Category Archives: culture

Footprints in Peru, Day 10: collective breaths

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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.

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getting to the period

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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.

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if it be the will

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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.

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reading and misreading the languages between

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…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.

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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.

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naked white

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a brave minority

I climb off his motorbike at the taxi station and Mbouille shows me the palm of his hand;

“Stay here. If they see a white person, they will raise the price.”

So I hang back, look at my shoes, kick around the dirt and pretend that I am not the only white person between here and the horizons of dawn.

While I have enjoyed wearing skin of trendy and matching colors on most other continents, the melatonin in my skin hasn’t a shade of chance travelling incognito within this crowd; I wear my whiteness like nudity. And there is no darkness or distance that will hide my otherness.

But the truth is I love this. I grab onto it like a hammer. But it is not a power tool. It’s the same feeling as being caught and confronted for lying or stealing. It’s wanting to be punished for a crime I’ve been long guilty of committing. It’s the way the pain of a burn or cut sometimes feels good. It’s the comfort of walking to other side of the front line and slipping into the shoes of the “other” you were always suspicious of being “same.” It’s feeling the peculiarly pleasant littleness of being a minority. It is shame and it is understanding. It is relief. It’s humiliation. It’s deserving. It’s humbling.

Whatever it is. I grab onto it violently. And when I hold it, I discover it gives me strength. It fills me with a jittery energy that makes my step heavy with confidence and my back straighten with pride. Not white pride; I have only shame for the sinful history of white skins’ atrocities against shades darker. It is underdog pride; It’s going to battle without an army, advantage or defense and not caring for how I go down as much as how I walk in. As I feel out, for the first time, the bravery of being a minority, I wonder if I am tasting the same source of sustenance that has fed revolutionaries through history and around the world. At the end of this thought, I chuckle at the fairness of this flighty power that fuels only those under and flees the exact instant a minority becomes a majority; a karmic and cyclic system of check and balance that can not be corrupted. Few things give me greater satisfaction than evidence of the invisible hand that writes our shared story with equally admirable senses of wisdom and wit.

riding the circulatory system of culture

Left alone and no longer under Mbouille’s wing of protection, I brace myself with newly-minority-inspired bravery and lean aloof and careless against the side of the taxi.

If there is one thing that Americans do poorly (that a good portion of the rest of world has expertise in), it is waiting. I’m not sure when my anxious habits of toe-tapping and curt sighs wore off, but I am relieved, today, to be free of this Americanism. Now, when my plane is delayed for hours, I breathe long happy sighs of love for empty hours of inactivity devoid of all expectation aside from patience. And at this moment, I am especially happy to have a legit excuse to lean up against this taxi and do what I enjoy perhaps more than anything else on earth; be quiet and observe.

And the taxi (and bus) station is a candy store for the eyes. If there is ever a place where one is guaranteed a feast of cultural activity — it is the center of local transportation. While it may not be permis- or possible to visit or view the exact moment where life ends and/or begins in a particular culture, what you can count on, at least, is a chance to watch it pass by at this intersection of community and commerce. Local transportation is the blood of any country; ride it and you will find yourself on an authentic and adventurous journey circulating its very veins. It will never be comfortable — might even be painful and/or dangerous — but is one of the only experiences that locals, not out of courtesy but without choice, will let you share with them. So there’s one of my best travel tips: skip private taxis, cruises, priority class, and hired drivers and you will earn yourself a first-class ticket to as close to an authentic interaction as you can get with a country.

(to be continually continued)

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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.

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bush taxi, part i: pride in a name

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(Playing Part in the Diallo Family)

Portland, Oregon

The fact that our food is thirty minutes tardy is hardly given a wink of conscious thought; our mouths full, with the gossip that spans the months between this and our last reunion, leave little room left for hunger.

Our layers of excited questions and answers are continuing to stack themselves like a deck of cards in the center of the table when one of my girlfriends, with the effect of jack-slapping the deck, asks me a question that breaks the pattern of exchange by giving me pause, “…but HOW did you GET out there?”

She’s referring to the story I just told where I placed myself near the border of Guinea and Senegal.

I’m caught off guard with the question and feel my eyes look up and search the left corner of the room where they seem to think they’ll find the answer.

And I DO find the appropriate vision; I step immediately into an especially thick memory; I can feel it and smell it, but find myself in an awkward dogpaddle in search of the right words to buoy the description.

“Well.” I answer, “by bush taxi.”

Three heads crook their necks at me like kittens watching a swaying string.

I give it another shot; “Well, they are called, “sept place” – which means “7 seats” in French.”

The four heads crook to watch the string sway to the other direction.

And then I can feel it coming. It is not particular to this audience, this reaction. And it’s nothing I ever take personally. But I can sense the difference between when a story of mine is worth exploring for explanation and when the audience is about to opt to sweep it under the, “maybe next time we’ll go there” rug.

As predicted, with only a second of silence the conversation card is swept, the deck re-dealt, and new topics fly across the table again.

I’ve since left Portland, but I find that I still hold the card and question.

While on the road, I rarely have time to compose complete-sentence thoughts. Instead, I scribble down quick lists of words that I know will conjure up the essence of a particular moment, observation or realization.

So I pick up my most recent travel journal, flip to the Senegal pages, and find the following listed under the word:

bush taxi

pride in a name
discerning intention
aggressive or cultural misinterpretation?
hole
saving the day
sharing food, breaking borders
toubab Umpaloompas
a brave minority
blue brothers of the sect
utilizing a common enemy
small circles
a community affair
mad feels good
the smell of a sai sai
where only guides go

Now I look over this list, feel the weight of multiple paragraphs under each item, and wonder how I could have possibly come up with 15 chapters for one taxi ride. At the same, I think this underscores the depth and layers of my every interaction with Senegal. And I hope that the following chapters will give those observing just a wink of insight into the power of my interactions with the country and people of Senegal.

So with no further hesitation, and over the course of a few posts, I will attempt to answer my good friend’s question, “But HOW did you get there?”

******

pride in a name

The first time I see Mbouille, his huge smile is framed by a taxi window that, for his overwhelming excitement, he looks ready to jump through.

He grabs the shoulder of the driver and shakes it until the taxi halts and then jumps out of an almost-still-moving car. He’s carrying a crumpled up piece of paper and as he shakes my one hand with two of his, I can see he’s doing all he can to resist hugging me. His wide smile extends mine to its own limits and I burst into laughter when he unfolds the crumpled paper to reveal a blown-up, black and white picture of me that he has downloaded from the internet as an aide to my identification.

What I don’t find out until weeks later, is that Mbouille has traveled at least three hours out of his way, transferring at least four times via different jam-packed forms of public transportation, just to greet me upon my arrival in Dakar. What I also don’t understand until later is that this is a traditional African approach to welcoming a guest; I am not just a “friend of a friend”; I am family. And I am not just family; but treated as royal family. There is nothing this man won’t do to show me how special, accepted, revered, and respected I am.

“We must give you a name!” he declares (for in Senegal, you are nothing without a Senegalese name, which defines your place in society) and thus he gives me three choices for a first name, and one choice for a last name.

“Maimuna Diallo!” he appoints me with great pride.

What I will learn over the course of my travels, is that Diallo is a highly respected name in Senegal. One of the few sentences I learn in Woloof (local language of the Northern half of Senegal) is how to introduce myself by this name. And although a few of those to whom I introduce myself will insist I change my last name to theirs, all will ultimately concede, “Yes. It’s a very good name you have,” and many will shake my hand with increased eagerness and proclaim, “I’m a Diallo too! We are family! You are my daughter/sister! Please sit. Please eat. Please stay!”

Mbouille takes me to his house in the neighboring city of Thies to meet my new family. I intend to stay only two days with him, but by the time I leave his house, 8 days have passed: his beautiful wife has taught me how to cook Senegalese specialties, his older sister has shown me how to sway and grind to Senegalese music, I have taught English to a group of his students in one of the schools where he teaches, he’s organized my adventure to help harvest peanuts in one of the fields outside the city, I’ve bathed his babies and snatched the broom and other chores away from his younger sister, his family has served me all the choicest morsels on every dinner plate, and the women of the house have taken me to a tailor and helped me pick out a traditional Senegalese dress for a weekend wedding of which we all, as a family, attended.

At the end of the week, Mbouille no longer calls me “Maimuna”; he now addresses me as “sister.” As there are few men that I admire and adore more than this one, my eyes well up with pride when I am allowed to return the respect and love by addressing him as, “brother.”

Never in all my travels in the world have I been welcomed with such warmth into a community, culture and family. If there is any one thing that I have, so far, learned that sets African culture aside from all others, it is this intimate integration of community and family; the two being one and same.

So how do we get from here to the bush taxi?

My story starts here because it is Mbouille who wakes me up at 5am, from the bed that I share with his little sister, to whisper the following:

“Come sister. I must get you on the first taxi that leaves this morning. And I must organize the price so that they do not rip you off. And you must call me every day after today. Are you sure you must go? Please stay, Maimuna. Okay. Okay. Okay. I know you’ve already stayed so much longer than you intended. If you insist, Maimuna. But come; let’s go. It will take you a full day to get where you’re going and we must go right no
w so that I can assure that you travel with a safe driver and nice people and for a good price. I don’t know why you want to leave me sister. But I suppose you have to go. Okay. Okay. Okay. I know. You have to see the rest of Senegal. Let’s go then to the taxi stand, sister.”

(to be continued)

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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.

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un-tethered time

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You know that sometimes my only clues to an ongoing holiday are the icons that dance around the Yahoo and Google front pages? The funny thing about holidays, which I think is only taken into account in their absence, is that they act as anchors and effectively pin down a year into some semblance of cyclical time that would otherwise wander un-tethered.

So here I am, in a Hindu nation, where the concept of reincarnation is a matter of fact, and a single birth of a human god, fiction. Ah. These twists in the perspectives plot bring me much joy. As they throw black and white, wrong and right, out the door, and humble my definition of “reality” to a tiny place in my brain, essentially linked between the hands of individual experience and personality. I cannot possibly define what’s real and what’s not. And I am happy to be relieved of this self-imposed and unnecessary duty.

On Christmas Eve, I wandered down the streets of Pondicherry. As I watched this cherished elephant outside a Hindu temple distribute blessings to an adoring crowd, I wondered if, without seeing, I could ever have preconceived of it. I decided not. And took a quick video clip to share with any of those wondering, how some of the rest of the world is experiencing your same eve…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iOFmCQIwFco]

I think the soundtrack is my favorite part of this clip. Because it resonates surprisingly in tune to what I heard going on in the background when I called home this morning and the phone was passed around a boisterous room of near and extended family.

So I suppose I can always draw a line here, and connect one place to another with the shared term, “spirited community.” And by this definition of “holiday,” I’d like to put my wish for you on record: I hope that to-day, among many, you feel yourself encircled by the presence of spirited company and wish that your holiday cheer extends beyond this date to encompass all seasons and in recognition of an even greater shared sibling-hood with those that experience and express your same joy, through different means, on all sides of the world.

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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.

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unbiased auspices

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An hour passes by in minutes before the stranger and I finally inhale from our excited conversation when we are alerted, via a passerby, that the bus we were waiting for has stopped running. We laugh, swap names and numbers, hug and make a tentative date for me to shadow him (as a union organizer and activist) in the near future.

The boy throwing poi in the park is the most talented I’ve ever seen spin on any of the beaches on the five continents I’ve visited. I approach him, tell him so, and we pledge to find a plot of grass and time where, as his poi-disciple, he might share a few of the secrets to his skills. Before I have a chance to do so, he salutes me with, “namaste.”

Despite my reluctance to miss a night of salsa, I ditch my dancing plans because someone whom I’ve never met (via this site) has emailed me a note with the final (of three) omens indicating that I must attend a talk that night by a Swiss mystic named Manuel Schoch at Naropa University. After the class, a student of Manuel asks me if I’ll be attending the entire weekend workshop. When I tell him I can’t afford it, he tells me to speak with the director himself who, after hearing my story, puts his arm around me and says, “You just come. And tell anyone that tries to stop you to talk to me.” On the last day of the course Manuel “reads in my aura” a very powerful secret of my self-understanding that I have always known, but only with the help of his talented fingers of insight, was plucked and brought to the front of my consciousness.

Waiting at the bus station, I am composing in my head the prior post about “loving to be alone” when a gentle man that I recognize as being somehow mentally disabled approaches me. He speech is slurred due to an illness but I know that it is not as important for me to understand as it is for me to listen. And so I give him my full eye contact and attention. I can’t comprehend most of what he says but neither do his sentences have to string together in any perfect order for me to understand that it’s a story of his illness, of his father dying, and of his brother reluctantly taking over the care for him. For some reason, his last sentence is unexplainably coherent; “No one wants to be friends with a sick man; My life is very lonely.” I immediately recognize the impeccable timing of this message. Waving goodbye to my kind messenger from my bus, I bow down my arrogance and raise my gratitude to the blessing that, in my life, loneliness is a choice.

Despite the fact that I sometimes like to deny my connection to this country, the abundance of messengers and magic that I continue to find on a daily basis confirm that I have chosen, and walk, the correct path. Although my intuition nods with unclaimed certainty that I will spend a majority of the next few decades abroad, I know that one day, as is the natural progression of any personal myth, my walk will graduate and I will end where I began. And although I am still only a freshman at the school of life, having returned “home” for a short holiday break, I have equally fresh appreciation and hope for my future courses and they wind not only “away,” but intertwine my experiences and existences of “here” and “there” until there is no distinction between the three; as is the final examination in Quality of Presence that, as a perpetual student (too), I pursue.

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

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sacred ego stomping

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The Sacred Lake Namtso

(For more stories from Tibet, visit the archives for April, 2005. For more pictures from Tibet, visit the Tibet Photogallery.)

I’m in the mood for a story. And this one is particularly good, because it *literally* stomps on any pride I’ve ever held in assuming myself a culturally sensitive individual. But having recognized that my heaviest burden is ego itself, I’ve come to love my humbling moments, for it seems to be the stripping of pride itself that enlighten our lives the most. So without further disclaimer, let’s get back to laughing at myself…

And contrary to the progression of most good stories, the best line in this tale is actually the first, because it starts like this…

“So I’m walking a kora (pilgrimage circumambulating a sacred site) with a monk, a hermit and a 7-year old Tibetan nomad…”

(Do sentences ever slip out of your mouth that make you step out of your existence, scratch your ethereal chin, and wonder just who the hell you are and how you have become what you have? Well this is one of those sentences for me.)

Anyway…

So I’m walking a kora with a monk, a hermit and a 7-year old Tibetan nomad. Also with me are two of my Dragon’s students. The three of us set out to make a sacred turn along the shore of Lake Namtso, and we have quickly found ourselves in the colorful company of these vibrant characters. Language is certainly limited; the sum of the Tibetan words we know and the English words they know, barely surpass the number of toes and fingers within the group. But wide smiles and excited gestures of welcome speak loud enough to convey their enthusiasm for the union of our individual pilgrimages.

Pointing with a single finger, as it is in many eastern societies, is considered rude, and so our hosts, with open, sky-faced palms, gracefully spread an arm to one direction or another, sharing via animated gestures the legends behind each cave, rock formation, and stone indentation marked during the magical battles between their Buddhist and Bonpo heros as we continue our circumambulation of this sacred site together.

A sky-faced palm rests on a rock where many curious round marks are left. A charades-like battle is acted out, where Guru Rinpoche throws fireballs from the sky; the path of these projectiles terminating on this very rock. The monk, the hermit and the young nomad girl each approach the rock, bow their bodies, and touch their foreheads to the stone; a demonstration of their most sincere respect to this sacred spot. Then they turn and eagerly urge us on to do the same and we happily, and with like respect, mimic their motions.

We continue the circumambulation and approach a cave.

A sky-faced palm indicates to a spot in the rock, where indeed, there appear to be the impressions of two very human-like hands; another mark left during the making of this magical myth. The hermit shows us where to place our right hand, where to place our left, and where to touch our forehead to the rock. We follow their lead, and exuberance is the only adjective I can think to use to accurately describe our hosts’ wide-eyed delight in witnessing our mimicked example. Lake Namtso is, I remind myself, one of the holiest of pilgrimage sites for the Tibetans. It’s entirely possible, that by our actions, we are unknowingly rising ourselves out of a few of the of the Buddhist hell realms that we are currently living in; the excitement of our hosts matches nothing less than a feat of this magnitude.

A sky-faced palm motions to a hole further in the cave. Careful instructions are presented to us by example as the monk demonstrates the path that we must follow, through the hole, up over a kind of rock-bridge, and then dropping down back into the entrance. His smile pauses only for a minute when his eyes get very serious as he indicates to a specific rock along the bridge. His hands cross each other as he clearly emphasizes the importance of not touching that specific rock. By the look in his eyes, as well as those of the hermit and the nomad girl, it’s quite obvious that there might not be a point in living any longer if we touch that rock. The hermit and the nomad show us again, each in turn, the path. And as each of us follows, and appears again in the entrance, nothing less than the Tibetan equivalent of an American standing ovation applauds our great success.

Three more sky-faced palms present similar prostration points, tests of merit, and sacred spots to accumulate good karma.

I, however, am starting to seriously suffer from the effects of the 15,500 feet that separate us from sea level. As much as I am enjoying this incredible exhibition, my head is splitting from the lack of oxygen in the air, nausea is gurgling in my stomach, and the thought of presenting something as unsacred as the contents of my stomach anywhere near this special site, scares me into a subtle slinking away from the group.

I manage to clear about 15 feet before a 7-year-old hand fervently grabs mine. With no hesitation, the young nomad girl pulls on my arm with all her might, quite clearly communicating her desire to have me re-join the group. Despite the strength of her will, I have about 70 pounds on her, and I stand my ground. I let go of her hand and make the classic charade motions of stomach illness. I groan for added effect. I point to my tent and make the motion of sleep.

First she stomps her foot. And then she cries. Actually, she sobs. Tears are cascading down her sun-chapped cheeks, streaking the dust of her nomadic life, and revealing the rosiest color owned by all those living at extreme elevations of existence. She whimpers for her own added effect. And I give in. Her smile returns so quickly that I question if the little storm that just passed was just a well-rehearsed act. But there’s little time to contemplate the question as she pulls her prize back to the scene.

As we arrive, one of my students is just finishing the latest of tasks. He is carefully slipping his full upright body through a thin vertical crack in a rock strewn with colorful prayer flags. When he successfully emerges, there is another clap-less (but emotionally thick) applause and the crowd turns attention to me.

I visually take in the measurements of the crack in the rock and, quite confident that my small frame will have no trouble limbo-ing both walls, assure myself that this test will be easier than the rest. I disappear around the corner and squeeze myself into the entrance. I clear the first few steps and can see everyone on the other side; the hermit, the monk, and the nomad girl appear to be holding their breath. Since everyone is waiting with such great anticipation, (and I like to think due to my altitude-onset-delirium) for a little added effect I pretend to get stuck. As I feign my struggle, eyes get larger, breath continues to be held, and the monk’s knuckles turn white on the mala (rosary-like) beads of which he is gripping. Having properly built up to my big moment of success, I swiftly slip through the crack and land with full feet, ala Olympic gymnast, with jazz hands and a full-spread grin on the conveniently placed rock at the exit of the crack.

But my 10.0 landing is not received how I expected.

The hermit’s jaw has dropped and his mouth is framed by the perfect “O” of horror. The nomad girl’s face crinkles up in an expression of devastation most certainly and sincerel
y more authentic than her last act. And as the monk closes his eyes and grips on to his mala with noticeably horror-stricken hands, I imagine he is counting how many million mantras he will now have to chant to bring my soul back from the hell realms from which I’ve certainly plunged it.

My students’ response is a bit more practical…

“GET OFF THE SACRED ROCK!!!” they scream.

In my delirium, I am slow…

“What sacred rock?”

“THE ONE YOU ARE STANDING ON!!! Get off! Get off!!!”

I jump off the sacred rock. A cumulative sigh is exhaled from our hosts, but the devastation they feel for the obvious and terrible end of my existence hangs thick in the air. They are still speechless. Thank the 9 Buddhist heavens that my students are quicker to the rescue…

“Hurry, hurry, go through it again!” they push me and my jeopardized soul that hangs in the bardo (Tibetan word for the world between worlds) around the corner. “And whatever you do, DO NOT touch the sacred rock!”

In clear understanding of my mission to save my life, I quickly slip into the crack, slither my way between both jagged sides, come to the exit, *oh so* delicately clear the sacred rock by healthy inches all around, and appear on the other side.

The breathing of the hermit, the monk and the nomad girl all becomes regular again and the creases of fear on their faces begin to melt. They are not quite ready to smile again, but I can feel them warming up to it.

The students and I wait.

And sure enough, I think they come to the unsaid conclusion, that being as ignorant as I am, perhaps the All That Is One will have enough compassion to spare my tiny, little, stupid soul. “Ah yes,” they begin to smile, laugh, and greet me as if I have just traversed many worlds to re-join them in this one of the living. They pat me on the arm and assure me that I’m going to be okay. After all, I have built up a fair bit of merit on this pilgrimage already, and countless sky-faced palms will continue to open themselves up to innumerable opportunities to gain additional karma, for many lives to come.

(And the story of my total humiliation was reenacted at campfire after campfire for the remainder of the trip.)


The hermit doing another circumambulation around frozen Lake Namtso (Picture taken my by co-leader.)

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

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city funhouse

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Oh. He’s looking at me funny. Yep. He’s cocking his head and scrunching up his nose. It’s definitely coming. Uh huh…here he goes!

“Did that hurt?”

I play dumb. I know exactly what he’s referencing because it’s the same question I’ve encountered five times in two days. I’m baffled by my new citizenship of a freak-dom that I’ve never known to exist on the coasts. And I’m not exactly sure why this is my response, but I play dumb.

“Did what hurt?”

“That nose ring,” he says and points at my face.

There’s something about having a finger pointed at my face that makes me feel subconscious and so I full-stop the conversation with, “Nope. Hey, this portabella mushroom is excellent.”

“Is it?” he asks.

A bit of a strange response, I note, to get from the waiter that has just served me the dish I’m complimenting. This time I cock my head at him, to which he responds…

“Do you have vegatitis?”

Okay; that’s not a direct quote. He actually asks me if I’m a vegetarian. But there’s something in the curve of his question mark that insinuates that vegetarianism is something one picks up from an infested mattress. And by the amount of time it took for me to find the single meat-less option on a 6-page menu, I hypothesize that not many of “my type” are found in these parts. But I recognize his innocent curiosity because I’ve gotten the same line of questions from my niece and so I decide to drop my, “I’m-entitled-to-oddness” act and answer affirmatively and with sincerity.

Having rarely wandered so far from the West Coast (where nose rings and rabbit-food habits are but hardly noticed), I’m still surprised when he shakes his head in incredibility and asks, “But why?”

“Well, because I try to live a life free of both direct and indirect violence,” I answer honestly. Recognizing that this statement is a deep well to simply dip into without commitment and consent, I give the comment a minute to settle. He peers over the edge, squints his eyes, does a quick estimation of depth, and instead shrugs and turns to tend to his other tables.

I return to my book and copy from it a quote into my journal, “There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn’t count.” – Rabbit

I glance at my watch and wonder briefly again when I became I watch-watching person. “When I started needing to catch flights on time,” I answer myself. I pull out my company credit card and put it on the table.

The waiter returns. He picks up the card and reads the inscription under my name. “What’s a WTB Dragon?” he asks.

I think this is very funny. But I smuggle my laugh because I don’t want him to think I’m laughing at him. “It’s who I work for,” I answer.

“Ah. Business woman,” he says and walks away. But the impression of his assessment is left standing in my face…

“What? Business woman? Me?” I stand back, aghast and…insulted? Hum. I am wearing a long petticoat. And black slacks. And I have a laptop with me. And a rental car. And I DO have a company credit card. And I am traveling for work. Wait. Could it really be? Am I a business woman?!?

These questions are all swiftly spinning in my head as I sign the receipt, gather my belongings and head to the women’s bathroom. But when I push through the swinging door, the bickering in my head is suddenly deafened; outspoken by the volume of music that, for some reason, is blaring in stereo sound only in the restroom. I don’t consciously choose to step into the handicapped stall, but when a terribly joyful 90’s song, to which I’ve danced around many a campfire and know every word, comes on, I do consciously use every inch of the stall space to my stepping, sliding, spinning and singing advantage.

Quiet relieved with my unanticipated and unsuppressed dancing outburst, I wash my hands and mind of doubt and exit the bathroom.

“Businesswoman; That was funny!”

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

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