With belly clinching for food, feet demanding the day be done, and my skin, insisting in accord, that it was not of the humor or mood for getting drenched, I cinched in my backpack’s waist belt and shoulder straps tight against my body and broke into a jog.

Trot. Trot. Trot. Trotting heavily down the hill, squeaky with twelve kilos of clothing, camera and commodities, I ran directly into the front line of storm that had begun to grind its teeth with thunder and hunger for an appetizing little pilgrim hors d’oeuvre.

Picking up momentum with downhill gravity on my side, I felt myself shift into full-speed; jousting aggressively with the bullets of water riding the winds against me. Trees whip-lashing and winds howling, the shouts of the elements in my natural coliseum pumped pain-numbing adrenaline through my body till I felt it slam against the walls of my skin. At that moment, my stride suddenly widened and I recognized the feeling as the same as that instant — while riding a horse –- when the beast beneath pivotally breaks from a canter into a full gallop.

Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. With the added weight pushing me down even faster, there were no more options for foot-breaking; my end options were only wall, fall or the eventual incline assumed to naturally follow the foot of every valley.

Now perhaps only because I fear speed, this plight was particularly liberating for me. So I threw in a few yelps, hoots and hops and in this manner ran swooshing and screaming head-on into the storm.

So a traditional happy ending would have me arriving into the town and stepping foot under shelter the moment the lightning cracked and clouds dumped. And although my pilgrimage was quite the fairy tale, no such convenient pumpkin morphed or prince appeared.

My speed and screams slowed with the gradual incline which, as correctly anticipated, existed at the bottom of the hill, and when I finally did stall I found myself, despite the distance gained, still a quarter dozen kilometers away from my destination.

Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. And an aggravated wave of rain sounded alarm by way of the leaves and crashed towards me. I actually watched the cement turn black as the footstep of the storm shadowed the street

…and overcame me.

While normally under such circumstances I might have run for the cover of a tree and dug frantically through my pack for my rain pants, poncho, umbrella and waterproof stuff sacks – this time – no such rational urges moved me.

Perhaps the adrenaline was still discretely pumping. Or maybe I just had no idea how close to the cliff of crazy I had been standing. For instead of cursing or worrying or defending or retreating – I unbuckled my backpack, threw it into the middle of the small creek collecting itself in the street, took a heavy seat on my bag, and began to chuckle. The chuckle evolved to a laugh and the laughing to hysterics. I laughed like a maniac. And only when I had finished wiping the tears of surrender-inspired bliss from my eyes did the sweetest idea, like a gift left anonymously on my doorstep, come upon me.

I unzipped the bottom of my pack and stuck a blind and scavenging hand inside – unsure and also curious as to if perhaps my imagination, too, had taken the opportunity to play prank on a girl with ego drenched and guard down.

But there it was. My hand clamped down on that little plastic sack hidden almost a month ago, for exactly this just-in-case moment for which I’d forgotten I had prepared.

The rain, having saturated my hair, formed small rivers down the creases in my face and my eyelashes did the windshield-wiping work for which they were originally designed. But not even these little waterfalls could have drowned my delight with the discovery of my forgotten backpack-buried treasure…

…a single squeeze-packet of Justin’s sinfully cinnamon nut butter.

Now I could conclude this tale with a chapter telling about how when I finally showed up in town, I found that all the pilgrim hostels had closed for the season. And I could share the story of how I wandered around, wet, hungry and exhausted, until the owner of one of the extravagant hotels took me in and let me sleep in the attic solidifying into my memory one of the purest and sweetest acts of kindness I encountered on my pilgrimage.

But there’s no peanut butter in that conclusion.

So instead, I close not with a traditional happy ending, but with an alternative happy ending; with the picture of a sopping wet girl, cheeks streaked with the tears of peaceful surrender mixed with the sweat of her captor, humbly subjugated by an element of the divine, sucking on a squeeze packet in the middle of the street in the middle of a storm, with not a single urge to seek retreat or shelter — from one of the most powerful drenches of Presence — she has ever experienced in her life.

(But the point of this peanut-theme is still to get to Senegal, and — thanks for your patience — we’re almost there…)

———————————————
*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.

Last summer I lived in the, “Nut Butter House.” Don’t let your mind wander far, for this description was frank; I lived with Justin, the innovative, young chef who concocted and stocked the shelves of natural stores with, “Justin’s Specialty Nut Butters.”

Before morning coffee, on lunch break, after work, late night; it was a favorite habit to drag a metal spoon across the shelf of glass jars in the kitchen and contemplate a question for which all answers were right: Heavenly Honey, Sinfully Cinnamon, Pumpkin Pie or Honey Almond? (Those are Justin’s jar names, not mine.)

And more than one morning, while loudly smacking around in my mouth a consistency of food that only peanut butter gets away with, I stuck that spoon into the jar, for one *promise myself* final swirl and held that gravity-defying substance into the early summer sunshine coming through the window and wondered…

“Just where do you come from?”

*****

Let’s walk forward; specifically about 460 miles forward…

Having walked for over a month towards the city of St. Jean Pied de Port, in Southern France, I was only a single, final day of pilgrimage from that which I had declared as my sacred site of drive and destination: the Pyrenees.

But I have to first tell a story, only because it is good for a great laugh at my expense, and I’m game for a little good-natured giggle at a poor-tempered pilgrim.

On this particular day, I cried.

Not out of happiness or in bliss, but the sloppy, wet tears of a full emotional breakdown.

Aren’t we all entitled to an unexplainable few? Well, this was my day. And technically what triggered this mental meltdown was the fact that I didn’t want to eat a chocolate croissant.

No really. This is true. Through tears, I cursed all croissants and licked the salt from my lips as I blubbered on (to myself, mind you): “Can I just be American? Just this morning? For just an hour? Please?!”

So there you go; probably the only claim to my citizenship ever recorded on sol.com.

A little background is essential to the explanation. And although I will get back around to the theme of nut butter, it won’t be for awhile, so please let go of that breath.

In France, all meals are sacred rituals. Eating is not an objective, it’s a meditation in mindfulness, right intention and presence; careful attention to all the details of each meal must be considered from preparation to presentation. There are no exceptions to the guidelines of eating engagements; not even whilst plodding the dusty roads of pilgrimage.

So after a month of sitting down every morning with my fellow French pilgrims, to tables with carefully arranged places set perfectly with pretty sets of plate, glass and silver –ware, with separate saucers for fresh coffee, and petite glasses for squeezed juice, and shared loaves of bread baked that morning, and blocks of fresh butter and homemade preserves ready to be passed around, and polite insistence on the presence of all pilgrims, I came to admire, respect and love these shared and sacred meal customs.

But on this particular day, I was not in the mood. I was tired. I hadn’t spoken a phrase of English for two weeks and I was exhausted from pushing, without pause, on the walls of my French language limits. On this morning, I woke up longing to just be able to share a dream, wish, desire or understand just a little sarcasm, speak with a single metaphor, or converse on anything beyond the present and past tense. And since these concepts were all well beyond the confines of my French comprehension, I woke up and decided that I needed to walk alone; leave early, catch the sunrise, and be content with an in-depth conversation (in English) with myself.

So I woke up and tried to leave early.

One of my fellow pilgrims was an older French woman, who had often declared, normally to my appreciative reception and with only best intentions (as well as preempting patient instruction), “Your French is terrible; insulting to me. Please listen: this is how you say…”

It was on this morning that this particular woman took a seat in a stiff-backed, wooden chair and started watching me as I washed a pear and sliced it into bowl of yogurt and muesli near the sink. She was on to me. She put her nose in the air and smelled it coming; the scent of unwritten French code and conduct in jeopardy…

The coffee was brewing. The table set. The bread sliced. The butter softening.

As I put a spoon into my bowl, and took a single bite (while standing!), I could feel her flinch behind my back. Out of my peripheral, I watched her cross her arms and look away.

Not wanting to cause her continued pain, I swallowed my food as quickly as possible. Her legs crossed to match her arms and her mouth pinched down to contain the sharp words fighting for a way out.

I cleaned up as quickly as possible, knowing the sensitivity of my emotional state and wanting to make a quick escape. But just as I picked up my pack and tried to make a move for the exit, the lady of the house walked through the door with a brown paper bag raised in the air and announced; “Fresh chocolate and almond croissants!”

Unable to contain herself any longer, my angry observer uncrossed everything, grabbed a flowered serving dish, and stepped in between me and the door, “Ah croissants! Beautiful. You cannot leave now…”

“Sit down,” she commanded me.

On the verge of tears, I replied weakly, “I’ve already eaten. I’m full. I want to watch the sunrise. Thank you, but I’d like to go…”

Her body moved not a millimeter, “SIT DOWN and have a croissant. Look, almond. Would you like almond? Or chocolate? Sit down and have coffee and a croissant with us. Sit.”

“Please…”, desperate, I pleaded.

A young Swiss friend of mine, recognizing my distress, came to my rescue, “She wants to watch the sunrise. She’ll miss it if she stays. Let her go now…”

Happy for this opportunity to speak to someone as if I weren’t there, she grabbed the plate and loudly dropped it on the table, and said, “I JUST don’t understand. It’s just a croissant?! Why can’t she sit? She should just sit down and eat with us!”

My mind raced through my small mental dictionary of French vocabulary; how was I to say, “All I want is to be alone! To eat cereal and not bread for breakfast. To eat right over the sink, in silence, and just efficiently get on with my day! Just for one single day. Can I just be American for this one breakfast?!”

But the cutting hospitality swiped through my anger and hurt me. My eyes watered up and instead of responding — I fled. I bolted out the door without any goodbye courtesies. And with hot breath and tear-stiffened cheeks, I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and cursed chocolate croissants venomously.

And that was the one day I cried on the Chemin de Saint Jacques de Compestelle because I didn’t want to eat a chocolate croissant.

I should also mention that after walking for four hours, and just when I’d conclusively convinced myself that I had exaggerated all the morning’s happenings in my head, and that really, perhaps it had all been nothing but an emotionless event for everyone but me, I ran into my Swiss friend…

“Are you okay?! My god, you should have heard her go on about you after you left! She talked about you, and everything about what and how you ate, for another half an hour before I couldn’t take any
more and left myself!”

So there’s my French fumble. Luckily for me, my personal philosophy reads, “any humbling lesson is good one.” And I prize this one for the fit of laughter into which it always sends me.

Yes. This story does get us to where I want to go. For it was in avoiding another encounter with this woman (who, again, was only a violently good hostess) that I purposely detoured from the path to an off-the-route town, and of course, lost my way, but found an answer.

And it does lead us back to nut butter. In fact, I’m actually going to go all the way to Senegal with this story. But like the pilgrimage; one step at a time…

———————————————
*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.

Nothing strikes me as particularly interesting or memorable about the US embassy in Dakar. It’s a formidable building, with the same broad shoulders of those that neighbor it, identified by a simple gold plaque on the wall, a red, white and blue flag flapping above, and a few extra men in uniform standing watch on its more exposed corners.

There is nothing special about the building, but there is of the day. Almost six months ago, subconsciously searching for a good reason to go to Senegal, I jumped at a mission mentioned casually by a co-worker in an email. She wrote:

“Hey! I heard you’re interested in visiting Senegal! Quick plea: I’m, right now, sitting with Mbouille, and we’ve been trying really hard to organize a visa to the United States so that he can attend our instructor orientation and then fly back with the group to lead the program here in Senegal. He’s already been rejected a visa two times. And we think that if there were a representative from the company here during his interview, to verify his employment and good character, then it might help him get the visa he needs for the short visit. What do you think? Would you be able to sit with him during his interview at the US embassy if we make an appointment and set a date?”

I grabbed onto the task like a winning ticket; the request may have been only a little physical push, but it provided lofty mental momentum in moving me to secure a seat on a plane to Africa. I didn’t have to seek my adventure; it had found me. I had no excuses now (nor wanted any); I could rationalize the entire trip as a favor for a friend! With no choice but to happily take haste on — what in my overly-optimistic mind I had decided to interpret as — a “clearly” auspicious omen, I purchased my ticket to Senegal.

Before leaving, my boss pulled together an impressive looking presentation of materials: catalogues, proposals on letterhead, business cards, program materials, employment contracts, evaluations of Mbouille’s past work for our organization; all clipped together in a professional little binder. The contents combined to sing a pretty little song of the merits of Mbouille’s exceptional record of service for our American company. The chorus ended with a request for his presence at a 10-day training seminar (all expenses paid by the company) in the United States, “essential to his professional development and our organizational objectives.”

Now, as I amble around the cemented walkway in front of the US Embassy in Dakar, I clutch onto this tight little package of proof. As well, tucked away in my deepest pocket, is a folded wad of cash amounting to 100 US dollars – the “processing fee” to apply for an American visa. The day before, I had to scrounge the city for three separate ATMS, pulling the maximum withdrawal from each, in order to come up with this amount. This withdrawal limit is quite logical under the consideration that the $100 US dollar fee is roughly equivalent to 15% of the annual GNI per capita in Senegal.

I glance at my watch, as it’s notably abnormal for Mbouille to be late; especially for our date with an Embassy official. As I sink down the wall into a cross-legged sitting position, a stocky white man, with a close-cut of fair hair, briskly approaches me. He looks concerned and leans down to ask, “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Can I help you with something?”

I smile, shake my head and explain to him that I’m simply waiting for a friend of whom I hope to help organize a visa. His eyes narrow just enough to make wonder why. But before I can investigate, he makes a quick dismiss and enters the Embassy. Had I time to ponder his expression, I would have caught a clue, but I am distracted by a full-body wave of Mbouille’s extended arm in the air.

“Maimuna!” he mouths my name and shows me a smile that can barely be contained by his face.

I move to get up and he hand signals me down, motioning for patience.

I’m confused. And I feel ridiculous. Because I don’t understand what I’m seeing.

Mbouille is in a line of, perhaps, 30 or 40 persons. They are almost marching, single file, from some unidentified meeting spot, that I suppose to have originated from somewhere behind the Embassy. There are guards in uniform, and they actually shout at the people in line, urging them into a tighter row, instructing them, that if they move, they will lose their place and appointment. The commands seem especially demeaning, as those in line appear dressed for a fine dinner party. To the heel and with deliberate consciousness: shoes are shined, dresses pressed, shirts tucked, hair pinned, and finest jewelry presented. Mbouille himself is wearing a crisp and dirt-defying white dress shirt tucked into pressed pants with freshly shined shoes and a black briefcase.

As they march, the people fidget: adjusting ties, touching gold bracelets, fixing hair, holding tightly onto their own little matching folders of equally crisp, clean and organized papers.

I stand up and move to approach Mbouille, but one of the guards immediately barks at me to back off. As it is always Mbouille’s inclination, he wants to protect me, but he is not allowed out of line and so, without making a sound, he smiles softly behind the guard’s back and shows me hand signals to, “please, sit and wait.”

It’s my turn to fidget, and I pick at my fingernails and twist my ring in anxious confusion.

When the procession has lined up against the wall to the satisfaction of the guards, and after they have rattled off a new line of commands, Mbouille finally motions me over.

“Ah! Maimuna! I’m so happy to see you! No. No. No. Don’t worry about them. They are only doing their jobs. No, no, no. It’s okay. See. I’ve done this before. Why are they shouting? They are just giving instructions and explaining the process. This is just the way it works. Yes. I have to stay here in this line. Yes. I’m well. Please don’t tell anyone, but I have to confess, I am a little nervous. I don’t know why. I have no expectations. I hope my papers are all in order. Ah. You like the picture? One time I went through this whole process, and when I got up to the desk, they sent me away because the background of my picture was not white. Then they cancelled my appointment. I feel bad because there are no instructions that say the photo has to be on a white background, and I see others here who will be turned away today. Oh no. You shouldn’t get mad. It’s just part of the process. That’s the way it works. Today I know and have a proper picture, so it’s okay. Look! I brought a picture of my wife and son too. I hope it will help now that I am married, to prove that I would never leave my beautiful family and try to stay in the United States. Maimuna. The guards don’t want you to wait in this line with me. You must go wait by the door. When it is my turn, we’ll go in together okay?”

I squirm in my white skin as he hushes me away towards the front of the line and entrance to the Embassy. Our segregation, and my unquestioned “place” at the front door of the Embassy, makes my stomach turn. So I drag my feet as I reluctantly leave the line, turning every once in awhile to let Mbouille’s encouraging smile push me forward.

Finally he is called forward, and I run to his side as we are finally allowed to enter. Guards take our cell phones and my laptop and digital camera. After we empty our pockets of coin and step through the metal detectors, I’m given a cardboard number in exchange for my personal belongings, which I’ll be allowed to recollect on my way out.

We are ushered into a large waiting room full of chairs with corner-mounted televisions echoing mechanical instructions on how to proceed. People line the walls and shuffle their papers nervously.
Eventually we are called into a smaller room where ten chairs line a wall facing three booths. The booths are partially enclosed by flimsy dividing walls, and above each is an electronic box with a red number.

We are the day’s first round of applicants. All ten chairs are full of fidgeting, and immaculately dressed, people. There’s a clock on the wall that we watch until it tells us that we’ve waited three hours. An ever-excited and conversation-full person, Mbouille falls into an unusual silence as I watch him wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck and then clasp and wring his hands together.

I touch his shoulder and tell him not to worry. His case is totally solid. Why would there be any reason to turn him down? We have a letter of invitation from a US employer. He has three years of experience working for the company. We have all kinds of fancy paperwork. He’s married and has a child and a permanent job in Senegal. He is contracted to work this summer for us in this country. He has no reason to stay in the States and every reason to return to Senegal. And I will explain everything. They’ll listen to our case and everything will work out.

Finally, a window slides open and a name is called out.

An anxious young man jumps up, takes a moment to shake out his clothes, and then approaches the window. We all watch him nervously and, at once, wish and dread, the call of our own name.

The young man goes into the flimsy booth and introduces himself, and to my horror, I realize that we, in the waiting room, can hear everything: the curt introduction of the officer, the quick fire of personal questions, the stuttering replies, a very short pause and then…

“I’m sorry, but you are not qualified. Thank you for your time.”

*thump* *thump*

Papers are stamped with this final declaration.

The young man turns around with his shoulders slumped and face down. His nervous hands, emptied even of their paperwork, are left with no retreat, and are instead shoved embarrassedly into his pockets as he leaves.

No one in the waiting room has the courage to look up from their feet when the next name is called.

No more than five minutes pass…

*thump* *thump*

“We’re sorry…”

As the row of applicants each take a turn at standing, approaching the window, and shuffling sadly away, it becomes apparent that there is no variation to the theme:

*thump* *thump*

“We’re sorry.”

*thump* *thump*

“We’re sorry, but you are not qualified.”

Mbouille and I no longer speak. Silence demands all the space between us.

“MBOUILLE? Is there an Mbouille here? Please come to the window.”

Mbouille stands up proudly. He shakes himself into a confident stance. With admiration, I do the same. And together, a united front, we approach the window.

To my surprise, it’s the same young, fair man that approached me in the morning. For a naïve second, I cling to the hope that our prior meeting will open an unseen door into this interview, but these wishes are stomped when he shortly states, “Mam. You can take a seat. I will call you if I need you.”

Shoving my foot in a door too-quickly closing, I plead, “but we were told I would be able to join him for the interview. Is that not possible?”

He looks at Mbouille and asks, “Do you speak English?”

I can’t handle the belittling tone, step fully into the box, and before Mbouille has a chance to answer say, “Yes. Actually he speaks nine languages. I’m not here to speak for him. I only want to explain to you my company’s role in this request. Please, can I just have only a minute to explain the importance of this requested visa?”

“Mam. I will review all these documents. But you can sit down. I will call you if I need you.”

He shows me the front of his flat palm indicating that there will be no further discussion on the matter and then turns to Mbouille.

Mbouille smiles warmly and gives me a push with his eyes, knowing that only his instruction would move me.

Rejected and with no other option, I fall back. Dazed, I collapse limply into the nearest chair and have no choice but to listen to the conversation…

“How do you know that woman?”

“She is a Director of the American company for whom I work. Here are my completed forms. This is my letter of invitation….”

“Yes. Please just give me everything. Thank you.”

Papers are shuffled for 30 seconds.

“What is your profession? You are a teacher, huh. And this is your salary? Do you have a bank account statement?”

Papers are shuffled for another 30 seconds.

*thump* *thump*

I can hold back no longer. I stand up and jump back into the box.

“Please! Wait! You haven’t even had time to look over these papers. Please let me explain!”

The officer ignores me.

“I’m sorry Sir. But you are simply not qualified.”

I interject, “Wait!”

The officer looks me in the eye and says, “MAM. I’m sorry but this applicant is simply not qualified.”

Mbouille smiles softly at me. He turns to the officer and warmly replies,

“Thank you so much for you time and consideration Sir. Thank you very much.”

Mbouille gives me a little half laugh and picks up his briefcase, closing my gaping mouth and ushering me out the door. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the sweat from his brow and neck, smiles at me, and says, “Whew. That’s a relief isn’t it? To have that over? Yes. Maimuna. Don’t worry. I didn’t get my expectations up. It’s okay.”

I haven’t the energy to keep up with his quick step, and fall back one behind him.

We collect our belongings from security and step outside. He tries to keep his smile on for me, but I can see a sadness behind his eyes that threatens to fill every moment not preoccupied with reassuring me that he’s okay. We walk fast through the city crowds. With our thoughts running as well, it feels that no time has passed before we reach our bus. We jump on through the back door, push our way through those standing, find an open seat, and fall, side-by-side, onto the shared bench.

Having stopped walking, our chasing minds catch up to us and a heavy silence fills the space between us.

I look out the window. I remember the line, the barking commands, the nervous people, the three hours of waiting, the curt questions, the humiliating open-aired booths, the ridiculously priced “processing fee”, the insulting interview….

My eyes well up with shame and embarrassment for the flag that colored and claimed the system through which we were just processed and spit out…

“Mbouille. The way they treated you…they didn’t listen at all…I’ve failed you….how could they….I’m so sorry…for my country….the way they treated you…”

He takes my hand and cuts my stutter, “Sister. Please. I’m okay. But your sadness will make me sad. Please don’t. Maybe I can apply again, yes? They never asked me the income question before. Maybe now we have learned something new and will be better prepared next time, okay? Now please, Maimuna. Don’t be sad. See? I’m only so happy that you are here. And that you are coming to my house to be with my family. And that is all that matters. But please, I can’t bear your sadness. Okay? Let’s not talk about it.”

He ends his plea with a smile and I agree.

I turn to the window to hide the tears that are welling again, wipe my eyes when I think he’s not looking, suck in a breath, hold it, swallow it, and follow his lead.

———————————————
*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.

getting to the period

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a community affair

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

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

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

mad feels good

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

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

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

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

a community affair

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

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

My friend translating:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————
*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.

———————————————
*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.

(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.)

———————————————
*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.

3 times stranded without cover in sudden rainstorms. 3 expeditions sent to “get help” to pull our minivan out of the mud. 20+ group efforts to push or pull our car out of muck-ruts. 6 snapped towropes. 1 dead engine. 30 miles of ankle-to-knee-deep mud. 700 mosquito bites (averaging 50 per person plus Raphael’s 200). A fair number of unmentionable words sworn. 1 jaundiced leader suffering from a (as of now) confirmed case of Hepititis A. 1 nail-less big toe. 11 pairs of squishy boots. 4 expressed emotional breakdowns (unknown private ones). 4 mysterious rashes. 1 mule stuck in the mud. 1 dead tarantula. 1 hour walking in the dark with 1000 sets of shiny spider eyes reflecting the light of our headlamps. 2 tarps short of covering the hammocks and cooking fire from a sudden downpour…

2 tarps suddenly found to save our dry clothes (and souls) from another drenching. Numerous hysterical laughs when one could do nothing with the situation but crack. 11 of the best Snickers bars ever tasted. 8 hours of the most exhausted, and thus sound, hammock sleeping. 1 graceful surrender for the sake of safety. 1 sunrise at the top of a pyramid at the ruins of Tintal with views of the jungle-covered temples of Mirador and Nakbe peeking above the canopy of the Peten rain forest. Many sightings (and soundings) of both spider and howler monkeys. 5 AMAZING local trek guides with unlimited energy, enthusiasm and knowledge of the forest and its animal and plant inhabitants. 100’s of enormous bright blue Morpho butterflies flaunting their easy flutter as we sludged along. 2.5 oranges per person, per day. 11 bodies surrendered fully and finally to the mud. Dozens of unexcavated ruins left by ancient Mayan civilizations lining, like small rolling hills, both sides of our trail. 5 girls laughing so hard they were mistaken for monkeys. 2 royal “throne” jungle outhouses. 1 ballpoint mustache. 1 impressionable sight of a full chicken bus coming to our tow-rescue. 2 video remakes of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” 11 excited hoops of hurray when the minivan was finally yanked out of the mud. 1 angel sent from heaven with a 4×4 pick-up truck to save us from being stranded. 1 unforgettable experience scarred from skin to soul.

Dear Students,

Our last day was, by any Hero’s definition, “epic.” And although it felt much longer than the 24 hours that a day usually confines itself to, dizzy with disbelief of each unfathomable moment as it fell upon us, I somehow lost the time to communicate my congratulations to you.

I suppose we each have a point where we (think) we can take no more. And to my (perhaps sick, yes) delight, I witnessed many of you reach that point this week. But my satisfaction comes not from seeing you suffer, but from witnessing you each successfully limbo what you thought to be your bar of ultimate endurance. Tears were cried, words were sworn and the existence of hell realms on Earth were certainly questioned. But it is only through these soul-shaking and reality-challenging encounters with our limits that we have the opportunity to push our walls in life an inch out, up, higher and lower; creating some space (in the box of Life that limited perception creates) for us to sigh, breathe, play and grow in confidence.

And isn’t it such a peculiar and relieving confidence that is inspired, not by conquest, but by surrender? Just when we think we have reached the wall of our will, the unfathomable pushes us right through it and we suddenly find ourselves on the other side with the realization that the walls of what we think we can do in this life are actually illusions. And suddenly we are laughing out loud at the all the unnecessary time we spent dreading, worrying, expecting, defining, avoiding, denying and hesitating…

Remember on our first day when we set out in our dry and clean clothes? We took enormous care to scout and then hurdle ourselves to each dry island along the path. We employed machetes to hack down what we thought would be a faster track. At each rest stop we took twigs and scraped the mud from our boots. We cringed at each raindrop that landed on our dry clothes and threatened an entourage behind it. And with such desperation we dug through our bags for our expensive Gortex jackets when the clouds grew dark. But isn’t the rain one to humble even Mr. Gore himself? For as we clearly saw with Storm Stan, is there anything that Rain can’t eventually drench, uproot, sweep away, flood, or famish? Despite what any REI clerk will claim, in the ring between Gortex and a tropical downpour, poor (but expensive) breathable plastic never stood a chance.

And thus we were drenched.

But, really, how often do we humans get truly, thoroughly and without resistance, wet? Looking at my own history of umbrellas, ponchos and shelter-sprints, I’d say I’ve spent a good portion of my life skirting, swerving and scowling at the sky’s natural showerhead. So imagine my surprise when, after observing the unrelenting rain go from saturating my “protective barriers” (2 minutes, by the way, Mr. Gore) to forming an impressive drainage system along the natural divots and divides of my skin, I realized (or remembered?) that the only completely impermeable and breathable material on this Earth is skin. And eyebrows and eyelashes work together as an impressive windshield-wiper team. And, (oh blessed surrender to my 7-year old self!), stomping in knee-deep mud to the tune of a full volume storm is invigorating and liberating!

“Surrender” has gotten such a terribly undeserving bad name in our dualistic-minded society. (But then so have Surrender’s friends “emptiness”, “minimalism”, “death”, “stillness”, “different” and “darkness” – but wouldn’t that be an essay.) Yet in my life I continue to learn that it is not my conquests that make me stronger, but the experiences that humble me in beauty, bigness or recognized brotherhood. Contrary to all I was socialized into believing, it’s the events and visions that make me feel smaller that make me feel more comfortable in my proper (little) place in this world. It’s the ocean, the sunset, the full moon, the dark sky, the pyramids, the jungle, the thunder, the lightning, and yes, a full pummeling by a storm that make me realize just how small I am — and just how “okay” it is to be small.

So we did not reach our original destination. But we did push our inner and collective endurance to heights and horizons that make the pyramids of Mirador look small. Many of us have admitted that some of our most challenging days on this semester, and in the field of Life, took place on that muddy little path this week. But it was certainly an experience worth the lesson of coming to know (intimately) the depth of the mud that we can successfully trudge through. And isn’t it exactly the swamps of life that allow us to walk with renewed appreciation for the ease of the drier paths in Life’s more maintained and manicured parks?

In Buddhism, a “bodhisattva” is one who is enlightened, but consciously chooses to stay on Earth to “participate in the sorrows of the world with joy.” When I look back at the epic tale of adventure that we wrote last week, it’s the picture on the last page that I most remember. It’s the vision of you all — knee deep in the mud, covered in dirt, car broken down, sun setting, mosquitoes swarming, hours away in either direction from any shelter — and smiling. And not just smiling, but laughing, dancing, singing, and sighing at the sight of the near full moon putting a fantastic sunset (and epic day) to bed; participating with joy in a situation that would by most definitions be defined as miserable.

So congratulations to you on an ace on your first exam in Alchemy. For you have all shown yourselves as promising Alchemists — whose art is only that of changing obstacles into chal
lenge, the horrific into epic, the unknown into adventure, misery into magic, metal into gold.

*****

(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.

(world photogallery)&nbsp(about sol)&nbsp(some stories)&nbsp(LeapNow.org)&nbsp(travel disclaimer)&nbsp(packing list)&nbsp (photogallery guestbook)&nbsp (blogger profile)&nbsp(World Nomads Travel Insurance)&nbsp(WhereThereBeDragons.com)

(My co-leader actually captured this awesome shot. And unfortunate for all involved, I forgot my camera re-charger in Lhasa, Tibet and my battery is now officially and completely cashed. But I’ve got a journal worth of words that I now have the time to post!)

May 12th, 2005
Kolkata/Culcutta, India
The Train Station

I jump out of the car, insist that I’ll be safe on my own and Suren, my in-country co-leader and friend from Nepal, reluctantly gives me a final hug and jumps back into the jeep and leaves.

I turn around and, for the first time on the subcontinent, face India alone.

Froggerstyle, I hopscotch my way across the street: jumping in front of a decrepit bus with limbs hanging out the windows, sliding between two green, honking moto-rickshaws, patiently waiting for a man-drawn rickshaw to pass, and then making a final dash through the zigzagging taxis driven by swearing and fist-throwing chauffeurs.

“RICKSHAW Madam?!” “RICKSHAW Madam!?”

The rickshaw wallahs (drivers) have seen that I have just arrived but, as soon as I hit the sidewalk, accost me anyway. I wave them off and find my way to the underground channel that will take me to the central train station. I enter the subway and am immediately HIT the scent of one of the world’s largest human populations, brewing and stewing in the heat of a boiling Calcutta soup.

There’s no shade in this city, but if there were, it’s be over 103 degrees sittin’ in it.

As I descend down the shallow steps (that couldn’t possibly have been devised with human feet in mind), an endless line of bag wallahs (men moving passenger luggage), slowly and strenuously make their way up. They wear blue and white checkered linen clothes wrapped expertly around their slim waists and red turban-like towels snaked around their heads for the purpose of padding the pounds of weight they support on top.

One of these men is holding up the flow of people filing up the right side of the stairs. I guess his age to be 60, although men of his caste and occupation, despite (or because of) the fact that they are constantly flexing their life-muscle, can not usually expect to live to an age that’s able to climb past this number. He might weigh a little over 100 pounds. The load on his head probably weighs 200. His whole body trembles as he defeats one more step, perhaps wondering with me, if it’ll be his final. His eyes ache. They plead for the mercy of relief. In slow motion I watch a bead of sweat, like a tear, roll desperately down his arm. And then someone’s hit Fast Forward and he’s gone — lost to my vision by the hoard of people that have impatiently overcome him.

Having spent the last three months continually on high alert of the eleven people of whom I was assigned the duty of protecting, I suddenly realize the sheer SELF-comfort that comes with being able to watch, care for and instinctively shelter another. For by doing so, we take cover ourselves. (Is this why we have children?) Now, naked of both distraction and duty, the rawness of life shouts out at me and expects an answer.

I am silent but observant as I step over the bodies strewn across the floor; naked men passed out and pushed to corners, skinny 14-year old boys sleeping in men’s trousers cinched together with string, mothers holding out their malnourished newborns begging for backsheesh (tip, change). Although it reminds me exactly of the place, this is NOT the Mother Teresa House for the Destitute. This is the Calcutta Train Terminal. And this – is India.

At the heart (and lungs) of the terminal, where the whole world seems to be either exiting or entering, I stand under an enormous billboard that, in red, flashes the numbers and platforms of the trains arriving and departing. I look up and wait to see mine. Not hundreds, but thousands of people file past me. I’ve never seen so many people in my life. Their mass is so thick that they do not see me until they are on top of me, whereupon they take one quick side step around me, and reconvene with their prior path. I look back up to the board and suddenly I am looking down; Down on this silly white girl, this odd looking and jutting pale-colored pebble in a dark river of rushing beings. “What you doing here?” I shout down, laugh at myself and wonder.

(I’ve been doing this a lot lately — stepping out of my eyes and taking a place in the audience, distantly and without personal attachment viewing my personal life-movie in the making. Perhaps, like many in the profession, the actor (that is my ego) has grown tired of its character casting and wants to know what it’s like to work in production, behind the scenes of consciousness…)

A university student in a crisp, white shirt and pressed slacks (always good for help in perfect English) looks at my ticket and gives it back to me. “Mam. You’re at the right platform. But you’re crazy not to have gotten a seat with A/C.”

When I arranged the ticket, based on everyones’ advice, I actually had requested an air-conditioned cabin. But the agent notified me that because of my late reservation, no such seats were available. The “Surrender to Life!” slogan that I constantly champion to students, friends and self suddenly raised a motion in my mind and, in accord, I slapped down my 800 Rupees ($18.95 USD) on the table and declared, “I don’t need A/C. Book it!”

Now, on the train, in temperatures that would melt metal, I look around and come to the realization that not just over-privileged Western women (me), but even your average Indian women are decided either too delicate, decent, or deserving to sleep (at least in this kind of heat) in any of the cars other than those reserved to the upper three air-conditioned classes. For there are NONE of them here; Women, that is.

What there ARE in this car is a whole lot of sweating and staring men. They are all wearing white tank tops and have changed into skirt-like sarongs to better breathe the heat. Complying with female clothing traditions in the East, I’m covered from top to toe in modest clothing, but even the skin showing on my neck feels exposed and indecent. I don’t feel particularly threatened or unsafe, but I do squirm under the relentless and unblinking gaze of the dozen men watching every move of the strange white woman who for some reason has been left here alone. (“Where is this woman’s husband, brother or otherwise male relation?!”) In India, it is quite untraditional for a woman to be travelling without the company of a male escort, and without one, she might even, herself, be identified as a, “female escort.” And judging by the fact that I haven’t seen a single other foreigner since I left my hostel, I’d say a westerner or white person, in general, is a pretty rare and stare-worthy sight. I don’t blame them and am not about to set out on a quest to impose Western courtesies on the Eastern world…

BUT when the Rail Official comes to collect tickets I politely and quietly ask him if, by any chance, there might be an open seat left in 3rd class AC.

His ears immediately perk and then, in a glance that judges the thickness of my moneybelt in accordance to the cost of my clothing and luggage, looks me into the eye (for the first time) and says with a hint of hinge, “Why, yes Mam. We just MIGHT have a seat for you in A/C. ”

Oh! How could I have forgotten! No matter the “no”, in this country, there is always, (always!), a baksheesh (tip/bribe) backdoor!

For this is India!

****

(The train has yet to move, so the story, in the next blog continues. We have yet to get personal with the wonderfully warm people that make India what it is!)<
br />
(world photogallery)&nbsp(about sol)&nbsp(some stories)&nbsp(LeapNow.org)&nbsp(travel disclaimer)&nbsp(packing list)&nbsp (photogallery guestbook)&nbsp (blogger profile)&nbsp(World Nomads Travel Insurance)&nbsp(WhereThereBeDragons.com)

pre-hike muscle warm ups…

showers with REAL water pressure…

hour-after-hour of giggle worthy mud music…

alternative modes of aerial transport…

raftless white water crossings…

…and the friendly funk that comes with wearing clothes that have been wet for six days.

It´s a good thing that one of those funky wet t-shirts read…

I still haven´t the time to put together all the words, but the pictures can now be found in the Colombia Album.

And if you live in Germany, you might even catch a glimpse of my muddy boots stomping by on the tube, as we had THIS guy…

and a journalist from ZDF.de stalking us around, interviewing and capturing footage for a documentary on, “Why travellers consciously choose to travel in notoriously dangerous areas…”

My answer coming soon.

(Just in case the slant of my sarcasm slipped, let me be clear that the trek — monsoon, mud and all — was absolutely awesome. It´s an mysterious and magical equation that the more you endure, the more you hold dear.)

(sol’s travel photos) (about sol) (some sol stories) (LeapNow.org) (travel disclaimer) (packing list) (photogallery guestbook) (blogger profile) (World Nomads Travel Insurance)