if it be the will

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

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

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

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

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

Insha’Alla. As God wills it.

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

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

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

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

… might very well be birthed by exact same source.

Anicha. As it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

flirting with the other side

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

It only takes one cross-country trip on local transportation in a developing country to learn that in addition to visiting a restroom before departure, it is equally essential to avoid all intakes of fluids and squeezable foods for a good three hours prior.

I have followed my own advice, but it is now late afternoon, and although the heat is giving an admirable shot at challenging this ratio, my body is still made up of an uncontrollable 70% water.

I have to pee. My legs, as well, knock knees against each other in an escalating debate over if they’ve ever been actually capable of extension, or if the idea is only a romanticized memory of a fondly recalled past that never actually existed. My screaming knees and bladder are silenced in a collective hopeful squirm when the taxi slows and pulls off the road alongside a tiny village shaded by Balboa trees.

The driver opens the door and leaves. The rest of the car sleeps. Not a single stir till I shake the taxi in a clumsy crawl forward and over the middle seat. I cannot believe that these six men, all with twice as much cramped leg and numb bum as me, are not moving! While normally I follow the lead of locals, I have no choice but to break file for I am at the command of my body which has as well as put a gun to my head.

“Where are you going?” A sleepy head lifts just long enough to ask me.

“Out. Out. Out. Please open the door.” I say softly but with the haste and determination of the white rabbit.

The taxi has warmed up by 20 degrees without the breeze of 40 miles per hour and I fall out of the car on a final suck of what I imagine to be the last molecule of oxygen in the carbon-filled chamber of air in the taxi. Eventually the men (except for the sick one), casually, and only because it seems there isn’t much better to do, follow.

After I shake my legs and swallow a few fresh breaths of air, I scout my surroundings for the alley that seems most promising of leading to a discrete corner.

I judge by the fact that all the people on shaded porches have turned their chairs and knees to face us, that this is not the typical taxi stop.

Four dark little bodies pile up from behind a tree, heads peaking out, one over the other, with wide white eyes emphasizing piercing curiosity.

Suddenly, the tallest one chirps…

“TOUBAB.”

And then two more follow at the same time,

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

And then the first again and the lowest little head in a squeaky voice chimes in,

“TOUBAB” “toubab!”

And having found their harmony, their heads begin to bob in time to their song, like the little choreographed umpaloompas of Charlie’s chocolate factory:

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

Toubab, by the way, is me.

Specifically it refers to Europeans. Historically, it might have meant “doctor.” Generally it means foreigner. Most commonly, it refers to any white person. And presently, it means me.

And just in case my whiteness was not seen from the few-mile radius from which it is strikingly obvious, I have an attentive little chorus calling me out on it.

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

Along with my knees, I may have once romanticized this adventure in Senegal and can quote myself firsthand, pre-trip, as saying, “How interesting it will be to feel, for the first time, what it is to be a minority!”

Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

I am actually not disturbed at all by this song and dance. And I would only quietly laugh and or play curiously within the dimensions of this attention if it were not for the fact that my thoughts are more concerned with the pressing question of finding a “discrete” corner whilst a vocal audience calls constant attention to my presence.

To my unbelievable luck, a police patrol car pulls off the road and at the congruent pause in the toubab song, I jump at the timely distraction and duck down an alley relatively unnoticed. I find a corner and do my business knowing that the color of my bottom is flashing like a lighthouse beacon to those strolling the horizon a mile away. But at this point, I care far much less for modesty than relief.

———————————————
*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.

…continued bush taxi adventure in Senegal

———————————————
*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.

a brave minority

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

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

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

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

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

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

riding the circulatory system of culture

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

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

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

(to be continually continued)

———————————————
*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 try to hunch into the longer shadows cast by the spotlight. Then I try turning around and searching for some speaker or spectacle that might give me more shade. I quickly realize that all my efforts to remain anonymous are about to abandon me when, my head still turned towards the back of the church, I feel two very eager hands clasp mine with a squeal of recognition. Knowing the inevitable is about to happen, I grab her hands back – “no, no, no, no” – I chant to to the receding tune of my last chance to keep the flag from rising. But I’m too late. One of her hands escapes my desperate grasp, flies into the air, waves my protests away as frantically as she petitions immediate attention;

“La petite fille! La petite fille!”

(“The little girl! The little girl!”)

As if Jesus himself had commanded it, the sea of shadows parts, a bright light blinds me and a microphone the size of a small animal is thrust under me, chest level.

The priest, as unfazed and natural under the eye of national television as he is under the adoring attention of his parishioners, smiles at me. There is a slight surppressed laugh under his grin, and as he knows both me and my story quite well (having found me homeless the day before and offered me a free and cozy room in the church’s youth center for the night), for the camera’s audience and curiosity only does he inquire, “And you pilgrim? Where do you come from?”

(I want to kiss his sweet feet for switching to English!)

Blinking, deer-like, under the camera’s headlights, I answer, “The United States.”

“And where are you walking to?”

“I’m walking to St. Jean Pied De Port.”

“Thank you.” But he relieves me of duty only temporarily because when I find him after mass as we had, earlier, agreed to meet, the cameras are still following him. And as I am his chosen lamb, he waves me over and says, “We’ll eat together, yes, but first, the camera will film you getting your first stamp in your pilgrim’s passport.”

There is little room for negotiating with a priest and so as I am ushered into a backroom, the bright light and furry microphone again attach themselves to me. The news anchor turns on his English as well; “Why do you walk?”

Now I am an introvert, and I write because I hate to talk, especially to the population of France, but I give it a terrible go: “The Camino, for me, is a metaphor for life. It sounds simple, but I walk – because I love to walk.”

This is a very poor summary of the understanding that I consider each step on the path, a day in the life – and that walking is the ultimate practice of presence – not living for a beginning, ending or destination, but a surrender to the simple act of stepping; living.

Whatever. Cameras could care less.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

(Thank god for an easier question!)

“Are you afraid?”

With this question, my faith obliterates the bright light as I, overcome with such confidence that I almost laugh out loud, reply…

“No.”

Later, over coffee, bread, butter and jam, the priest and I realize from where our affinity stems:

After my confession that it has been a very long time since I have been to a mass, he says, “Neither had I spent much time in the church before I chose to become a priest. I travelled for five years around the world and then I walked the Chemin de Saint Jacques. At the end, I came to the inner realization that priesthood was my path.”

To this I question, “But it is exactly my travels that took my religion away! Not brought it to me! I’ve seen so many people, the world over, worship in so many ways, none less sacred than another. So how is it that this same route brought you to yours?”

He shrugs with a smile that hints he knows more, “Each pilgrim has her own path.”

For one second, looking at our matching paths prior, I am scared; What if the same thing happens to me!?

And then with a sigh of sarcastic relief, I laugh at the ignorance and petty discrimination of the Catholic church and say to myself, “I can’t! I’m a woman!”

Phew.

The priest walks me back to the church – where a special staircase is literally RISEN from the floor – and a hidden entrance to the chemin opens the path to pilgrims. With two kisses (as is French custom)from the priest, I am thus blessed, and on my way.

I descend. And, thus, my pilgrimage begins….

———————————————
*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 have no desire for one life partner.”

“I feel most inspired and alive on my own.”

“I don’t believe in marriage (or any other sacrament that needs a government’s stamp of legitimacy).”

There are things that I say that often elicit gasps, hushes, disbelieving “no’s” and disapproving nods. The above statements are such.

For this reason I kept quiet for many years. I took especially serious the comment, “Oh, you’ll grow out of that.”

But you know what I’ve recently realized?

I’m not going to grow out of it; I’ve grown into knowing it; I LOVE being alone!

I love waking up in bed alone. I love walking alone. I love chasing my life path alone. I love making my self-realizations alone. I love owning my accomplishments alone. I love how open I am to all interactions when I’m alone. I love retiring and retreating alone. I love taking responsibility for all my mistakes alone. I love the communion with nature that I find when I’m alone. I love being able to choose when I don’t want to be alone. I love the appreciation for food that I have when I eat alone. I love the quality of space and silence that surround me when I’m alone. I love how sensitive I am to my sources of inspiration when I am alone. I love navigating the solitary space of meditation alone. I love choosing my adventures alone. I love the lightness of being alone. I’m closest to being the person I aspire to be when I’m alone. And I think it’s time for me to come out of the closet on my love of being alone. (Or, maybe, stay in it?)

Maybe I’m unhealthily introverted. Maybe I’m just selfish, shallow and self-absorbed. (I’ve certainly been accused.) Maybe I fear commitment and responsibility. Maybe I’m just naïve. Maybe I’m afraid of people or deep relationships. Maybe I’m avoiding pain. Maybe I’ll never know the depths of truly self-sacrificing love. Maybe I’ll change my mind when I’m old and ugly. Maybe I’m made for the monastery. Maybe I just have cold heart. Maybe. I’ve considered them all, but have decided that these are question marks I’ll take on individually if and when they snake their way into my reality. I’ve learned that dedication to a life of Presence means shelving the “maybes” to a proper place of consideration, but never as justification for a position of inaction.

But I do agree that this attitude might not be healthy if I didn’t like people. Fortunately, I really like people. (In fact it’s often for the very purpose of meeting more people that I love to be alone.) I love people! And anyone who knows me knows this. In fact, many times I have to play down just how much I like people knowing how the way I “enjoy and love” people can sometimes be misinterpreted when transposed upon the laws of love as they have been defined by the greeting card industry. Equally I feel misunderstood when my love is defined by level of attachment. I really appreciate the people in my life who know me intimately enough that I am able to confidently sign my letters with, “Not missing you, but loving you. And knowing you know the difference.”

It amazes me how taboo it is to not be seeking a life partner. It seems like this is simply an unquestionable assumption that defines life progress and accomplishment. The societal conditioning is so thick that the question never has the chance to even arise. And it took me a full quarter of my life to realize, “Wow. The last six years of a solitary life path have been a perfect combination of challenge and inspiration. I feel great right now.” (And since I judge my future to be a perfect reflection of my present), “ So why not another six years? And why not the rest of this lifetime? Just me and you Life. Why not?”

I’m not saying that I’m going to define my future (no, no, no) by this or any other expectation (especially in light of the fact I don’t know much, and what I do know is constantly being looked back upon as being stupid); only that I release another socially constructed ideal and open my life to the very real and exciting possibility of walking, and taking responsibility for, my life path on my own.

The smirk on the face of the divine is inspired by the punch line of one of life’s cutest little pranks; that the minute an individual lets go and finds and centers him/herself freestanding, people seem to suddenly flock to that person. This just makes sense; that people love the essence and lightness of unburdened being and are attracted to those who internally and independently generate (and share) their own energy without dependency or borrowing. So while the advice of, “Find yourself, and then find another,” has a tone of truth, I’d also chime in with, “But if you find your relationship with life a challenging and exciting enough match of wit and emotion, then consider making a commitment to that partnership.”

As for love, I don’t know why, but I think I do feel it — not better or worse — but differently than the majority. Although it rationally makes sense to me; intuitively I simply can not define love by level of attachment, physical presence or time. I have felt the depths of my love plunge when looking into the eyes of people whose names I don’t know. And I’m actually scared by how my love does not flinch at the absence, departure and even decease of those I’ve loved for years. Perhaps it’s because I feel hardly constrained to this one little lifetime; that I’m confident and comforted by the opportunity of many more to reunite and exchange again. Even my romances I take on like sandcastles; mythical, magical little creations to be made with playful aim, but without purpose, and in full blessed consciousness of the crashing waves to which we will inevitably surrender our foundation for a fresh slate; on which we can begin again. And aren’t the waves benevolent? For what they know (but a truth which we often desperately resist), is that there is little joy in a dry and standing sandcastle. The point of a sandcastle is to be made and unmade. And a divine plan indeed has been devised to make this life a colliding and cascading collage of exactly such endless opportunities.

But enough of my rant and ramble; Rumi said it all better in eight little words;

“No better love than love with no object.”

———————————————
*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.

(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!)<
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“Shasta-boy, you’re a handsome dog…from an angle.” – Shasta’s Owner

*****

The last of my sleep wafts away on the gobble of a turkey outside my window.

I start to walk the path back to waking reality and as soon as I become conscious of the road I’m walking, I spin on my heels and run back into my last dream. Some of the visions come back immediately. Others I have to stand and wait patiently at the door (wondering what I’m doing there and if anyone’s home) before they silently and slowly open by the hand of my subconscious accord. When my mind is sufficed with its collection of memories from last night’s mental vacation, I open my eyes.

I pull my pen and journal off my nightstand and jot down the captions to my night visions.

I sit up and cross my legs — American legs, Indian arranged — and salute Truth with a Namaste (“I recognize the divine in you.”) greeting to That Which Inspires my thoughts, intuitions and visions. I soak into the silence and find the place where I feel my insides peeling away from the outside. And there I simply sit. Suspended in my soul; Buoyant in my being.

****

I Namaste the Divine again and finally stretch back into my body. Shasta has heard my wakening rumble and runs to the foot of my bed. He points his nose down at my feet and looks at me from the curious corner of his eyes asking permission to lick my toes. I smile my consent and his tail curls up in a whipping white circle of its own excited 360 degree smiles. He saturates my feet in his saliva. He then tugs on the foot of my pajama pants as I slip on my flip-flops and grab my house keys.

As I cross the studio apartment I take delight in the sound of my shoes sweeping across the wooden floor. So I add a couple of foot-notes with a some salsa steps and spins. Shasta springs onto his hind legs in his desire to dance too and I note the musical addition of his clicking toenails.

*****

Shasta hops down the stairs in front of me, pausing on every step to make sure that I am only one behind. “Attached Love,” I define to myself and chuckle.

I step outside. The sun is brave today. The overcast mornings that it usually wears during the dry season have been left in the closet, and it steps out in the gleaming colors that it usually reserves for the “winter” holidays. I rise up on my toes, close my eyes and lean in to receive my warm morning kiss. I wave of goosebumbing joy craws over my skin. This is definitely a partner I can wake up to every morning. I nod my re-agreement to the sun, “till death do us part.”

*****

“Shaw-shaw!”

“Shaw-shaw!”

The neighbors call over in a language that can’t be bothered with English pronunciation.

“Shaw-shaw!”

They wave the dog and I over.

Shasta’s small rump wags in full circles in a desperate attempt to catch up with his erratic tail. The neighbors all pat his back and repeat his name to his ecstatic delight. They all laugh out loud and say to me, “You know that this dog doesn’t understand Spanish?! An Ecuadorian dog! That doesn’t know Spanish! Have you ever seen such a thing!”

I hear their laughing trail off behind me as I make my way to the market. I cross the street, but turn around when I hear the heel of an angry hand on a horn to see Shasta in a perfect squat in the middle of the street and a red faced taxi driver sign language-ing his hysteria over the situation.

“Shasta! Venga!”

But his furrowed brow tells me that this is a matter beyond language barriers. And in consideration of the parasite inspired dysentery of which he has a case, I give my best “sorry about my dog sir” shrug and wait patiently for duty to be done.

*****

At the local market I stroll through rainbow towers of fruits, vegetables and small animals. I am certainly the only gringo in the market and me, my pajama pants with snowmen on them, and my funny dog that doesn’t speak Spanish are easy destinations for wandering eyes.

I settle on a shop run by a woman who I know from experience can’t be bothered with ripping gringos off. I select a Shasta-sized papaya and give her 30 cents. I offer her my burlap sack to drop it into and she laughs. She tells me she’s never seen a gringo come to the market with a burlap sack before. She wants to take a picture of it. We both laugh and I swing the bag over my shoulder and say goodbye.

*****

While preparing breakfast I hear the door downstairs unlock and open. All the other volunteers have gone to the city for a convention, but I know the only other person who has the spare key to the house.

“You know, you’re driving me NUTS with these questions!” I hear echo from the hallway over heavy steps.

“Good morning Steffan. What questions?”

In his Danish accent he continues, “You know. These questions about the meaning of your life, my life, and all life. All these things that you keep talking about. I really don’t know how you can live your life this way. It’s just too intense to question life so much. You know, I would call you an intense person…but I usually reserve that term for people who overwhelm me. And I don’t feel overwhelmed by you. But how can you life your life like this? All these questions? How will you ever find the answers?”

I open up the coffee jar and drink in the deepness of the dark roast. Then I turn to him and say, “Steffan, I don’t care about the answers. I’m interested in the search itself.”

He shakes his head at me with frustration.

“Hum. We I have to go to work. I just came over to leave my organic waste in your compost bin and tell you that you’re driving me crazy. So. Do you want to have coffee later?”

I smile and agree.

*****

While crossing the street on the way to the bus stand I suddenly hear horrific howling behind me.

I turn around and see Shasta whimpering wildly at a paw that was just run over by a bicycle. With his three good legs he hops to where I stand on the street corner, crawls between my legs and continues to yelp out the enormity of his painful paw. I crouch low and hold him till his whine whimpers out. I notice that many pairs of feet have congregated around me and think that I hear them talking again about how the dog doesn’t understand Spanish, until I realize that they are not talking about Shasta, but about ME.

I turn my attention upwards and declare,“I speak Spanish.”

The startled crowd jumps back at my unexpected smile of comprehension.

“Who are you? What are you doing? Is this your dog? What’s its name?”

The children in the crowd come forward and a half dozen pairs of small hands begin to pet Shasta. His sad eyes lift in excitement of all the options presented to lick and he miraculously puts weight on his injured paw in order to give a full body turn to allow all his new admirers a proper pet.

I suddenly grasp how entirely odd I must look. For not only am I dragging two enormous rice sacks full of empty two-liter plastic bottles, but I also have empty milk jugs hanging from my backpack and a machete in my hand. And I’m a gringo. Actually. I’m a gringa. And in Latin America, a girl alone (let alone a North American one carrying a machete) is ALWAYS a crowd-worthy curiosity.

“His name is Shasta. He’s not my dog. He belongs to a girl I live with. I’m a volunteer with Planet Drum. I’m carrying all this stuff because I’m using these things to plant trees.”

One of the men in the crowd nods his head wisely in agreement and explains to the rest of the crowd that he knows our house, where it is, and who else lives there. (Because this IS the business of people living in small towns: to know everyone and everything.)

“Ahhh. She’s a volunteer. She plants trees,” they all turn around and inform those standing behind them.

*****

The bus is full. I manage to squeeze into a small space near the front passenger seat behind the folding entrance door. As I sit down I glance through the window and see a girl and immediately return the warm smile she sends me. Or did I smile first? And then I realize that the window in the folding door is not in fact a window, but a mirror.

I lean closer to the mirror and look for the fleeting vision of myself as not-myself. I know it’s hidden behind a layer of dirt, but did I really just not recognize my own face? I shake my head in unison with the girl in the mirror. We are one again. The bus driver motions for me to put my machete on the floor and asks me where “Shaw-Shaw” is today.

*****

I make a stop at a construction site where a canal is being built. I ask for the foreman and the workers tell me that he’ll return in twenty minutes. I don’t have to look at my watch because I know that the effort is useless. “Twenty minutes” in Latin America can span anywhere from twenty seconds to twenty days. Time consciousness is not valued in the culture. And I note that neither is efficiency as I watch a dozen men watch one in their group break up concrete with a single sledgehammer. The American in me cringes. And then I cringe at the American in me.

I sit down next to a donkey tied to a light post. I watch him dig into a large heap of powdered cement. I can’t imagine what smell could survive the smother of cement powder, but he digs, and digs. And then he looks at me, curls his lips above his teeth, strains his neck into the air, and belches out the most comic cry of life absurdity relief. I nod my head in agreement.

A burly yellow tractor excavating the canal passes me. The driver watches me scribble notes onto a paper pad, and then puts the machine into neutral. He jumps out of his seat, traveling a good five feet to the ground, and walks over to me. Without a flinch of hesitation, he takes the notepad out of my hand. He cocks his head, tries to read it, and then looks at me.

“It’s in English.” I confirm.

“What are you writing about,” he states more than questions.

“I’m writing about what I think,” I reply.

“Humph,” he manages and tosses the notepad back at me, turns around, climbs back up the tractor and proceeds.

An hour later, the foreman approaches me. I tell him that I’m a volunteer working on a reforestation project and that we are in need of bamboo poles to help us with our dry season irrigation system. I ask him if he has any old ones that could be donated. He asks me how old I am and if I’m single. I consciously footnote how accustomed I have become to the sexual under-over-and-obviously-on-tones of every interaction I make with a Latino man. I ignore his questions (as I do most of the kind) and hand him an example irrigation pipe. He tells me he’ll deliver the pipes to our house in the afternoon and leans forward for a “customary” cheek kiss. I step back, let the American in me step forward, and offer a handshake.

*****

I open the tarp to the greenhouse and step inside as a few butterflies make their excited escape. I inhale deeply and wonder what it is about the smell of soil that makes my insides smile. I walk around and touch the delicate leaves of the small plants. I try to remember each of their names as I go; Guachapeli, Guayacaan, Fernan Sanchez, Colorado, Agraobo, but I can’t identify the one with the white veins on the leaf. I note to myself to look it up when I get home.

I dump out the plastic two-liter bottles and begin sawing off their tops with my machete. Although the other volunteers never bother with it, I also strip the bottles of their labels. I imagine the marketing department of Coca Cola frowning in disgust as I free the plants’ future potters from a branded identity. What a shameful marketing major I am.

I inspect a small Guachapeli whose roots have outgrown its small bag and have broken straight through the plastic constraints to gasp and grasp for life in the ground outside of its container. I carefully dig up the ground around it, free its fleeing roots, and lift it up to the sky. I smile and say, “How similar we are young Guachapeli,” (Because this is what I do, you see; Have silent conversations with everything. And I’m over being shy about it.)

I put some nutrient rich soil into the two-liter bottle, slice open the bag of the Guachapeli and with the care of a heart surgeon, transplant the small tree its new home. “It’s not the wild, but you are still in need of special care until you are of suitable size and we have found you a suitable place. Here you can build your strength. Because you’re going to need it when you’re ready for the wild.” I top the plant with more new soil. And as I do so, I wonder what it is about the feel of soil that makes my insides sigh.

*****

The late afternoon light is my favorite. It has the color of warm toast and the feel of softened butter. And it is this light that casts itself like as a slide of soft light through our front windows asking if I’d like to play.

I push our brown leather chair to the hopscotch sun squares on the floor and open up the large windows. The wind exhales upon my entire upper body and I can smell the strong flavor of the ocean on its breath. I inhale deeply and fall into my chair.

There is nothing. Absolutely nothing. I could ask more of this day, this life.

I open Ralph Waldo Emerson and on the slide of afternoon light, fall into his words:

“If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how men would believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the of City of God which had been shown.”

*****

To be continued.
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Solbeam & Honeybee

*I LOVE this girl!*

Shaking down the Xela salsa dance floor in 5 days AND counting….

(Pictures coming)

Ah…it seems my “every mile was a joy” brag (of the Camino Santiago) just got a kick in the kilometer ass.

For walking BACKWARDS along the Camino Portuguese means that for ever 20 kilometers I walk FORWARD, I walk 6 kilometers in circles or backtracking to find the right path….(b/c the person with the blue paint bucket was a bit of daydreamer also and forgot to mark half the turns in the path.)

But alas, it is only the 3rd day of my Southbound skip, and I will quickly learn the rules of the new game. And the path is brilliantly beautiful!!! And I own it all to my sweet self…not a single other pilgrim in the peripheral. Although I do have to go through this script every 20 minutes;

“A donde vas?! Santiago esta por alla!” (“Where are you going?! Santiago is the other way!”)

“Si. Yo se. Me voy a Fatima.” (“Yes. I know. I´m going to Fatima.”)

“Y de donde vienes?” (“And from where do you come?)

“De Francia” (“From France.”)

“ANDANDO?!….de Francia?!” (“WALKING?! From France?!”)

“Y Estas sola?!” (“And you are alone?!”)

“Si. Sola.” (“Yes. Alone.”)

“Y no tienes miedo?!” (“And you aren´t afraid?!”)

“No. No tienes miedo.” (“No. I´m not afraid.”)

(Old Spanish woman/man then throws hands in air and shakes them.)

“DIOS mio. MADRE de Jesus. Esta chica ES loca!”

Well yes. I AM a bit crazy. But it isn´t necessary to alert God and Mary to this fact. They already know .

I have no map and, in general, there exists VERY little information on the Camino Portuguese, (and nothing on a “pilgrimage to Fatima”) — so I just assumed the blue arrows on the back of the yellow ones were indicating the path for pilgrims returning from Santiago to Portugal.

Well one very happy tear was shed when I found this sign yesterday:

Dios mio! Madre de Jesus! *throws hands in the air* Did you know there are now 700 pictures in the Camino de Santiago Photo Album?! See the ocean here.

I think it´s time to start a new album…

*a gennie wink*

The “Pilgrimage to Fatima” photo album is now open.