Bentonite: The definition of Bentonite sounds like a riddle:

What clarifies wine, seals the disposal system of spent nuclear fuel, is used in making professional sand castles, clears the funk from cat litter, is used in drilling mud for oil, can be found in rocket nozzels, is an important ingredient of face masks used to eliminate acne, is the main active ingredient of man’s first industrial cleaning agent, lines landfills, forms from the weathering of volcanic ash, absorbs several times its dry mass in water and safely aids in the removal of long-lodged toxins from the human body?

Well I’ve already given away the answer. But the question, Alex, is:

What is bentonite?

Or at least that’s a selection of the list of attributes and uses of Bentonize stacked by Wikipedia.

Bentonite, perhaps more practically and from the perspective of a detox faster, is simply sludgy spoonfuls of gray clay. It’s pretty tasteless and easy to swallow except for a grittiness in texture that makes every slurper grimace. On this particular detox plan, we slam our bentonite with water, psyllium husk and a little fresh watermelon juice. Once you learn not to “chew” your bentonite “shake” (and thus avoiding the grit by avoiding the grind), the shakes are actually eagerly anticipated, and even — to a few of us — considered tasty. But we are fasting. So even dirt might taste good and being a form of volcanic ash, bentonite is, after all, a close cousin of earth. But in all likelihood, it’s probably less bentonite’s enchanting affect on our palette that gets us fasters excited for our fourth shake of the day and more the fact that the psyllium husk expands in our stomachs and extinguishes the squeezes, pangs, grumbles and all other evidence and feelings of hunger. The bentonite is also functionally appetizing in that it quickly works to absorb and eliminate the toxins broken down and released into the body during the process of fasting. Toxins, being rather nasty in nature as their name would imply, are responsible for the headaches, nausea, rashes, light-headedness, etc. that are typical of a long fast. All these uncomfortable side effects of detoxification get a free and rapid ride out of the body with the help of the bentonite. And thus the friendly combo of psyllium and bentonite gives us fasters something concrete (of which bentonite is ALSO an ingredient) to cheer our sludge shakes over.

So originally I thought to document a day-by-day account of my rollercoaster ride on the detox train. But as anyone who ventures on an extended cleanse quickly discovers: this is hardly a log ride on Splash Mountain were the participants all experience the same dips, soaks and screams at the same time. Quite the contrary and much more like a marathon, each is on her own individual adventure of fasting highs and lows, hills and dips, all of which are easily empathized but never identically experienced by the faster running in front, behind or next to her.

So instead, I’m going to tackle the mysterious lingo of which I, initially, eavesdropped upon and eventually added to my own dictionary through the process of direct experience. That way I’m not presenting a recipe, but only the ingredients, allowing each to himself to sort out his own way of putting it all together.

Let’s get to it.

Detox Camp Dictionary

Detox: Now anyone who has walked through an airport terminal or supermarket checkout counter has probably noticed this word making regular appearances on the faces and front pages of our nations least reputable reporting network; the tabloids. So let us first DISPEL the myth propelled by our favorite socialite and celebrity icons that a detox is:

1. An easy ticket for anorexics to legitimize eating disorders.

2. A weekend vacation from a regular scene and schedule of party drugs.

3. Proof for the judge that one is, “cleaning up,” and doesn’t need to serve time.

4. A standard stop, before the tailor, on the way to the Emmy’s.

Yes. It IS a “secret of the (skinny) stars” to check into a five-star California-based detox center. But while the staff at such a center may assist with, and even clean up after, colonics (which, please, any earth-grounded human being should be quite capable of doing him/herself), they can never assure the “right intention” of the guest, which may be why just as often/quickly as we hear headlines of celebrities checking INTO a detox center, we hear news of them, “breaking out.”

Let’s return to Thailand.

Back in my days of irrationally fearing colonics, I asked of the Wellness Centers’ staff, “but what is natural about pushing 5 gallons of coffee through the end of your body that is made only for exits?”

And the answer, I had to admit, was good:

“It’s not natural. But neither is the diet of modern man. If we humans ate as our bodies intended, a diet comprised of mostly raw and organic vegetables, fruits, nuts, seeds and even, moderately, meats, then there would be no need for cleansing. But what is natural about the pesticides, medicines, hormones, preservatives and the other chemicals that the 21st century human being ingests, thrice-plus, daily? Nothing. And what the human body cannot process, it stores by lodging itself, conveniently, in the crevasses of our bodies, particularly in our intestines. What a colonic is doing is nothing more than helping to clean out the dump of unnatural toxins we have already accumulated in our bodies. Cleansing is how we get our bodies BACK to a “natural” state.”

Yes. That’s a good answer. But even better is their final disclaimer:

“Listen. We don’t want to tell you anything. We want you to both question and figure it out for yourself. And there’s only one way to do that.”

Ah. A direct hit on the nail-head of one of my favorite life mantras: “learn through direct experience.”

Detoxification, ultimately, is a word directly linked and respective to what a person has already ingested; it’s a personal interpretation. And for that reason I have to leave the definition of “detox” up to each individual and his/her direct experience of it.

Don’t worry. The rest of the terms have a lot less outlets than the intersection that the word, “detox” just ran me in.

It’s not the first time I’ve sunk my feet into the warm white sand of Haad Tien beach on the Thai island of Koh Phangan. Three years ago, at the tail end of an extended adventure in India, I found my breath as shallow and cramped as Delhi’s traffic and, sucking the last of my air in, I high tailed it for the nearest island on a rumor of the existence of a tropical heath & yoga center where I could feast on organic goods in a bamboo bungalow perched on a cliff over the Gulf of Thailand.

The rumors all proved true; I quickly found my breath again, mostly in the form of heavy hammock-wrapped sighs, sunset gasps of awe and a snorkel mask’s air tube.

As I continued to explore the hills of the jungle surrounding my “island-on-a-island” (after all, the neighbor of THIS beach is none other than Haad Rin, home of the legendary and monthly, Full Moon Party)…

… my curiosity eventually led me to the subject of much of the vegetarian restaurant chatter: the “Wellness Center,” located discretely and quietly across a bridge from the Sanctuary Resort.

Barefoot and relaxed, I crossed the bridge from my “resort world” and let my whim take a lead in wandering me in. Immediately, I felt myself an outsider to the unusually calm and skinny crowd sucking on identical and strange-colored sludge drinks that I suspected came from the posted menu of fasting cocktails.

I picked up a leather bound information book, walked under a sign that read, “Out of respect for our fasters, please do not eat here,” and took a cushioned seat near a place where I could conveniently overhear this strange community in conversation. There I overheard a mix of the standard traveller lingo and questions, yet interspersed with some especially foreign terms, like, “bentonite,” “colonic,” “mucloid plaque,” “healing crisis” and “Bali body wrap.” And as I flipped through the pages of information, I also noted the curious spelling of, “disease” as, “dis-ease.” Yes. These were all interesting clues of an unsolved mystery and, interest piqued, I took my questions to the fasters’ bar manned by a staff of this supposed, “wellness retreat.”

“So you don’t eat anything of substance for 7 entire days? And you say that the colonics are really a necessary part of the fast? And this — this not-eating — it would cost a person how much?”

Far from being persuaded, I walked out with some sort of self-rationale that the human body should be quite capable of cleansing itself; after all, it has done so for millennia, without the aid of organic coffee colonics and clay shakes, no? But my health motivation WAS reinvigorated and I did spend the rest of my week eating only from the special pre- and post-fasting raw food menu of the resort restaurant. I retired to my hammock with a book where I spend most of the rest of my week, going only a little out of my way to respectfully keep myself, as an eater, out of the fasters’ club’s way.

Now. Fast forward three years.

Life being oddly inclined to spin us humans in such circles, I find myself, AGAIN, at the tail end of a year of adventures in India and desperately in need of a similar dose of the good health, fresh perspective and renewed balance that the sea’s infusion has proved its ingredients of consistently delivering.

This time I save myself the clumsy and wet entrance of my 3-year-prior arrival by holding my shoes and rolling my pants up to my thighs before jumping out of the longtail boat.

I don’t know why I did it. All I know is that I didn’t hesitate for a minute. I just looked up the website (http://www.thesanctuarythailand.com/) and sent an email asking to confirm my, 7-day “master cleanse” booking and 11-day stay (including my pre- and post-fasting).

As I heavy-step my way across the hot, white sand, I fondly note my favorite hammock where I read a half dozen books during my last visit.

And then I walk right past it, past the resort, and past the restaurant. I follow the sculpted path, carefully inlaid with seashells, and cross over the bridge.

I enter the bamboo thatched roof hut underneath the hanging painted sign of the, “Wellness Center” and drop my bags;

“Yep. I’m here. Reservation for 1.”

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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.

Internet on this island costs a much as a small island, so instead of a proper update, here’s a simple clip from a letter to a dear friend:

Hello Love!

I hope you are well, I feel father away now that I’m on an island with distanced communication and also immersed into this friendly little fasting community.

I come to you from my “fasters dorm”, which is an air-conditioned, partitioned and Zen little place with dim and sunlit lighting. I’ve been eating only raw foods the last two days and passed something called a “PH test” yesterday which cleared me for my “masters phase” 7-day fast which I started this morning by swallowing a clay and bentonite “shake” at 7am (stuff that absorbs the toxins in your body that you release during fasting so that you avoid all those nasty symptoms of detoxing like headaches, hunger, etc.)

I spent the last two days flipping through piles of pages of books on whole food health, the medicinal benefits of fasting/detoxing, the corruption of the medical industry, and learning, in detail, the geography and functions of my body: intestines, liver, colon, stomach, etc. None of this is totally new to me, which is good less I thought myself entered a cult, but it is the first time I’ve really just SAT in a hammock for hours and looked closely at the information, and it’s REALLY refreshing to see that there is solid backing and science behind a lot of things I knew intuitively or through experience, already, about my body.

It’s all women here, mostly older. And it’s nice to be surrounded by their wisdom, life stories, and support. It’s a relief for ME to be the younger one who gets the guidance, mentorship and elder advice!

The “Wellness Center” does a really good job making sure your days are TOTALLY full here, knowing well that one of the hardest parts of fasting is the boredom left in the absence of eating. So they have a pretty strict schedule that keeps you hopping from one place to another. My day starts with waking at 7am and making myself my first of three daily clay shakes. Then there’s a stop at the, “fasters bar,” for my first set of vitamins and glass of tea (with a whole ginger root in it!), then one of two daily organic coffee colonics (which, yes, does involve a tube, your butt, and 5 gallons of water cycling through your body; I’m definitely a little nervous about that). I have an hour and half session of yoga today, one hour at the spa getting a body scrub/massage and wrap, and then an hour in the steam room, which smells like cinnamon coffee cake. I like to plunge between the. “coffee cake room,” and the, “fresh river water pool” – which creates the most amazing sensation on my skin that might have ever felt. Yesterday I spent two hours simply sighing between the two.

The rest of my time I just swing in a hammock, swapping my hours between serious literature, health books, and metaphysical books. I’ve, thankfully, already read half the metaphysical books on the shelf and am happy to have finally exhausted myself, mostly, of the subject. But also happy that the my metaphysical life interest survived, and has renewed itself in something calmer, something less ambitious, something more experiential, and something…of a middle path. This must be the new phase of my life. The one that also wants to plant gardens, have a dog, and practice making really nice meals to share with my family, friends and loved ones…

Anyway. That’s probably enough from me today as I don’t want to bore you with more of my bathroom details (the subject of every table in this place), but just give you a glance into my window.

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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.

The stupid part is that it was bound to happen and ALL my self-neglected fault. I’ve had fever for three days. Barely eaten anything. And as the detox center, in which I have a reservation for next week, sent strict instructions to eat only raw fruits and vegetables as part of my pre-fast, I’d only subsisted on salads since my temperature went down. This all on top of a night of insomnia where I spent multiple midnight hours researching the effects of “silver” (ie. mercury) fillings in teeth.

By the way, my advice is to NOT get ANY new metal (amalgam) fillings in your teeth. The stuff is already well on it’s way to illegality in a handful of the most respectable (in terms of consumer rights) Europeans countries and EVEN the FDA (for whom I haven’t an inch of trust) has updated its website THIS month, with a drastic change from a decades-old-stance defending the safety of analgam fillings, to reflect a suddenly new (precautionary?) neutrality on the issue (in light of new studies about to hit press?). It even went so far as to issue a new warning on the toxicity of amalgam (a metal mix which contains mercury) fillings. Okay. I’m the village idiot on dental care. But don’t they call in something equivalent to SWAT teams when a mercury thermometer breaks in a school? So just whose idiot idea was it to drill the stuff into the recesses of our TEETH? Well, if you have a mouthful of the metal, you can join me on the highly toxic band wagon. I’m not racing to get it all out (as that reportedly releases even more of the toxic metal into your system), but I’m going to slowly make the switch over, starting tomorrow, assuming I don’t fall into another fainting spell. Anyway. You can do the research yourself and make your own decision. I found Wikipedia to be the most updated source of info, links, and references:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dental_amalgam_controversy.

So the notches inching up my fainting ladder already include ill health, starved stomach and American corporate conspiracy nightmares. And on the last rung, is my general dentist/doctor anxiety. I don’t actually remember the story myself, but my older sister reports it as follows: “Mom had sent me out to the car to get something. When I reentered the hospital, I heard this kid screaming bloody murder, and I walked down the hall and was petrified to enter into the very room at the source of the violent wailing to find out it was none other that my little sister, you.” The only thing I remember, in my dramatized 6-something-year old memory, is being held down by what seemed a baseball team of nurses, equipped with bat-sized syringes. In reality, it was probably one nurse with a TB test prick. But nonetheless, every time I receive a shot (and given my global travels, you can rightly guess that my yellow card is long), I have to brief the attending nurse with this disclaimer: “I’m not afraid. And I know it won’t hurt. And I’ve never passed out. But every time I do this, my hearing and sight wane. So take what precautions you should.” They usually lie me down next to a can of some sticky soda, and all is well.

Well, with no needle in sight, I forgot to brief the sweet Thai nurses of my uncontrolled response to the proximity of medical tools. And it was just a matter of bad timing that they had both disappeared behind the protective x-ray shield and were unable to hear my weak plea of…

“Um…could someone…please…”

And that’s the last thing I remember before swirling blue images and a lot of rushing and sweeping-like sounds, all strangely reminiscent of a peyote trip I once took in Ecuador (but no one caught me when I fell, so god knows what got knocked around). And, then, clear as crystal, a voice in my head, practically hysterical with laughter, saying…”You fainted! You totally fainted! Wow. Look at all those faces looking at you. Had you any idea how many people worked in this office? Hey. They look really concerned. Say something to them. Say something to them. You’re freaking them out. You better say something. What’s this? Cinnamon smelling salts? Ummmmmmmm. That smells nice! Hey, look at that, you’re coming to!”

To whom I attribute that totally conscious and wry voice of reason, I have yet to discover.

But that’s my story of the day.

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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.

I call it, “living in my head” and am usually sequestered to this claustrophobically small space under one of the following conditions: my 12th consecutive hour in an office, my 4th cup of coffee in one hour, falling in love or severe physical illness. In this case, it’s the last.

I can feel my peripheral vision shrinking by the second and grab my head with both hands in a last attempt to salvage or stabilize a single awareness beyond my shaking body. But there’s no escape; I’m cornered. The contents of my stomach make threatening lurches up my esophagus. Flaming arrows pierce my upper abdomen by the dozen. An externally audible gurgling suggests my stomach has been hit and is sinking with speed. And my skin, fighting first with fire, and then retreating with crawls of chills, cries violently that this battle has only just begun. I set up camp next to the toilet, conflicted only by the question of whether to sit or kneel. In the trenches of the bathroom, I crouch through (what feels like) countless delirious hours of darkness before the sunrise sneaks an early ray of light through my window and I wake to the terrible but telltale clue confirming my condition: sulfur burps. For those lucky enough to not know them, sulfur burps are the notorious signature and unquestionable evidence that a body has been massacred by, none other than, the infamous Giardia parasite.

I walk out the door of my hotel but, still navigating the narrow hall of a body that’s turned all its attention inwards, am oblivious to the horizon expanding effect that fresh air, mountains, and sunrise usually have upon me. My world stops about five inches from my body and my mind resists any attempt to cross that frontline. So I bundle up, get on the bus that will take us to our trek start point, collapse into a seat, lean my head against the window and, unable to even look through the glass, catch only a withered, pale and pathetic reflection of my face before closing my eyes and falling asleep.

When I’m “living in my tiny little head,” everyone knows it as I am a sensitive little creature who is especially miserable when she is miserable. As well, since I spend a good amount of my breathing on showing my amusement, the absence of my laugh is louder than any condition of which I could complain. When we arrive at the clearing where our porters and lamas have gathered, I have to pick up my body parts along with my pack and urge them all to a comfortable stone on which I can collapse.

Javier, our acclaimed and ruggedly handsome guide, puts a tanned and tough hand on my shoulder and says, “Ah. Pobrecita. I’m glad you brought your antibiotics. As soon as we get to camp, we’ll unpack and you’ll start them.” I don’t like taking antibiotics, but there’s not a finger of resistance in me and I agree with a feeble nod.

One of the men from our trekking crew approaches me. He has rosy cheeks chapped with mountain air, little twinkles in each of his eyes like that of a cartoon character, and a smile so earnest and natural that I have no memory of him without it. He introduces himself as Enir, the Head Cook, and puts his hands together in the motions of concocting as he explains that what I need is an infusion of anis and apio to calm my stomach. I’m too tired to even raise an eyebrow at the ill-matched combination of licorice and celery, but manage a weak smile of appreciation.

When we finally reach out first campsite, I crawl into my tent, unpack my bag, pull out my emergency antibiotics and swallow them without hesitation. I then insert a fleece liner into my 0 degree sleeping bag, slip in, and, as advised by Javier, stuff my entire bag-encased lower body into the duffle bag as well. Finally, my chills are, if not absent, contained.

Having not eaten for 24 hours, I can actually feel the antibiotics clearing a path through my body. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but with the dropping of the atomic-antibiotic-bomb, the gurgling comes to a shuddering halt, and all is suddenly quite on the southern front.

Enir appears at my tent with a mug of steaming liquid and passes it through the A-frame of my door, “Apio y Anis; specialty of the house, just for you.”

I muster all that’s left of me to sit upright and accept the tea. I take a sip and sigh my appreciation and Enir is happy for my apparent approval of his home remedy.

A chronic classifier of the events that befall my life into what meaningful omens I can make of them, I have been struggling all day to sort out what conceivable purpose this terrible parasite could have that would pile up in advantages against the hole in which I’ve been buried.

I take a sip and ask, “Enir, what happens when people in the villages here are sick like me?”

He calmly answers, “Well. We have our own remedies, like apio tea, which we can use at first. And if things get really bad, we have to travel to town, which can sometimes take a few days. And there, it can be hard, because the people that live out here are not accustomed to the city, and can be taken advantage of. It’s good you have brought your pills and can take them. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

I will feel better tomorrow. It’s a luxury of my economic advantage (access to medicine, proper alimentation and care) and I know it. I also know that this 24-hour experiential lesson in the illnesses spread by waterborne diseases, such as the giardia parasite, is a demonstration of exactly the type of disease outbreaks that our service project has the aim of alleviating. Our primary project is to repair a reservoir and trench the piping that will allow the village of Quelqanqa access to clear, clean and potable water. And the timing of, and appreciations inspired by, my illness, do not escape me – as I hand back the empty mug, muster a weak smile, collapse back into my bag, and pass out.

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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.

Amazon Reader Reviews: Sugar Blues – William Duffy
Wikipedia: Sugar Blues – William Duffy

It’s outdated, and makes some sweeping assumptions that I sometimes grimaced at, but if you like world history, international politics, and credible corporate conspiracy theories of the “disease establishment” — then this book might also inspire you to do a little experiential experimentation of your own.

Now that I’ve turned the last page (and officially started a sugar fast), I’ll soon be back with another Senegal story that’s been churning in the back of my head for three nights now.

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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.

holes

Our seventh passenger halfway arrives.

He isn’t actually going where we are going, but his destination is along the way and if we’ll chip in, he’ll pay a little extra and we’ll all (three hours since my arrival) finally be on our way. Agreed and extra small bills piled in the middle of the car, we all suck in our breath, pull up our knees and squeeze in.

We don’t go far at first. Just long enough for a flashing hole between my feet, where I can see the road pass underneath, to catch and hold my attention and make me ponder what is actually essential to making a car run. Whatever “it” is; it and only it, is here. The gray blur passing through the hole steadies itself on oily, black, concrete. Even I know better than to wonder why the driver is, only now, going to the gas station: he collects our pool of money and uses it to purchase the fuel needed for the trip.

A man with a briefcase is suddenly at the passenger window catching his breath from chasing after us. He’s speaking Wolof and so I can’t catch any decipherable gist of what he’s saying but can see that whatever it is, it’s making the newest arrival squirm in his seat next to me waving “move along gestures” and the rest of the men in the car look around at each other for someone to take the lead they want to follow but not initiate. Everyone stalls. Finally one speaks. The others all nod. The man next to me squirms and shakes his hand again. The man at the window pleads. The others nod again. The man next to me keeps shaking his hand and looking straight ahead. There is silence.

And this goes on for 30 minutes; plead, squirm, agree, shake, silence.

I get it. I don’t have to speak Wolof to comprehend that a full paying passenger has arrived who will return to the rest of the passengers in the car the cash we just chipped in.

At 9 am, four hours after my arrival at the taxi station, my new neighbor has tucked his briefcase between his knees and we all pull out of the gas station and hit the road.

“Hit the road,” while perhaps less an expression in this case, is an exceptionally accurate description of what I will do for the next 12 hours of this overland journey. Through that little hole in the bottom of the car, I watch hundreds of foot-deep crevasses, cracks and divots pass. The driver’s spine is erect in attention and his eyes are squinted and focused intently on the road. I can’t help but think of that game at Chucky Cheeses’ where you slam the padded hammer on the gofers as they emerge from holes and they pop up faster and faster, sometimes even two or three at a time. We swerve violently; left, right, sometimes backwards I feel. Often we bang, bump and sink and quickly I understand how anything unnecessary would quickly shake off the frame giving birth to many such holes as the one beneath my feet.

a heavy little bag

Although it is inevitable, for some reason I am surprised when an unseen signal calls for the car to halt and one of the men in the seat in front of me opens the door and runs into the bushes. He swaggers back slowly, with his eyes closed and clutching his stomach. He collapses back into the seat of the car for only a second before he leans out the door and vomits again.

The first time everyone in the car is sympathetic. The fourth time in half an hour, the driver is grinding his teeth and everyone is sighing with either annoyance or aggravation.

Sometimes when I’m in another country, thoughts don’t hit me as quickly as they should. Perhaps because I’m the one out of place and there’s already enough attention on me, I avoid calling for more. But it isn’t out of disrespect but out of neglect that I wait for the forth stop before I tap the leg of the man with the suitcase and say, “Attente! J’ai la médecine!” He yells up to the driver and repeats, “Wait! She has medicine!”

The sick man rolls his eyes toward me, but hasn’t any energy to respond. The driver turns off the engine, walks to the back of the car, opens the trunk and starts pulling out all the baggage until he finds mine. He shoves my backpack into my arms.

The whole car empties out and all eyes are on me as I desperately search for my little plastic bag of first aid supplies. After a futile five minutes of searching, I want to lynch myself for putting myself into the aggravated-sighing-spotlight when, yes! I find it! My foiled little package of tiny Dramamine pills that I regularly disperse to sick students when I’m working as a guide. I hand the silver package to the driver like a golden ticket. He could care less for anything except getting back on the road. He gives it a quick glance over, hands it back to me, and starts throwing everything back in the trunk.

The sick man is propping his cramped body on the back of the car. I punch out two pills for him and hand them over. He looks me in the eye for a long second. I have no idea what he’s thinking or deciding, but at the end of his thought, he tosses the little pills into his mouth, nods and gets back in the car.

I am left alone still holding the little bag. For the first time, I really look at it. In addition to motion sickness medications, it holds anti-malarias, different sets of antibiotics for giardia, amoebas, urinary tract, and broad gastrointestinal infections. It has antibiotic drops for eye infections and prescription creams for skin infections. It has disinfectants, tools for cleaning wounds and sterile bandages.

The little bag suddenly becomes very heavy as I realize that it holds the cure to the diseases that kill hundreds (or thousands?) of the inhabitants of this continent on a daily basis. The thought makes my stomach hurt.

breaking bread and borders

The driver yells at me to get over my realization and back in the car and I snap back into action at his quick command.

The sick man quickly passes out against the window and after a half hour of relatively uninterrupted driving (for unfortunately there are no pills for potholes), everyone stops holding their breath and there is a collective sigh of relief. (The sick man won’t wake up till we arrive seven hours later.) People finally cozy down in their seats. The man with the briefcase asks me questions and offers me cookies. I pass around a bag of my own crackers as others laugh at my weak attempts at Wolof. I come to realize that our shared problem and my contribution towards solving it, has effectively broken down a social barrier that I hadn’t recognized earlier as erected. But I am thankful for finding my own seat suddenly a lot more comfortable.

(still to be continued)

*****

Since you all know Mbouille now, if you’re interested in seeing a love note video that we sent from Boulder to Senegal last week, you can watch it here.

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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.

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!”

———————————————
*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.

Do the intestines spewing out of my gut look suspiciously like sausages?

Kind of curious that the closest I get to meat is when it sits on my abdomen broiling in a broth of cheap hair gel and red dye.

And, yes, that’s a very special recipe for “Evisceration Simulation” straight from the kitchen cabinet recipe-rolodex of Wilderness Medical Associates (WMA).

That’s right. Eight 10-hour days later and scoring a 96% on the final exam, I am now an official and card-carrying WFR! Wilderness First Responder).

So what exactly does that mean? Well, it means that I encounter all the same things in the field (abroad) that I used to, but now I have fancy names, acronyms and systems to define, slang and organize it all: Heart attack (Myocardial Infarction)? Bee sting allergy (Anaphylactic Shock)? Hit on the head (Increasing Intracranial Pressure)? Numb, white, hard hands (Full thickness Frostbite)? Drinking too much water without enough food (Hypoglycemia)? Displaced knee cap (Patella Dislocation)? Bat bite (High Risk Puncture Wound)? Fell on your back (MOI Spine)? Nasty cough and nausea in Lhasa (High Altitude Pulmanary Edema)? Twisted ankle (Unstable Fifth Metatarsal Injury)? Scalded by the fire (Partial Thickness Burn)? Have no fear (assuming you’re more than two hours away from definitive care), for a WFR is here!

I’m not sure what the retention level is on this material, but as of this minute, I know how to swathe it, sprint it, sling it, inject it, NSAID medicate it, elevate it, body board it, motory skills test it, relocate it, TIP (traction into place) it, clean it, irrigate it, bandage it, disinfect it, uncork it, examine it, document it, triage it, resuscitate it, evacuate it, assess it, and in general, sustain it (wow, are you ever sick of my commas), till someone who actually knows what they’re doing can get their hands on it.

It might sound complicated, and indeed it was a lot of material, but actually it was all pretty intuitive information. In fact, I now have this sneaking feeling that I’ve somehow been swindled in life for not being taught all this really practical and user-friendly know-how about the human body (my body) before now. Why this curriculum isn’t included in high school basic ed or as a general prerequisite for parenting, is a question I’m left pondering. I feel like I just completed a Life 101 course and learned super useful skills that might one day actually save myself or someone in my company. (Now if only Apple offered similar courses for its laptops; mine is obviously limping around; and wow, I’m off subject.)

Anyway. If you like to learn and study, enjoy exploring the facilities of the human body, spend any time in the back country, have your ADD under moderate control (it’s a lot of class time), and can imagine yourself enjoying being a bloodied drama queen, then I can’t more highly recommend the WFR course to you.

*****

A few *new* photos in the WFR Course (Leavenworth, WA), Dragon’s Staff Retreat in the Sierras, and California Photo Albums.

*****

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