phrase meaning “if God willed it” or “if God wished it”. In šaʾ Allāh is used for the execution of real actions (I’m going to the store if God wills it), law šaʾ allāh is used to express a wish or desire one cannot fulfill (If God wished [Ojalá] that I could go to the store, but I’m busy).
*****

Insha’Alla. As God wills it.

From my experience in Senegal, I’ve learned there to be an “inchallah” for every sentence: pre-emptive inchallahs, closing inchallahs, mid-sentence-pause inchallahs, and especially the stand alone, full stop, inchallah. In all its forms and spellings, I love this little word for its ambiguous but enormous presence.

I do think every sentence could stand for a little prayer thrown into the beginning, middle or end. And I wonder how English would fair with such a constant little reminder of its smallness, its interdependence, its….but I have to stop in the middle of that thought because it’s just too comical to consider. English with its arrogant pride, its overbearing sound undisturbed even by itself, its clumsy neglect of finesse; when it stands next to other languages it is THE EQUIVALENT OF TYPING ALL IN CAPS. No, there is no place for something so humble or sacred or respectful or softly recognizing of anything less than scientifically proven, in the English sentence. Poor English. I pet its ruffled fur.

There is a mantra (of which I’ve written before) that I stole from a Buddhist meditation retreat and toss regularly into my own sentence salads: the Sanskrit word, “Anicha.”

Which now that I rub my chin and squint my eyes until it blurs….

… might very well be birthed by exact same source.

Anicha. As it is.

Ahhh. I laugh out loud. Because chasing my tail is fun. For doesn’t it always come in circles and from the same? And I’m not the only one laughing, for while it is fun catching myself at my own tail, it’s just as much fun to catch someone else at theirs. And I always hear someone laughing with me at these moments.

So I have strayed far from my story. Let me return so that I may move just a little closer (at 40 miles per hour) towards the conclusion of this tale. Inchallah.

So I am striding gallantly, a little like the English language, through the bus station which doubles as a community market. Again, I am a glowing ball of whiteness to whom every person raises a hand and shades his or her eyes while staring curiously. The fact that I am white, and alone, overshadows even the fact that I am female. I resign. I don’t exactly know to or of what I resign. But there is a relief in letting go of whatever it was I was holding on to. Fear? Insecurity? Maybe it’s like getting onto a stage, naked, with a red feathered hat, and a painted mustache. Everyone is staring or laughing or horrified or whatever. And after this initial reaction, what’s left to matter? So what can I do but stride confidently?

So I stride. Through the market. Picking up a few bananas. Two scoops of peanuts signaled with two fingers to a young woman who is scared that I’ve chosen her but happy for the coins. A bottle of water from a vendor. A look into the kitchen of a wooden food stand. At painted walls and advertisements. I stride like through a dream. And finally ask someone where I can find the shared taxi to Kedougou.

When I arrive at the spot, clearly designated only by common local knowledge, I find the taxi driver leaning casually against the car. He pays me little mind. He waits for me to approach him, and expertly, he delivers me a price in a voice and tone that excludes all negotiation. Of course, one haggles for EVERYTHING in Senegal. But this man is clearly a specialist in swindling those who don’t know better. Looking over his shoulder, he blows off my return haggle with a sweep of his hand that removes a spot of dust on his shirtsleeve.

I complain, “is this the price for white people?” But he hasn’t time for my crap. Without emotion or interest, he flips open a small booklet and shows me the ticket underneath the one he is offering me and looks me in the eye for only the second it takes to say, “Look. See. Same price the last person paid.” And then he closes his little ticket book and squints his eyes into the distance for something more interesting than me.

He will wait for me, and he knows that eventually I will come around. And I know this as well. Because what we both know, is that he is driving the very LAST taxi departing today for Kedougou.

flirting with the other side

Having paid a shamefully full fare, I crawl into the backseat of the taxi and stretch my legs longwise, prop myself on an elbow, and start to read a book while awaiting the indeterminate arrival of the rest of the passengers. The trunk of the car is open and, as of yet, still empty of luggage, and so all those that pass by can easily see me inside. Word circulates that there is a toubab in town, and some gander over just to see it for themselves. Others stretch long arms through the back of the car offering teetering plates full of drinks in plastic bags, chunky necklaces made from coconut husks, homemade ice creams, piles of sliced watermelon, and bowl upon bowl of roasted peanuts.

A bit of a crowd gathers at the trunk of the taxi and I notice the driver taking a sudden and uncharacteristic interest in the events. He walks around to the back of the taxi and stations himself against a pillar to keep an eye on things.

Three young men, in a uniform dress of blue gowns and dreadlocks, duck their heads into the back of the cab with huge grinning faces. An innocent and youthful warmth fills the cab as they call me sister and ask me if perhaps I have any small change that I can spare in donation to their brotherhood. The boys, perhaps in their early 20’s, appear so authentically happy and caref
ree that I can’t help but enjoy their fresh presence. We banter back and forth for a bit, passing around introductions, sharing a laugh at my Wolof, and exchanging enthusiasm for a short break in the traditional roles we have been playing all day. In this welcomed pause in the asking of alms, we flirt innocently for a quarter hour before, to my amazement, I catch flashes of the taxi driver’s flushed face bobbing up and down and in between the unsuspecting three heads of smiles that crowd the back of the car. He pops his head up on the left and grimaces. Then he pops his head up on the right and shakes a puckered face back and forth. Then he pops up again, in the middle, this time looking directly at me, and shakes a dissenting finger back and forth.

What? Really? I wonder. Suddenly showing so much concern for the safety of she lower in priority than the dust on his shoulder? Ah. The bonding power of an external enemy. Fact or fantasy, this enemy, I recognize this tactic quickly for my president has employed this trick all too well by projecting the evil in his head onto a mysterious and ever-evading external element. (“The terrorist is in YOUR TINY, TINY LITTLE HEAD!” I want to shout; but now that would not be very mature of me, would it.)

Anyway, in THIS instance, I can’t help but laugh out loud at how swiftly the taxi driver has switched sides, and for some reason, I do take the slightest delight in the angst and defensiveness the cheerful boys have inspired. An idea crosses over the face of one of the boys as he dips into his pocket and dumps a small pile of shiny new Euros into my hand. He explains that passing Europeans have placed the coins on their alms plate, with which they can do nothing. This is too simple for me, because I can effortlessly make their day by simply exchanging the coins into local currency. I will be back in Europe in a just a few weeks, and while the coins are worth a coffee and croissant in France, they are easily the earnings of a few days work in Senegal. I do some quick math in my head, round up to the nearest CFA, and hand over the cash to the boys who are all the more joyous for the unexpected transaction. They shower me with prayers and I feel shy for the fact that I have done nothing. But they each shake my hand, wish blessings upon my head, and encourage me to make a visit to their sacred mosque.

After many hesitations, they finally leave, and a very angry taxi driver sticks a red-faced head into the car and with eyes that suspiciously swoop from left to right, tells me what terrible people they are to swindle me so. He saw the money I gave them and chastises me for being played for such a fool. I show him the Euros and explain to him the exchange. He narrows his eyes critically as he inspects the coins, but in the end, he is happier to just be mad and entitled; also a trick I have seen too many times before. He drops the money back into my hands with an uptight shrug.

I jingle the shiny coins in my hand, wonder where they’ve been, and love them for the secrets and stories they hold but will never tell. I know the coins are not fake. But I will not be able to prove that until I am later back in France sipping down an espresso with this especially sweet memory.

*****

This story is as slow as the taxi ride itself, but we’re getting closer!

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in culture, senegal, single/white/female | No Comments »

reading and misreading the languages between

Saturday, February 24th, 2007

…continued bush taxi adventure in Senegal

A “sept place” taxi is called, “seven places” for the most obvious reason: it has seven seats for passengers; two rows in the back seating three to each and space for one riding shotgun.

The taxi’s exact time of departure is when the seventh passenger has paid his portion of the fare, squeezed himself over the middle row of passengers and positioned himself into the fetal position required of the middle seat in the back row.

But we’re not there yet. I’m the third passenger – which means I’ve assured myself two things: a coveted window seat and a considerable wait. The four we are waiting for could be sipping milk tea at home or even still in bed. They are due anytime between now and nightfall and so I sigh, rest my two elbows against the hood of the taxi, and relax my posture into a stance of patience. I take this opportunity to stare back at those staring at me.

Mbouille has given me fair warning of the man who’s claimed the seat next to mine, “He speaks a little English; I hope he won’t bother you too much.”

The man he referred to is now puckering his lips and squinting his eyes at me; real, imagined or projected, I feel myself raked over in a round of judgment. I pretend to ignore this intangible intrusion and focus on another man leaning casually against the taxi. He’s lean and tall with a delicate gaze; his eyes travel lightly over his surroundings — if touching, only gently so — and at all times keeping respectable distance.

I volley my eyes between the two men because I find my reactions to them to be surprisingly distinct; scrunching my eyebrows, then softening them, crossing my arms, then relaxing them, puckering my own lips, then relieving them, putting my chin up into the air, then cocking it crookedly with curiosity. How is it, that I can have such strong receptions to people with whom I haven’t yet even shared a word?

I often kick myself around for catching myself in the act of making exactly such snap judgments. And if the lean man were not providing such a stable reference point, I probably would have issued just such a humbling self-blow. But because both men are locals, I feel myself empowered by the observation that it may indeed extend beyond cultural misinterpretation that I feel distinctly different intuitive inclinations on how to maneuver the space between each.

The puckering man approaches me and I feel my arms cross themselves in a preemptive show of defense. Even though I’m conscious of it, I have no control over this reaction. I try to relax my arms but I can’t. I have only a second to confront my own body language and wonder who exactly, within me, is taking control before he interrupts this conversation…

“What’s your name? What country are you from? Are you married? Can you help me get a visa to your country?”

“Maimuna Diallo. United States. Yes. No.”

His approach is a standard one that I’ve encountered enough times to have learned not to take either too seriously or lightly. And normally I don’t lie about my marital status. It was actually a subliminal accident that my simple silver band found its way from my right to left hand ring finger. And perhaps because I’m in a predominantly Islamic country, I have become just enough less-approachable to make that ring comfortable there. (Quite fairly though, I move rings to the appropriate toes indicating the same marital status when I next go to India.)

Ever entertained by watching the language of other bodies, again I take note as my own repositions itself to face away from his. My eyes, reluctant to return investment in the continuation of the conversation, feign interest in the peanuts in a basket of a merchant.

The man looks around, looks at his watch, looks around again and continues, “why don’t you pay for the remaining spots in the taxi; you have money.”

Let me just say first, that I’m embarrassed of my reaction to this question; looking back upon it, and within the context of a culture where resources are continually shared and expected to be redistributed with fairness, this request might even make logical sense. After all, I do have money. Not by my standards. But certainly by a global standards. However, I give no credit to this thought at the time.

No. Instead, I get mad. Something about this man pushes my offensive button and I hear my voice raising as I do my best to string my (limited) French vocabulary into something mean, “What? What does that mean? Why do you say that? Do you think I am only money? You talk to me without respect. It’s terrible.”

He’s unfazed.

He looks around the market, looks at me again, notices my cell phone for the first time, and says, “Give me your phone number.”

At this I throw up my arms, turn to the latest arrival and ask him if he would like my window seat, crawl into taxi, slam the door closed, and retreat to the corner of the back seat.

My parents will recognize this girl easily, for I have resorted to my door-slamming, 16-year old self. It’s an embarrassing fit, of which I pull my hat down over my face in recall.

The lean man — who has witnessed this whole show and still reclines against the taxi – smiles with amusement. He reaches into his pocket, extends his hand to me through the window and offers me a stick of gum. He scrunches up his nose with a half smile, and with a single shake of his head, instructs me to blow it off.

I relax, take the gum, smile my appreciation and follow his wise advice.

********************************************

I do recognize that I’m going to need to pick up the pace on this story as it’s still sunrise and this taxi rides till 10:00pm.

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in culture, senegal, single/white/female, stupid me | 1 Comment »

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