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naked white

Thursday, February 15th, 2007

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.

Posted in culture, senegal, single/white/female | 3 Comments »

bush taxi, part i: pride in a name

Thursday, February 8th, 2007


(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.

Posted in culture, on transitions & "home", senegal | 3 Comments »

un-tethered time

Monday, December 25th, 2006

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.

Posted in culture, india, travel philosophy | 5 Comments »

unbiased auspices

Sunday, June 4th, 2006

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.

Posted in culture, gratitude, magic & alchemy, on lonliness | No Comments »

sacred ego stomping

Wednesday, March 1st, 2006


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.

Posted in culture, magic & alchemy, mis-adventures, on spirituality & religion, stupid me, tibet | 3 Comments »

city funhouse

Saturday, January 28th, 2006

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.

Posted in culture, experiential education, on health, on transitions & "home" | 8 Comments »

a day in the life

Sunday, November 6th, 2005

Sometime in the last few months I picked up a new personal meal-prompted ritual. And it only slightly (and admittedly irrationally) bothers me that onlookers might presume I’m Christian (which I, although a fan of Jesus “the pilgrim,” am not) when I bow my head, close my eyes, and whisper down the inner halls of awareness my gratitude for and debt (in some currency divine) to all the people, events and natural elements that conspired in order to provide the offering at my table.

However this exercise is often a stretch of the imagination for me (as well as others raised in “developed” countries) where the distance that my food has travelled is so far that it often leaves me an equal number of emotional miles distant from knowing anything of the source of my sustenance. This fact evidenced by the fruit in the photo above, which, contrary to many 1st-world-first-guesses is not a cranberry, but the colorful coat of the very same coffee bean (coming in equally flamboyant shades of yellow as well) that fuels the entire of the developed worlds’ digestive fire; moving along board meetings, news readings, exam studying and, in general, the full flush of the other bowel movements of (at least) the American social, political, work and educational systems.

So in an effort to follow the umbilical cord of our addiction to “happy-ccinos” (as my co-leader likes to call cappuccinos) back to the pachamama (“mother earth”) source, we (me and my students) wrapped palm-thatched baskets around our waists and took to the fields of a local Guatemalan coffee finca (“farm”) for an exercise that those of us working in “experiential education” like to call, “A Day In The Life”; which is essentially our own little “life-swapping” reality TV series — minus the cameras, crew, cast and lack of credibility.

In order to combat reverse discrimination by the bugs (which consider the blood under our lighter skin of a tastier blend) we slather ourselves in mosquito and sun repellents. As I smear the cream across my neck and face I feel quite like I’m preparing for the frontline of a war. And why not? With statistics like the fact that the Guatemalans that I will be working alongside will spend a full day filling a single 100-pound sack, for which they will receive a daily wage of 25 Quetzales (or $3.33 USD) which will, in turn, need to be spread thin enough to feed an (average) family with five or more children — well warring countries might not be involved, but a daily and frontline fight for survival certainly is.

But as is usually the case with all my assumptions about the lives of those living in “undeveloped countries,” instead of the bugs and sun, I should have come better prepared for my personal battle against the stuck-up and self-centered nature of statistics and stereotypes. Thinking back, I’m not sure what exactly I expected, but as soon as the camion (“carrier truck”) drops us off on the most beautiful sloping hillside with panoramic views of looming volcanoes and lush valleys, I immediately begin to question if we could really call the boring synthetic box of an office cubicle a more “civilized” or “healthy” working environment. Breathing in the tropical forest is like drinking water and the breathtaking views inspire such heavy inhalations of an air so sweet, rich and refreshing that even the thought of an air-conditioned office closes my throat on a choke.

One of the Guatemalans with us suddenly yodels into a valley of the rainforest. And to my dismay and delight, a dozen yodels, from all sides of the hills and in all tones of the human vocal rainbow, sing echoing yodels of geographic location and greeting right back. Based on the information relayed in the secret yodel code (of which we are hardly privy to comprehending), our group tromps to our destination with the ungraceful and shuffling step of those foreign to the jungle and ignorant of the language it, too, speaks.

When I finally I arrive at my first coffee bush, a sweet woman, with wrinkles appropriately placed in proof that she spends more time smiling than not, quickly explains to me the dynamics and detail of a full and efficient pick. Her hands move with expert quickness as she demonstrates the art of defining that which is ripe and that which is not; “See? More red than green. This one, yes. This one, yes. The black ones, yes. This green one, no.” Her hands move like a wand over each branch, turning a heavy red mass to a thin and trim green one. With each swipe of her magic hands limbs bounce up and lift with new lightness and life. My imagination is (ever) active and I fancy myself hearing the branches, when they spring, sighing with appreciative unburdened relief.

The woman’s magic-wand hands stop and it takes me awhile for my fascination to wear and my imagination to wander back to reality before I realize that she’s looking at me expectedly and offering me my turn at a try. I move my hand to the bush but I’m slow and I stumble; “This one, yes. This one, um, no. This one is equal in green and red, yes or no?” The woman is immensely patient; a virtue, I fathom, in which she’s a practiced expert given the amount of time she studies in the shade of her guru, Mother Nature.

I’m not a quick learner. In fact, I pride myself on being a slow one. And so at the expense of swiftness and with deliberate concentration to detail, I diligently begin to clean my first bush of berries. And as I do so I realize that, contrary to all my petty presumptions, this is surprisingly pleasant work! My SPF 35 war paint was hardly necessary for, had I asked instead of assuming, I would have learned that this is shade-grown coffee — and thus the sun pleasantly trickles down its warmth between the tall macadamia nut trees planted and placed specifically for the purpose. Work songs, location yodels and laughter bounce and banter with the songbirds of the valley. Children too work alongside us but against all my “big bad” notions of “child labor laws,” these kids are talking, laughing and playing with their parents and neighbors, and I question if the children in neighboring continents could really be better off putting an equal amount of finger power into navigating a gameboy or television remote control. This being one of the very few organic farms in the country, no masks or gloves or worries over future birth weights and cancers are necessary. (Although at this thought, I do look up and envision for a minute, an American plane flying overhead and, without warning, darkening my sky with billowing clouds of poisonous powder. This “plan” as part of some covert and corrupt “aid” package devised — in misguided aim to eliminate the naturally thriving coca plants that grow innocently in lands Latin American — by the upturned and addicted noses of Northern neighbors wrongfully projecting blame.) But back to the berries — they are beautiful! And compared to their red fruit cousins of the forest and field they are (thankfully) thorn-free and come off the bush with incredible ease. And yes, it might be true that I have a touch of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) that’s being tickled with a curious feather of fancy by each green and lean branch picked (so obviously!) clean. But recognizing the satisfaction as not so different from that which I feel after sorting a full email inbox, I muse that productivity and organization perhaps are universally innate human inclinations met by many, and/or any, repetitive motion.

But I am only a silly American girl worthy a place to observe, but none to judge. And so I turn to the woman working beside me and ask her instead, “Do you like working here?”

Her mouth slips back into the smile that fits her face so well and she responds, “Of course! I love it here. But it wasn’t always this way. The owner of this finca did not pay us for two years and during those years it was very, very hard. But we organized ourselves and brought him to trial, and the banks, they didn’t get him to give us our money, but they did decide to hand over the land to us, the workers. And we still owe so much money to the bank. But this land is ours. And all the work we put into it comes back to us. And I am so happy to work my own land — with my own people — that it doesn’t matter if I only make 25 Q per day. Because I know that it is fair and that I am investing in the future of this land for my children and for our community.”

I mentally pinch myself a reminder that this story is unique, special and single; that the majority of coffee pickers in Guatemala are discriminated against for being indigenous and work in dire conditions under corrupt and manipulative ladino management for far under the (un-enforced) national minimum wage.

And then I revisit a memory of myself in high school; skipping sixth period for a jaunt to the Starbucks down the street, where I place an order for a non-fat, extra-froth, tall vanilla latte…and slap down an amount of cash that easily surpasses this woman’s entire daily wage. And it suddenly occurs to me to wonder under what corrupt and manipulative management the ladino finca owners succumb. I wander up the chain of responsibility, above the ladino owners, above the slick-talking multilingual middlemen, above the multi-national and mega-corporations, and there, on top of my pyramid, I find myself — the ignorant consumer. I hang my head in shame with the realization that slavery in America wasn’t outlawed; it was simply exported. And with this new consciousness, I can no longer hide my culpability in either ignorance or distance.

“Do you like picking coffee?” the woman wakes me from my shame with this question rooted in piercingly pure curiosity.

“Yes I do,” I eagerly and honestly respond, “especially because I’ll never drink another cup of coffee again without, first, a pause and prayer of respect, responsibility, awareness and appreciation.”

In response to my pledge, the warm smile of the woman spreads, and with this wave of expressed emotion, her magic wand goes again into action to relieve me too of my shame and guilt burden. Wordlessly forgiven, I gratefully sigh and then spring up light with renewed right intention.

*****

< More information on the “Nueva Alianza” fair trade coffee finca in Guatemala.

*****

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white and red aliens

Wednesday, September 14th, 2005

I close my eyes and step out of my house in Oregon.

I shuffle down the driveway to the mailbox to pick up the morning paper and right before I cross the street a black fume-exhausting bus with flamboyant red, orange and blue-tipped flames painted across its sides stops in the center of my street. There are block characters written across the front of the bus but I am not familiar with the language and thus can’t read the script. A door opens and strange music and voices pour out. The instruments and rhythm playing on the radio inside are foreign and awkward to me, but it’s the strange tone and alien chatter of the inhabitants that startles me into an uncomfortable shyness.

Someone from inside the bus yells a command in a harsh voice and I assume it means, “get out” for suddenly a river of small and dark people drain out of both the back and front of the bus. The people that fill the street are like nothing I’ve ever seen; they all wear the same red striped pants with what look like black chaps that wrap around their waists and snap with strange buttons in the front. Their long sleeved shirts are also of a same uniform color, but with huge collars and cuffs of finely woven material with intricately knit symbols that I imagine as a code to which I’m illiterate. Baskets are suddenly tossed from above the bus to their individual owners who, with long leather straps that wrap around the bodies and rest the weight on their foreheads, delicately heave up their luggage onto their backs and into carry-ready stance. Despite their obvious intrusion into a reality where they stick out sore, the people possess a oddly unwavering confidence that they are in the right place.

My 7-year old niece (who lives next door) hears the commotion outside, opens her door, yells a good-morning greeting and begins to run down towards me on the street. When I turn my attention back to the visitors, I see that all the people in red pants are jostling excitedly in their baskets, where upon they all pull out paper and pencils and begin to sketch notes and little picture likenesses of my niece. One of the observers smiles and points curiously to my niece’s blue denim jeans. Another steps to the front of the group, points at my niece’s pants, and starts explaining something in a calm and confident voice. The group responds with collective “oh”s of understanding.

I turn around and shoo my niece back to her house and when I speak the group suddenly hushes each other to hear my words. The apparent leader stands on her toes again and seems to translate what I’ve said, for the end of her sentence is met with a group grunt of comprehension.

I finally muscle up my courage and step up to this strange leader, “Who are you? Where do you come from? And why have you come here?”

The leader translates my questions to the group and then turns to me and speaks in a strangely accented but comprehensible version of my mother tongue, “Why, we’re people from a land far away called, Todos Santos. And we’ve come here to study your culture, your language, your clothing and your traditions. Can we make some pictures of your house, your family and of you?”

I open my eyes.

But it’s still so impossible for me to imagine.

What could the indigenous people of Todos Santos possibly make of the white alien invasion of blond-haired, blue-eyed, tall and pale-looking strangers with heavy backpacks and bug-eyed black sunglasses that wander through their streets with huge cameras, strange languages, awkward confidence and silly questions?

Or do I dare ask at the cost of my confidence being rightfully shaken?

*****

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this is india – part II

Saturday, May 21st, 2005

(This story is a continuation of the post from last week, which can be read by scrolling down to the next entry entitled, “this is india – part I”.)

*****

The Rail Official instructs me to wait until he has finished confirming the seats of the rest of the passengers in the car.

As he leaves my cabin, another man shuffles in backwards from behind him. His shirt is ripped and slung low across his back to reveal a place in the taut dark skin covering his back where a shoulder bone should be – but is not. He waves something to get the attention of all the people in the cabin in front of me, and from my seat I can see them all turn their heads; They clean their fingernails, tend to children, look for lost pens in their baggage, or just look out the window — turning their attention to anything but that which flags for it.

The man shuffles backwards into my cabin and turns around. As an obvious foreigner, I already know that I will be targeted as his ripest prospect. Indeed as I have predicted, he, ignoring the rest in the cabin, staggers straight to the white beacon of wealth.

“Didi……Didi…….Didi…….Didi….”

In Bengali, he tells me the long sad story of his life. The only word I know, “Didi,” I learned a the Mother Teresa House of the Destitute where the inmates there also tugged on my clothing to ask for help, addressing me either as a sibling or mistaking me for the nun that I am not.

“Sister……Sister……Sister…….Sister….”

As he continues his story, he throws his remaining arm to my observation and mercy. I desperately want to clean my fingernails, tend to a child, look for a lost pen, or stare out the window — but I refuse my eyes this relief.

It is my chief complaint of “my” country that the people refuse to look at the ugly truths that stare at and ask recognition of them in the staggering headlines of today’s news. Instead, distance and ignorance are too conveniently allowed to pad the cushions of the couches of comfort and conformity.

And although I’ve known this couch well, I’ve sold it right back to the devil.

“No thank you. I’ll stand. And I’ll stick to my soul.”

And it hurts. It hurts to look.

But I make myself do it.

I look at the flesh on this man’s remaining arm, which like silly putty, seems to have been twisted, pulled and remolded to the bone. I follow its elongated length and observe how it abnormally narrows around the wrist and then protrudes as a lump in the pad of his fist. And when I am finished looking at the truth of his reality, I look directly into his eyes and bow my most humble respect to the divine within him.

He pauses for a second. Perhaps caught off guard by the unusual recognition.

And then he continues again…

“Didi, please.”

In Spanish or English I can easily explain that I prefer to give time and not money, but my Bengali leaves my actions to speak. And I’ve forgotten the pile of fruit I usually bring to meet such occasions.

“Sister, please.”

This time I give up. Although this situation has happened a hundred times, and I never become any more sure or unsure if it’s the right thing to do, I reach into my pocket and pull from it the change that he asks of me. He motions with his limb to his shirt pocket, into which I drop the coins.

“Thank you Sister.”

And he leaves.

And in three minutes, another brother with a different deformed limb will come. One shuffling. Another dragging. And then the next, crawling. There’s always another. For this is India.

*****

The Rail Officer waves to me and I follow his people-parting path. The isles are slim and busy and after a modest game of Train Twister (right hand holding onto blue seat, left foot over yellow suitcase) we finally arrive at the third class A/C sleeper car. He pushes through the sealed glass door, and in wave of cool breathable air, we enter another world of India.

Newspapers written in English are shuffled as eyes peek from behind smart spectacles for only momentary and disinterested glimpses of the new visitor. Women with rings of gold around their wrists, ankles, toes and ears encourage prized sons in pressed slacks to eat another of the samosas that they’ve so diligently made and delicately packaged for the trip away from home. Uncles discuss politics together, fluently switching between Bengali and English to better express their opinions or utilize Western business lingo. A group of young boys dressed in designer jeans, each with his signature version of long and colored hair, pass around an MP3 player and start to sing, in unison, a song by an American boy band.

I take the seat indicated to me by the Rail Official and he tells me he’ll be back later to collect my “increase in fare.”

A man sitting at the window across from me leans over, “Did you move up to A/C too? You know they save these seats just for us, people like you and me. They save entire cars for us. This is how they really make their money. Hey. Where are you from? America? You’re so lucky you speak English. You know you can travel anywhere in India speaking English. I don’t speak Bengali. Or Hindi. Or Tamil. I only speak English and the local language of my state, of which I’m sure you’ve never heard. Did you know that India’s constitution recognizes 18 major languages and then, on top of that, we have over another 1000 minor languages and dialects?”

The jovial youths in the cabin adjacent have put down the MP3 player and are now laughing loudly, exaggerating the depth and volume of their voices and then emphasize their joking and jestering by cussing in English…

“SHIT Man! Fucking cool!”

I sit stunned in shock of the worlds of class and caste separated by a single, sealed A/C door.

Where, I wonder, is India?

*****

A cleanly pressed and richly dressed couple move into my cabin and sit modestly next to each other. May is the month of marriages and even louder than the dark henna tattooed up and down the new bride’s arms are the fresh, careful and delicate mannerisms that the couple use to address each other.

“Arranged Marriage,” has for me lost all its (discovered ignorantly founded) stigma and what remains left is only pure fascination and intrigue. For the first time, I am stoked to be in a culture where it is not inappropriate to stare; Because I cannot keep me eyes off the pair.

The bride rests her eyes on the ground as she gracefully asks question after question of her new husband. His responses are reserved, well thought out, and gentle. They do not look each other in the eye when they speak to each other, but they laugh or smile sweetly in unison at the end of each of his conclusions. In between each of her questions and his answers, she looks up at him with wide, interested eyes and bats her lashes like I’ve only seen in Disney movies.

For hours I silently watch them, wondering if perhaps this might actually be the first time, after all the years, months, weeks and days of family chaperoned wedding preliminaries and festivities, that they’ve had the chance to be alone together?

And who trained this woman, I wonder? An army of aunts, mothers and grandmas of a former era? For she is such a model of courtesy, respect, modesty, and controlled femininity!

She looks up, bats her eyelashes, looks down, and asks another question.

He makes the motion of scrubbing his hands (to remove the henna tattooed on the tips of his fingers) and I can tell simply by the tone of her voice that she gives him some kind of advice on the art (and removal of) of which she (and all In
dian women) is very experienced.

But he dismisses her advice.

She cocks her head for a brief moment and then tries to re-word and deliver her wisdom again with even greater grace.

But again, he, without looking at her and with a motion of his hand, waves the suggestion away.

And then I see it!

She does not look down. She does not laugh.

She turns her face the other direction, looks up to the right corner of the room…

And rolls her eyes.

And of this single glimpse I smile with the certainty, that this marriage of man and woman, will ultimately be, the same as any.

*****

(and 30 hours later…)

I have new friendships with every person in my cabin.

They have asked me every question of my family, work, schooling, income and country, and now have quite taken it upon themselves to be my personal guardians.

Our train is due to arrive five hours late and so I have already missed my connecting train ride and having no reservation at any of the booked-up hotels would be at a loss, were it not for my new friends who assure me that they’ve got a plan.

When the train finally arrives, those in my cabin politely instruct me when to sit and where to stand, and when they finally give me permission to get off the train, like elephants, they form a protective circle around me as they shuffle me off the train, across the platform, and into a special room guarded by security.

The room, full of fans set to their highest speed, has two bathrooms with showers and about 40 waiting chairs of which about a dozen are occupied with women and children. It’s 1:00am and I have six hours to wait before my next train departs. A Bollywood (India’s version of Hollywood) movie is on, which from a single glance, I make out to be a version of Beauty and the Beast (except, lacking a proper Beast costume, a man dressed like King Kong has proved adequate enough). This place is perfect for my lounge between destinations.

My new entourage smiles their approval of my approval and because it’s how they’ve been taught to salute westerners, they each proudly stick out an awkward hand to receive the novel Western custom of handshaking. Although I infinitely prefer the polite bow of Eastern salutations, I oblige and humbly stretch out, along with my hand, my most sincere gratitude.

As I settle into a seat to watch the movie, the children turn around and settle into seats to watch me. Most Bollywood movies last about six hours (slight exaggeration) and have an average of 11 different plotlines and themes (no exaggeration). This one turns out to be a mixture of Beauty and the Beast, The Nutcracker, Babes in Toyland, The Tortoise and the Hare, Ghost and Anaconda. After the finale, where all the characters (except for the Tortoise, of course) bust out in synchronized dancing, the security guard turns off the television.

Following the example of the rest of the women in the room, I lay out my shawl on the floor and roll up a sweater into a pillow.

As I lay there on the tile floor, thanking whatever deities may be for my ability to sleep on hard floors both comfortably and soundly, I feel something inside of me lift again right out of my body, and rise up to the ceiling.

Looking down at the patchwork of vibrant saris and shades of deep and beautiful skin tones spread out across the floor, there again, is that silly pale patch with the tan-clad girl on it. But as I relax my perspective and take one more step back, I see that, from a distance, her spot isn’t really so odd at all. How she managed to, I’m not sure, but she has indeed found even for herself, a place in this Quilt called India.

I squint to see more closely and note that the satisfaction of her success is marked by the slight but sure smirk of a smile across her lips.

And I smile down upon her.

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a spoon full of graciousness

Thursday, April 28th, 2005

I take a deep breath, hold it, and step into the dank room.

(When the students ran into our shared room an hour earlier and exclaimed, “It’s the most foul thing we’ve ever seen in our lives!” I laughed. I’d heard the rumors of hell realms to be found in Tibetan toilets, but really, could it actually be so bad?)

The answer I immediately realize is….

Yes.

I take a cue from the woman in front of me. We veer away from the three piles in the ground that once, in their younger inverted lives, constituted squat toilets, and instead do our business in an undesignated, but somewhat “less” crap-cluttered corner of the room. On my way out, I silently put a big gold star on the map and congratulate, “Tidrum, Tibet” on its new toilet foul-weight title.

Luckily the air outside is cool and delicious. I fill my lungs on it till they are sufficiently full and free of the desperation that 4, 325 meters of height above sea level can pressure on the chest of a foreigner to altitude.

Breath and being lassoed back in, I gather myself and start to stroll back down the wooden row fronting a dozen small guesthouse rooms. On the way I pass an elderly Tibetan woman whose arms are occupied with a large metal pot. As I pass her, she stops, sticks her lips out at me and then gestures her mouth (with a small grunt) towards the door. Thinking she wants me to open the door for her, I move for the handle, but before mine makes it, another hand suddenly swings it opens from the inside and the woman and her pot, like a sliding subway door, quickly close me in.

The door shuts.

“Tashi Dele!” I stumble in and say with an extra warm smile in dire hopes that the Braille of my facial gestures will be able to communicate that which my limited Tibetan could never.

Surprisingly unsurprised smiles spread across the cracked and tanned Tibetan faces of the three women in the room. They return my greeting and then one, in excited chatter (that we in the West are only familiar with because it is the language of the Ewoks in Star Wars), says to the woman with the pot what I imagine to be, “Oh look what you’ve dragged in! A little treat for us! Isn’t she sweet?! Well, let’s get to work ladies!”

Two of the women jump up from the beds that they are lounging in and begin preparations to do what Tibetan women do best…

Feed the guest.

(Now would be perhaps a good time to explain that because the Tibetan Plateau dips below nothing less than 12,000 feet, and due to the lip-cracking dry and coldness of this region, vegetables have never been able to be coaxed from their cozy little seeds. So, with virtually nothing growing from the land for centuries, society, and particularly diet, instead centered itself around that which could sprout, stand and sustain — the Yak. These burly, altitude-loving beasts provided not only powerful labor but also warm clothes, rainproof tents, blankets, meat, milk, cheese, butter and whatever else Manslow used to fill in the basement of his hierarchy of human needs. Essentially, for Tibetans, the Yak was a gift from heaven and a dream of sustainability realized. And thus, a piece of this holy pleasure is the first thing any gracious Tibetan is to offer a respected guest. Leading us back to the warm room where our guest from the West… is living a Vegan’s worst nightmare…”)

Yak hoof. Yak head. Yak cheese. Yak Feet. Yak jerky. Yak milk. Yak rump. Yak beef.

Paraded on pretty plates, and unveiled with pride and the gentle pushiness that all Tibetans have mastered, each and every Yak delicacy is placed on my lap and offered in genuine kindness to me.

I bow and shake my head while repeatedly begging, as kindly as I can, to politely decline. But the trays of body parts keep emerging from cupboards, and under beds, and out of tins, and unveiled by cloths and brought in from neighboring rooms… until finally, in my despair, I give into a pathetic round of caveman charades where the message, “Me no eat meat” is perhaps successfully been made clear, but in its perceived inherent absurdity, certainly not understood.

With the hosts and the guest both emotionally exhausted from the lack of exchange, one of the women makes a last jump up and moves to the stove where the big pot has left her embrace and found an even warmer home on the fire.

Trepidation, dread and surrender all at once engulf my gut. This is it. I know it. I’ve used my full deck of “no thank you” cards. With not a single decline left in my hand, and confronted with only the most serious of a, “only Yes cards accepted here” sign hung in her eyes, the woman returns to me with the most monster-sized tumbler of Tibetan Yak butter tea I’ve ever seen.

I smile and accept.

And in unison, a sigh settles across the room.

(Hot yak butter tea. Listed as number two on Lonely Planet’s “Top Ten Worst Experiences in Tibet,” and the only drink brave enough to put its literal gut reaction right into its own name, is the ultimate staple of the Tibetan diet.)

I sit, with a thermos full of, and three sets of eyes steady on me and my, Yak butter tea.

I do not sip. I gulp. Large, hot, salty, buttery chugs. Determined not to allow any little drops to loiter on the more sensitive taste receptors located on the sides of my tongue, I shoo it all right onto the red express way, with a one way ticket, headed straight, and as fast as possible, down.

There’s no time for hesitation here. For as the guidebook has warned me, there is only one thing worse than hot Yak butter tea; Taking first place on the Tibetan terror top ten list, beating out both squat toilets and rabid ranch dogs, sits the fermented and solidified, COLD Yak butter tea.

And I can see it! The top layer of the tea visibly cooling and forming into a chunky yellow film right before my eyes! Like the frozen lake Nam-tso that we just visited, jutting glaciers of Yak butter are reforming and solidifying into something that I’ll soon, if I’m not fast enough, have to chew!

I grab a homemade, sweet cracker from one of the dozen tins that’s been placed in front of me and take a bite in order to aid in the washing down of another large gulp of tea.

The women, content that their guest is finally both drinking and eating, finally recline back into their beds and flash each other smiles of success and satisfaction.

“Ummmm. Gooooood.” I chug, smile, swallow and repeat.

The women are very happy now. One jumps up, throws a shawl over her shoulder like a sari and starts a little happy dance in the middle of the room. We all giggle. The shawl falls off in the dance, and when it does, instead of picking it up she looks down at her chest, lifts up her breasts that have been lowered with the love of a good fifty years of age, and looks at me with a disappointed frown.

“No good,” she shakes her head and says in her limited English.

And suddenly her hands are on my chest. As she squeezes and smiles her approval of my body’s youth, I do one of those amazing flips of consciousness that leave me swirling in a whirlwind of dizzy stars and wondering…

“Is this all really happening? Or do I really live in one marathon showing of back-to-back reality TV comedy shows where the candid camera-man has yet to wave, catch my attention, and let me in on the joke that is called, “My Life?”

I look for the camera in the corner of the room.

Nope. No camera.

I look at the smiling face of the woman standing a modest grabbing distance from me.

Yep. Still a Tibetan woman holding my breasts.

All the women, including me, burst out lau
ghing, as she lets go and resumes her happy, little jiggy across the wooden floor.

The antics, the charades, the dancing, the laughing and the language-less exchanges continue.

I’m so busy giggling, laughing, miming and smiling that it’s not until a quick hour has passed before I look down and realize that my entire tumbler of Yak butter tea has mysteriously and unconsciously disappeared.

I smile to myself and note that while “hot” and “cold” Yak butter tea may rightfully assume their places on the top-ten Tibetan travel “terror” charts, Yak butter tea, warmed to just the right temperature by the graciousness and kindness of dancing and bust-grabbing company, has forever earned and secured its place in my personal hall of memory fame.

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