Category Archives: stupid me

curvy

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“So where are the peanuts?”

That’s probably your question.

And it was mine as well as I waded through a knee-deep sea of weeds toward slumped shadows seeking refuge, from a strong Senegal afternoon sun, in the shade of a Balbao tree.

A moment earlier, the bush taxi had stopped and the dust of the dirt road mushroomed in delight of catching up to the car. Mbouille, late for the class he was to teach in the rural school, had only time to stretch a long arm out the window and point, “Those are the peanut farmers. I told them you wanted to work with them for a day, so they know you’re coming. I’ll see you at lunch? Have fun!” The taxi lurched and the dust took to chase again.

Now I bring a hand up to my forehead and squint in an attempt to better define the shadows under the tree: two men, one bigger, one smaller, both casually watching me back and guessing at my own outline.

As I approach the tree, it reaches a kind branch out to block the glare of the sun and this has the effect of turning on a light. When I enter the shade walls brimming the house of the Balboa, my hosts barely move. The older man is leaning his relaxed body against a type of shovel, chewing something slowly in his mouth, and there is no pause indicating that my arrival has been noted. He just looks at me and chews. The other does not move either, but his eyes, filled with youthful curiosity, betray him. I’m not an accurate judge of age in countries other than my own, but my guess would put him somewhere in the mid-teens. I wonder if his identical response to my arrival is mimicked or inherited.

The older man shifts his weight from the shovel to his legs and the boy, less suspicious of the stranger than his superior, is excited by the permission to move. They both take a step towards me. I say my Senegalese name and reach out a hand. The older man says his name, puts the shovel into my open hand, and walks out the shade-door of the Balboa.

No longer under supervision, the boy smiles a toothy grin and tries out three lines of surprisingly good English. I compliment him on his language skills and he shrugs embarrassedly. I respond by confirming that he speaks more languages than me (Wolof, French and English) and this makes him blush and kick the dirt.

I squint outside the shade of the Balboa tree and ask, “So where are the peanuts?”

The boy looks at me blank. He calls to the older man in Wolof, who turns around and gives me the same incredulous look. Then the man waves for me to take the few steps out from under the tree to join him. He takes the shovel from my hand, gives it an expert shove just under the dirt beneath the weeds that were just scratching up my shins, and turns up the roots, along with a jumble of dusty and curvy nuts, right upon my feet.

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

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senegal circling

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An anthem by birds replaces that of the night bugs as sun floods my room and scrambles my eyes and ears to snappy attention. The walls of my world spin only for a moment before I remember…

“Senegal! I’m in Senegal!”

Untangle from the sheet, search for the seam in the mosquito net, escape the tent, slip into clothing, sneak out the door, silent steps up the stairs, through a creaky door – and catch the sun tiptoeing its own way up the horizon and over Senegal…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TtJZ7JhHz1s]

I’m so excited to have a perch from which I can inconspicuously watch that I do rotations around the roof, excited by the spy of the most mundane; colorfully-clad women expertly balancing baskets or basins on their heads, bare-boned horses drawing equally rickety carts, sauntering men shaking hands and exchanging animated greetings, small gangs of siblings scavenging for wheels, balls, string and anything else that might function for the purpose of play.

After fully scoping my surroundings, I draw out my mental plan of day-attack. It’s not particularly courageous or sneaky but much more simply: “Get local currency. Find local market.” And yet these simple tasks still inspire a small tremble of stomach stomping nerves.

I skid down the stairs and into the kitchen and try all my French greetings on the cook who, after politely and patiently listening, explains to me that he’s from Ghana and English is his first language.

Oh.

One of the American journalists from the house finally stumbles down the stairs, rubbing his eyes and yawning morning’s greetings. I attack him with a barrage of obvious-answer questions and he is only slightly (and rightfully) appalled at my too-early, over-eagerness. If not amused, he is still patient and handles me like he would an overexcited puppy. When I ask for his help in putting into action my intricate, double-objective day plan, he waves a hand and says, “just take the driver.” But I insist that walking is more my mission than the destinations, and to this he flutters his eyes at me but still kindly consents to my requests for hand-sketched maps.

And so with these maps folded up in my pockets, and covered modestly from arm to ankle as the Islamic culture requires, I shake hands with all the guards as they unlock the door, wave goodbye with huge grins, and wish me a happy day’s adventures.

Once out the door, I’m hesitant to look at the directions in my pocket thinking, ridiculously, that more than my glaring white skin, it will be the maps that will identify me as a stranger. Spontaneously, I ignore all my instructions; instead following the scent of a salty wind, in the direction of the sea that I spotted at sunrise, having learned from experience, that my most reliable compass is a coastline.

But as is the custom of dependence on anything too comfortable, I find myself suddenly turning circles on sign-less streets, having lost the scent of sea, and hearing a voice in the back of my head having a rather hearty laugh at me. I wander down dusty paths, through rubble-stacked alleys, past row upon row of tarp-covered abodes, peeking back discreetly at the eyes peeking, through glassless-windows and doorless-doorways, at me. I pretend to walk purposefully as I wander down the streets and panic only for a minute when I take account of my resources and realize that I left the house without a phone number or physical address. Leaving without a phone number, I admit, wasn’t bright. The address part, however, I requested twice from my host to which he finally replied, “Address? No. It doesn’t work like that here. There is no house address. It doesn’t exist.”

So I amble, with confident stride, for over an hour, and give thanks all the while, that if I’m sweating any anxiety, it’s conveniently masked incognito by the heat of a tropically aligned sun. Finally I spot a lot of taxi drivers and, remembering an echo of words putting their place somewhere just off the border of my map, with relief realize that while I’m far from home, at least I now know its general direction.

With no hesitation now, I blatantly unfold my map from its twisted and damp form wetted by my anxious and clammy hands. I excitedly recognize my direction, swivel on my heels, and make haste homeward.

By the time I return, two hours have passed. When I walk through the gate, the author of my map greets me, “Oh there you are! I was just starting to wonder about you. Did you find the bank? And the ocean? And the market?”

When I tell him, no, no and no, he looks at me incredulously but politely excuses my absurdity, shakes his head and says, “I told you to take the driver.”

My misadventures under extreme midday heat have exhausted me, so I stumble up the stairs, into the bed, and fall asleep. When the sun has passed its most violent hours, and the shadows have grown long and bearable, I stumble back down the stairs. This time I ask for a phone number and scribble it down along with little clarifications on the corners marked within my map.

“Really? You’re going to go at it again?”

With resolve, I shove the edited map into my pocket, grab a mesh market bag, and insist, to him as much as to myself, that I can do it. And out the gate I go again.

Turning right at the dirt field, keeping the swampy pond of stagnant water to my left, crossing a paved main street, passing the hair cutting stalls, to the main taxi drop-off turnabout, crossing towards the bakery, following the traffic to town, I finally find an ATM. I do some fast but poor math and pull out too little money. And then I pass the market indicated on my map, but find another that is smaller but still suits my shopping list. I decide to count these both as successes. For a few bonus points, I even manage to haggle, in French, with the women working the stalls along the street and, with quicker and correct calculation, fill an additional bag with fresh fruit.

When I return to the house, arms loaded with the evidence of my mission accomplished, I am happy for the pats of praise I have earned, “Well. Look at you. Looks like you managed after all.” As I grin happily and drop all my groceries on the kitchen table he puts a hand into the bag and pulls out a plain glass jar with a loose lid and handmade sticker, “What’s this?” he asks me as he holds it up for closer examination.

“Peanut butter,” I state.

He shoots a shocked look of perplex at me, “What? Peanut butter? I had no idea peanut butter was sold here. I’ve been having my family send shipments from the States!”

And it is this comment that I smile over and consider my final success of the day.

(to be continually continued again)

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

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nutty

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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…

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

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toubab umpaloompas

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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.

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reading and misreading the languages between

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…continued bush taxi adventure in Senegal

A “sept place” taxi is called, “seven places” for the most obvious reason: it has seven seats for passengers; two rows in the back seating three to each and space for one riding shotgun.

The taxi’s exact time of departure is when the seventh passenger has paid his portion of the fare, squeezed himself over the middle row of passengers and positioned himself into the fetal position required of the middle seat in the back row.

But we’re not there yet. I’m the third passenger – which means I’ve assured myself two things: a coveted window seat and a considerable wait. The four we are waiting for could be sipping milk tea at home or even still in bed. They are due anytime between now and nightfall and so I sigh, rest my two elbows against the hood of the taxi, and relax my posture into a stance of patience. I take this opportunity to stare back at those staring at me.

Mbouille has given me fair warning of the man who’s claimed the seat next to mine, “He speaks a little English; I hope he won’t bother you too much.”

The man he referred to is now puckering his lips and squinting his eyes at me; real, imagined or projected, I feel myself raked over in a round of judgment. I pretend to ignore this intangible intrusion and focus on another man leaning casually against the taxi. He’s lean and tall with a delicate gaze; his eyes travel lightly over his surroundings — if touching, only gently so — and at all times keeping respectable distance.

I volley my eyes between the two men because I find my reactions to them to be surprisingly distinct; scrunching my eyebrows, then softening them, crossing my arms, then relaxing them, puckering my own lips, then relieving them, putting my chin up into the air, then cocking it crookedly with curiosity. How is it, that I can have such strong receptions to people with whom I haven’t yet even shared a word?

I often kick myself around for catching myself in the act of making exactly such snap judgments. And if the lean man were not providing such a stable reference point, I probably would have issued just such a humbling self-blow. But because both men are locals, I feel myself empowered by the observation that it may indeed extend beyond cultural misinterpretation that I feel distinctly different intuitive inclinations on how to maneuver the space between each.

The puckering man approaches me and I feel my arms cross themselves in a preemptive show of defense. Even though I’m conscious of it, I have no control over this reaction. I try to relax my arms but I can’t. I have only a second to confront my own body language and wonder who exactly, within me, is taking control before he interrupts this conversation…

“What’s your name? What country are you from? Are you married? Can you help me get a visa to your country?”

“Maimuna Diallo. United States. Yes. No.”

His approach is a standard one that I’ve encountered enough times to have learned not to take either too seriously or lightly. And normally I don’t lie about my marital status. It was actually a subliminal accident that my simple silver band found its way from my right to left hand ring finger. And perhaps because I’m in a predominantly Islamic country, I have become just enough less-approachable to make that ring comfortable there. (Quite fairly though, I move rings to the appropriate toes indicating the same marital status when I next go to India.)

Ever entertained by watching the language of other bodies, again I take note as my own repositions itself to face away from his. My eyes, reluctant to return investment in the continuation of the conversation, feign interest in the peanuts in a basket of a merchant.

The man looks around, looks at his watch, looks around again and continues, “why don’t you pay for the remaining spots in the taxi; you have money.”

Let me just say first, that I’m embarrassed of my reaction to this question; looking back upon it, and within the context of a culture where resources are continually shared and expected to be redistributed with fairness, this request might even make logical sense. After all, I do have money. Not by my standards. But certainly by a global standards. However, I give no credit to this thought at the time.

No. Instead, I get mad. Something about this man pushes my offensive button and I hear my voice raising as I do my best to string my (limited) French vocabulary into something mean, “What? What does that mean? Why do you say that? Do you think I am only money? You talk to me without respect. It’s terrible.”

He’s unfazed.

He looks around the market, looks at me again, notices my cell phone for the first time, and says, “Give me your phone number.”

At this I throw up my arms, turn to the latest arrival and ask him if he would like my window seat, crawl into taxi, slam the door closed, and retreat to the corner of the back seat.

My parents will recognize this girl easily, for I have resorted to my door-slamming, 16-year old self. It’s an embarrassing fit, of which I pull my hat down over my face in recall.

The lean man — who has witnessed this whole show and still reclines against the taxi – smiles with amusement. He reaches into his pocket, extends his hand to me through the window and offers me a stick of gum. He scrunches up his nose with a half smile, and with a single shake of his head, instructs me to blow it off.

I relax, take the gum, smile my appreciation and follow his wise advice.

********************************************

I do recognize that I’m going to need to pick up the pace on this story as it’s still sunrise and this taxi rides till 10:00pm.

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

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sacred ego stomping

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The Sacred Lake Namtso

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway…

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

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

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

We continue the circumambulation and approach a cave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But my 10.0 landing is not received how I expected.

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

My students’ response is a bit more practical…

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

In my delirium, I am slow…

“What sacred rock?”

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

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

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

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

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

The students and I wait.

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

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


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

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

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peace of pun

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>New Pictures in the Ecuador Album

A bus ride across Ecuador will leave anyone aspiring to be a National Geographic photographer, as you don’t need a talented eye to see or appreciate the vibrant visions that cast themselves through this country’s rollercoaster of mountains, volcanoes and valleys. I’m not a big fan of superlatives, but I hereby give Ecuador my highest mark and star as the country owning, “the best bus ride” of all my worldly travels.

And I would know, seeing as I just finished a 30-hour sit on a cross-country trip.

Of course, it doesn’t actually TAKE 30 hours to traverse the entire of Ecuador. Not unless you sleep through your stop and wake up in the Eastern Oriente, 16 hours out of your way, anyway.

So was it the way my hair had suddenly sprung into ringlets (climate change) that gave me my clue that I wasn’t on my way to the city anymore? Or the mud and gravel road and bushy hands of thick rain forest trying to reach through my window to shake me to attention? Or the way the patrol officer raised one confused and curious eyebrow when he shook me awake for a brief moment to answer his inquiry and I told him I was on my way “TO” Quito?

No. I’m pretty sure it was when the bus driver discovered me under a blanket in the back seat of the bus and said, “Ah Gringita! I didn’t know you were still here! I thought you wanted to go to Quito! You know we stopped there eight hours ago?”

Yes. That’s about when it dawned on me.

So I stumbled out of the bus and sat on the curb and watched my 4th consecutive sunrise in four days (I get an inch of credit in consideration of the fact that prior to my “nap” of consciousness to the obvious, I hadn’t slept for 40 hours) rise over the North Eastern Oriente of Ecuador. And suddenly, something else started to rise inside of me. It started as a low tickle in my stomach, and then gurgled into a rising giggle, jumped out of my mouth as leaping laugh and finally hurdled me into a mass of hiccupping hysterics.

And sure the situation was funny, but this was a bottle that I had been — in taking myself (and life) all too seriously — shaking for weeks. And in this breaking moment, the comedy of life finally uncorked, I had no choice but to absolutely explode in relief. Oh to laugh at myself! To smile upon my mistakes. To chuckle over my insecurities. To see the unsuspected curves in my path as nothing but terribly needed comic relief! And as I sighed and wiped the last tears of joy from my cheeks, peace overcame me.

I think sometimes we forget how important it is to forgive, have compassion, practice undefended love, and LAUGH at ourselves. Life will be a drama if we allow it, but incognito, underneath, lays always a divine comedy. And I’m so happy that I can be confident that if I ever get too caught up to get the pun and punch lines of living, then Life WILL go the extra 500 miles to redeliver them — until I do.

(If you missed hearing about the time I got on the wrong PLANE, feel free to laugh again with me in my story of “Adventure Incognito.”)

*****

Sitting one day on a cliff to the sea

Opened from the sky and fell from above a small key

Unlocking the divine in one single beam

A path to the source of all light, love and being

Opened old, closed and dusty love doors

Swung suddenly wide open, where now the wind blows

Let finally out to breathe in a breeze,

On which all things and persons can now come as they please

(sol’s travel photos)&nbsp(about sol)&nbsp(some sol stories)&nbsp(LeapNow.org)&nbsp(travel disclaimer)&nbsp(packing list)&nbsp (photogallery guestbook)&nbsp (blogger profile)

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Foiled Fake Frenchie

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I speak photo-French, which means I can give a variety of commands directing a person into any number of positions and poses — and then ask them, “how would you like to pay for that.” French that is not likely to be of use to me anywhere outside of Club Med or the Paris red light district.

And while I UNDERSTAND much of what people are asking and saying to me, I simply haven’t the vocabulary to respond. 50% of the time my response to French questions is “oui” (pronounced “we”) — which means “yes.” And the other 50% of the time my response is “ouais” (pronounced “whey”) — which means “yeah.” And for some reason, 90% of the time, the questioning Frenchie smiles, nods and walks away *seemingly* content. I, confident that my ruse has not been revealed, am similarly content.

But alas, sometimes the fake frenchie is foiled.

Yesterday, as often happens, a mini-frenchie of about seven years of age came up to me and tugged on my pant leg and rattled off a series of “coma la ley loo, la ley lou voo” questions to which I patted her on the head, gave her a confident smile and continuously answered each question with “ouais” or “oui.”

“Oh la la!” she pronounced and bounced off about her business, as I did mine.

Ten minutes later, the little French fry returned followed by a small crowd of French parental figures and a long line of questions, of which, even I, in my limited knowledge of the language, recognized as anything but “photo” related.

I tried out “oui ” a couple of times.

And then I tried out “ouais” a few times.

And exhausting my options, I finally sighed, and asked the group if anyone spoke English.

“Uh zittle bit, yes. My daughter…zee zays that you zold her that you are zee famous actress. That you have been in many movie. Iz diez true? Zhe zays zou told her all zhis.”

My explanation of myself was so disgraceful, I need not even describe it here, except to maybe note that more than one French nose was turned up at me.

Aw well. I guess it’s a good thing I’m out of here next week and on to countries where I won’t be so easily recognized as the famous French actress that I am. :)

And speaking of my Spanish Expedition…it has evolved!

After arrival and exploration of Madrid, I will be re-locating to Sevilla — where the sun is shining strongest on Spain at this time of year. And in May, I have decided to take the one month pilgrimage walking across Northern Spain known as “El Camino de Santiago.” More details coming, as they are discovered….

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a bad act

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Me? Travel without a digital camera? Like a fish outta watter, I choked on the views until I got to Sydney and *re*purchased the Dimage X for a tidy $150 US more than I paid for it in the States. This is, specifically, the 9th digital camera I’ve owned in the last four years; 3 upgraded to better cams, 2 stolen from bandits, 1 returned to the company, 1 broken in a monsoon, 1 removed at gunpoint…..and a partriiidge iiiiiinn a peaaaar tree.

Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. A little love affair that I’ve promised my soul a return to. Just need a little patience to allow the universe to conspire to bring me back. And THEN I’ll give my full report.

Until then, I’ve posted some faces and places in the new Australia Album….

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp

Sydney, Byron Bay & Brisbane: The First Photo Round of the OZ Album

On the immigration entrance cards for every country there is a spot where you are to write in your “occupation.” Having had to fill out over 25 of these cards over the last two years, and in the name of boredom, creativity AND confusion (after all, what DO I do?), I’ve grown quite comfortable with writing in “magician” into that space. Of course, most immigration officials never call me on it. But…

…upon my entrance to Thailand, the attendant lifted his head and asked…”You’re in the entertainment industry?”

I, forgeting my mark, looked at him and replied, “excuse me?”

He held up the form and pointed to my hand written word “magician” in the occupation blank.

“It says here you are a magician. Are you a magician?” He repeated.

I smiled, tucked my right thumb into my fist and my left thumb under my forefinger, put them together and showed him my thumb splitting in half.

He looked at my thumb straightfaced, and then at me, shook his head, stamped my passport and called “NEXT!” to the person in line behind me.

Me and my thumbs made a quick exit.

The occupation blank on my Australian immigration form reads, “Alchemist.”

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bad act

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Me? Travel without a digital camera? Like a fish outta watter, I choked on the views until I got to Sydney and *re*purchased the Dimage X for a tidy $150 US more than I paid for it in the States. This is, specifically, the 9th digital camera I’ve owned in the last four years; 3 upgraded to better cams, 2 stolen from bandits, 1 returned to the company, 1 broken in a monsoon, 1 removed at gunpoint…..and a partriiidge iiiiiinn a peaaaar tree.

Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. A little love affair that I’ve promised my soul a return to. Just need a little patience to allow the universe to conspire to bring me back. And THEN I’ll give my full report.

Until then, I’ve posted some faces and places in the new Australia Album….

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp

Sydney, Byron Bay & Brisbane: The First Photo Round of the OZ Album

On the immigration entrance cards for every country there is a spot where you are to write in your “occupation.” Having had to fill out over 25 of these cards over the last two years, and in the name of boredom, creativity AND confusion (after all, what DO I do?), I’ve grown quite comfortable with writing in “magician” into that space. Of course, most immigration officials never call me on it. But…

…upon my entrance to Thailand, the attendant lifted his head and asked…”You’re in the entertainment industry?”

I, forgeting my mark, looked at him and replied, “excuse me?”

He held up the form and pointed to my hand written word “magician” in the occupation blank.

“It says here you are a magician. Are you a magician?” He repeated.

I smiled, tucked my right thumb into my fist and my left thumb under my forefinger, put them together and showed him my thumb splitting in half.

He looked at my thumb straightfaced, and then at me, shook his head, stamped my passport and called “NEXT!” to the person in line behind me.

Me and my thumbs made a quick exit.

The occupation blank on my Australian immigration form reads, “Alchemist.”

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