Category Archives: travel (uncategorized)

life asanas

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Ladakhi Childrens' Drawings of "Home"

BY ALL APPEARANCES, my backpack is stiff with stagnancy. But my absence belies. For all the spiritual journeys and cross-road training I imagined myself on in my 20′s – I now get that it’s all training-wheels. Just as my frequent flier miles have incidentally bumped me to first class this year – so have the mantras and world views accumulated from my travels in the East resurfaced with ready rigor now that I find myself on the razor’s edge of experiential understandings of life and death. Friends, do not play off your travels as youthful whims. The mental muscles and spiritual flexibility exercised and earned will prepare you for the inevitable life asanas that no yogi, no matter how recluse, can escape.

To all those that donate blood and platelets – I want you to know that I think about you. I wonder what your motivations were. Did you once spend nights in ER rooms like me? Watching your father wither in delirious discomfort knowing that the only thing keeping all those terrible hospital monitors beeping is that maroon bag of blood seeping another few weeks of life back into his marrow? I think about you. And I thank you. For the bonus birthday party. For the extra egg-hunt. For one more trip to the beach or the Bonneville dam to watch the spring season of salmon swim up riverbed stairs.

All the while, new life in my belly kicks reminders that he is here, and he wants stories; especially those behind my tears. And so I whisper to him about the cycle of death and life – and of the fairness of it all. My words are as much a comfort to myself as to the spirit that chose me, my body and my path, to ride into this world. He understands, as all those closer to the spirit world do. And he knows, just as he starts turning cartwheels like clockwork when his father walks in the door and immediately makes his mother do the one thing she does better than anything else: laugh. Belly laughs, belly babies, and belly-talking dads, go well together.  How grateful I am to this 6-month old spirit for the balance he’s already brought to my life. I had my suspicions, and now I get to learn the fact for myself. It’s easier. Putting others before yourself. Putting the exhaust of self-centeredness to rest. My first lesson in motherhood.

China last week. Oregon this week. Costa Rica next week. And Mexico the following. I thought getting married would slow me down. Then I thought, surely, pregnancy would. I could say baby would – but those would be poor odds, now, wouldn’t they?

Writing is healing for me. It’s also composting, seeding and harvesting for me. It’s spring – and my gardens need tilling. Can’t promise you that I’m not talking about my real gardens and not the metaphorical writing one. But I’ll try my best to attend to both. ;)

sol

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moutain thoughts

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I’m back from the Himalayas!

It’s been three weeks, so give me a minute to gather myself, upload photos and compose my mountain top thoughts…

peace,

sol

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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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Footprints in Peru, Day 9: romancing pachamama

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a community service project sponsored by World Nomads

After a night of tossing through below-freezing temperatures, the sun finally rises. And as I peer out of my tent to watch it chase away the shadows, melt the frost and fill our valley with fuzzy light and flushing warmth – I clearly understand, and immediately convert to, worship of the Incan sun god, Inti.

Watching the clouds traverse the sky, I come to the slow conclusion that I have no idea what day, date or time it is. I only know that the light is golden, the shadows heavy, and the sky clear; my first, second and third clock hands all pointing at the precise time of, “morning.”

When given the rare opportunity, Nature quickly reassumes her authority over my senses, replacing my watch with new, but natural alarm clocks like, “wake when the light opens your eyes” and “eat when your stomach sounds for it,” and “sleep when the sky shuts its lids.” After only a few days in the Andes, I can already feel my umbilical cord to the revered and worshiped, pachamama (mother earth) tugging me closer. Can I imagine the implications of being born here in the mountains: feet accustomed always to being bare upon the earth, life dependent on what yields the seasons fancy, years measured by the movement of my earth among the stars. No I can’t imagine. But I can intuitively understand. I understand that when the earth is your god, its elements and inhabitants are its messengers. And it makes sense to me that the people of Quelqanqa spend endless hours embedding the intricate outlines of suns, moons, pumas, condors, eagles, humming birds, serpents and jaguars into their shawls, scarves and skirts.

They say that even the language, Quechua, derives from the sounds of nature. And my ears attuned, finally, to the silence in which all mountains whisper, I too hear the voice of the river scouting the fastest route south, the wind blindly winding its way through the passes, the odd beeping talk of llamas and alpacas shouting warnings to each other, and the Andean condors silently swooping while the finches bounce their calls of mountain walls.

For me, it is this devotion to pachamama that distinguishes the people that populate this continent as special from the rest. While I highly respect that spirituality is so well researched, studied, explored, termed and given such specific method, form and expression in the East, I am equally awed by the simplicity of understanding your relationship to the world, not in terms of what you are not, but as a function of exactly your physical interdependence and relationship with all that IS. The Earth is clearly respected here as the provider, the nourisher, the sustainer – and also the destructive – but always equally fertile – Mother of all life. And to Her, all respects are paid.

In the Incan cosmic vision, kaypacha is the world we live in, hananpacha, the higher world of spiritual beings, and ukhupacha, the interior and bridge between worlds. Yes. I am a romantic, and while it’s perhaps unfair for me to romanticize others’ lives, I’m entitled to my personal, even if rosy, experience of my own. And here in this little lost valley in the Andes, this is what I experience: the height of the mountains humbling me, the brightness of the sun blinding me, the extremities of the weather sensitizing me, the constant physical connection to the earth grounding me, and the immensity of open space shrinking me. This pummeling, of my ego and senses, back into the Earth and my place of interdependence within her, is what I experience whenever I find myself surrounded by, and surrendered to, the Earth’s elements. And if I have ever come close, it’s only been under these conditions that I’ve found myself on the bank of the ukhupacha — the bridge between worlds.

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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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Footprints in Peru, Day 8: one stone at a time

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a community service project sponsored by World Nomads

Our first mistake is thinking that we’ve come to organize and/or manage; our first lesson is realizing that the locals coordinating this project are professionally skilled and competent, and that the most valuable things we really have to offer are our servitude and sweat.

Having felt heavily burdened by the kindnesses and services that our porters heaped upon us while on the trek, I am greatly relieved by the opportunity to work side-by-side, and ultimately FOR, those that woke us every morning serving tea and morning greetings.

Our group’s tasks consist of two projects: creating a new reservoir and digging the trenches to supply the village with water and building a bridge over one of the rivers so that, during the rain season, people will still be able to travel to and from town and fewer animals will be lost to the swift currents that normally take such annual sacrifices. The bridge project is explained to us as a project needing less brain and more labor and I rush to the side of the party designated to this project mostly because, being a visual person, I want to see something complete and concrete when we finish.

We all file down to the river and ponder the heaps of boulders and stones collected for our purpose. It’s hard for me to envision just how we are going to elevate piles of stones into a traversable arch and I’m busy trying to sort out where to begin when one of the villagers on our work crew walks over to one of the piles of stones, picks one up, walks over to the site of the bridge, and puts it down. Ah. Brilliant. So that’s where we start…

One stone at a time.

And so that is what we do. We form chains to move them more efficiently. And we organize crews to search for specifically sized stones. Some people dedicate themselves to laying stones, while others to carrying or sorting. But the theme is consistently simple: one stone at a time. And that is the best way I can describe how our bridge begins and continues its slow construction.

Since Incan times, it has been a tradition of Andean peoples to organize communal work parties to harvest crops or build irrigation canals and terraces. These parties are called faenas and I find this community spirit especially well-illustrated by the picture of an 80-year old man and his 4-year old grandson, both, with equal vigor and enthusiasm, hauling rocks and handing them to us. In fact, if there is any one memory that captures my time in Peru in a single snapshot, it is the sight of these two people, and the multiple generations between them, united without hesitation in this timeless tradition of what Andeans call, llank’ay, or “the spirit of ceremonial work.”

And even for me, an extranjera, there is a certain amount of tetris-like finesse and ceremony to the work. I assume responsibility as one of the stone layers and so it’s my job to decide on the flattest side of the rock and then determine the best fit of its angles so that it snaps into a pretty place within its neighbors. I find it a delightful task and wonder, even, if perhaps others think I am taking too much time to express my creativity and delicate design work with the stones.
Not as delicate or delightful, and certainly less pretty, however, is the chunk of bloody skin dangling from my right ring finger when, in an overextended reach to take a heavy rock from the arms of the 80-year old, I drop the stone — with my finger still under it. Luckily I have two pairs of gloves to buffer the cut and bitter coldness to numb it.

After attending to the bandaging of my throbbing finger I take a step back and sit on the river bank to watch the work progress. It’s clumsy work, and even more awkward is the mix of dark-skinned locals in traditional striped costume and pale-skinned foreigners in odd and unnatural block colors. I decide that we, like the cluttered pile of odd-sized stones, are a funny bunch to envision functioning efficiently together. But somehow, something seems to be forming. Slowly but cohesively, as a group, we begin taking on a solid shape together — one stone 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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la petite fille

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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….

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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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not-so-alone; and lovin’ it too

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Please excuse my absence. Not only has my mysteriously free wireless internet access just-as-mysteriously disappeared, but in an effort to anticipate the arrival of my eight college roommates for a long-awaited reunion in Boulder, I’ve worked the last 10 days straight for the purpose of being able to take the next four off. Over the last five years, I’ve missed more weddings and showers than I have fingers, so I’m all jazz-hands about our upcoming rendezvous. And although the crew has perhaps tamed with age (we’ll see), at the last reunion that I attended, someone who I remember only as, “bust-in-Justin” ended up being handcuffed and hauled to jail, and although none of us remember this picture being taken (as we’re obviously asleep), the following shot quite clearly communicates the love that keeps bringin’ us all back together…

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

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*****

Excerpt from the blog of friend-and-fellow-dream-chaser, “dreW” (who got on the plane yesterday):



“Every organization, group, or individual from which material of substance is birthed shares one element. It’s a clear and concise purpose. A reason for being. An underlying set of principles that motivate and compel them toward their desired aspirations. My purpose is to travel. It’s that simple. I’ll go anywhere and try anything. I’ve got nothing to lose. Life is too finite to experience one place, one culture, and one people.

The earth is 4.6 billion years old, covers over five hundred million square kilometers, and is home to over six billion individuals that inhabit well over two hundred unique and equally important countries. I want to see it before I pack my bags for the very last time. To have an artistic avenue in which to express myself along the way is the purpose of this Website.

Globaltrancemissions.com will track and document my cross-cultural journey to the yet unpolluted corners of planet earth, capturing the essence, flavor and spirit of life on the road. From urban to rural, metropolitan to cosmopolitan, the middle of nowhere to anywhere in between, each correspondence will be written to give a unique and enlightening view of each respective destination along the way.

I will do everything in my power to eschew fashion and fluff in favor of artistic expression seasoned with personality, passion, perspective and spontaneity. There are some journeys in life that impose contemplation and consideration for the unknown. Often when I start my day I know exactly what it’s going to look like, feel like and sound like before the day has even begun. This project is a lot more fluid and spontaneous than the daily grind of an average day. It could sort of go in a lot of different directions at any one moment and I feel that I’m very open to wherever the ride may take me.

A lot of my decision to hit the road and subject myself to a foreign environment came from an incessant aspiration to become something greater than I already am. I go certain places in life to find what I half-suspect has long been in me already. The outside, my external environment, helps to configure that which is already internal. The outside helps to see the inside better and at a deeper and more meaningful level. Without prolonged exposure to a place and element other than my own, I’m not sure I would ever fully realize the true essence of life. This project isn’t looking for answers. I already have them all. I’m looking for new questions.”

::Posted by dreW on globaltrancemissions.com

*****

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adventure incognito

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Adventure Incognito

“Everything will work out.”

A simple mantra chanted regularly by travelers around the world.

“Everything will work out.”

Easy to advice, more challenging to receive, and sometimes downright impossible to believe.

Easy to advice — when it’s not YOU who has just had your only credit card (and only form of monetary funds) rejected at the third bank due to “inadequate funds.” Challenging to receive — when you find YOUR backpack slashed and your passport missing. Impossible to believe — when you find YOURSELF stranded on an island because of bad weather, with a flight to catch the next morning.

But it happens to all of us. Very few travelers are spared at least a few fearful, panicked, nerve-wrecking or adrenaline-pumping moments while on the road. And it doesn’t matter how many credit cards you bring, or how many locks you put on your pack, or how many days you left yourself to get to the airport because The Travel Gods of Misfortune and Accident care little for those details. But maybe we are making judgments too quickly? Maybe, if we look closer at our most memorable travel tales, we will see that it is exactly that element of insecurity, mistake or hazard that made those excursions so remarkable and memorable. And maybe we will recognize that it is actually the Goddess of Adventure, spreading her magic in the GUISE of the God of Misfortune and the RUSE of the God of Accident, but simply traveling incognito.

Maybe.

Amsterdam, Netherlands (August 1999)

The last day on my two-month tour of Europe and I found that in addition to overdrawing my two bank accounts, I had somehow lost my emergency fund of forty dollars that I was relying on to get me through the night and to the airport. After having run across town to three different full hostels, I found myself at the counter of The Flying Pig hostel in downtown Amsterdam. Exhaustion, trepidation, and apprehension were only a few of the feelings wrenching my gut as I dropped my heavy pack to the floor and with begging eyes, inquired as to if a single cot in the dorm was available. The attendant, without looking up, apologized and said no. My panic must have taken form, jumped up on the desk, let out a yelp and collapsed on the booking sheet he was studying, because he looked up, into my eyes, and said, “Um. Well, wait here. Let me see.” An hour later I was settled into a cot paid for at the discounted rate of “whatever you can dig up in your pack” (which actually included money in three different currencies). Somehow, the rumor of my moneyless-ness had spread, and as I collapsed into the pillows in the living room, I found myself approached by three different strangers. One dropped me off a sandwich, one passed me a beer, and one offered me herb; Three kings with offerings better than frankincense and myrrh. I was even offered the train fare to get to the airport. And they expected nothing in return. “Everything worked out,” thanks to the astounding generosity of these favors from complete strangers.

Isla Grande, Brazil (March 2000)

We had hired a boat and captain to take us to the other side of the island on a three-hour tour (…a threeeee-hour tour). Our “mistake” was not checking out the quality and speed of his boat. It took us five hours just to get to our destination on the other side of the island. Our captain informed us that it would take at least as long to get back, but now it was getting dark, the water was rough and we were going against the wind and waves. I had to get back by the next afternoon in order to catch a ferry to the mainland to get back to Rio, where I was to catch my return flight to the US. But the four Australians we had just spent a fantastic day with on the boat invited us to flip off that fate and, instead, camp out the night on that side of the island with them. We asked the captain if he could return and pick us up first thing in the morning. He told us he couldn’t assure anything, but he’d “try.” “Will any other boats come by?” we inquired. He told us the chances were very slim.

“To hell with it! Drop us off at the next village!”

The next village was a small stretch of beach with a few houses — all home to related families of fishermen. We waved goodbye to the captain *wondering if we’d ever see him again* and hopped onto the beach with nothing but our bikinis. That night, the six of us toasted Caipirinhas on the open deck of a house owned by one of the fisherman. He cooked for us a splendid supper of the fish and squid he had caught that day and proudly showed me a picture of a “brother who’s best friend had a son that lived in California.” Another local made his way up to the deck playing a tambourine and singing in Portuguese. He played, laughed and danced until we had pushed all the dinner tables out of the way and were ALL dancing, laughing and singing with him. It went on like this for hours. Eventually a swim was suggested. Having never heard of phosphorescence in science class, I could only conclude that the trail of glowing light that followed each underwater movement was NOTHING less than pure magic. Our enthrallment and pure delight with the underwater fire works made even the blood dripping down our legs (from crashing up on the coral) only laughable. “Enchanted” is the only word I can use to describe that night. And the next day the captain DID show up….two hours late. On the ride back home, we caught up to a speed boat, hailed it down, jumped boats and raced back to the port. We made our scheduled ferry by about five minutes — and, *surprise* — “everything worked out” just perfectly.

Tortugero, Costa Rica (October 2000)

Tortugero is a small town in Costa Rica that is ONLY accessible by boat through canals or by plane. Opting for a day longer on the island instead of a day traveling by boat and bus, my best travel mate Kim, and I, had purchased plane tickets to get us back to San Jose in time for our return flights to the States. We showed up at the “airport” promptly at 7:30 for our 8:00 flight. I put the word “airport” in quotes because the “airport”, in this case, was simply a sand landing patch. A plane landed and we loaded our luggage and boarded the small craft. After take off, I inquired as to why we were heading North instead of West. I was told that we were picking up a few more passengers in a small town called Yamaha. This I noted as peculiar as I looked around and saw that there was only ONE seat left vacant on the plane.

I nudged Kim and laughed nervously, “We ARE on the right plane aren’t we? Cause we didn’t give that guy our tickets did we?”

A man across the isle interjected, “You’re going to San Jose right? Yep! This is the right plane!”

As the plane came down for landing, Kim and I laughed at such a silly idea. Ha! Busses and trains, sure…but now really, who could actually get on the wrong plane?

While we all waited patiently, I observed outside two awaiting passengers talking with the pilots. I watched as the passengers hand gestures became more animated and angry, and as the pilots pulled out papers and scratched their heads.

And then I knew it. A shit-eating grin was all I could manage as one of the pilots boarded the plane and announced, “I’m going to read off a roster of names. If you could please raise your hand if your name is NOT called, I would appreciate it.”

He didn’t need to read the roster. We raised our hands and I choked back on my giggles.

He looked us directly in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry. But one of you will have to stay here.”

I could stifle no longer. Laughing, I asked, “And where are we sir? And are there any busses or boats we can catch to get to San Jose?”

“I’m sorry. But one of you will have to stay,” he repeated. “You can only leave this town by plane. I will try to contact the plane that you were SUPPOSED to be on, and maybe they can come and pick you up here.”

THAT was certainly an idea worthy of more laughs.

Five minutes later, we found ourselves sitting on our backpacks, in the middle of the runway, in a town in the middle of NOWHERE, waving goodbye to our plane…. and laughing hysterically about these facts.

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When the laughing fit finally subsided, we smiled and exchanged “Now what?” glances at each other.

“Everything will work out. It always does,” we agreed.

As if on cue, a man, out of nowhere appeared and said, “Hear you guys have a problem. I know a guy. I’ll send him over.” And he walked away. Five more minutes later, we met Mr. Brown. He shook our hands firmly and said, “Ya know? It JUST so happens that I have a flight of guys coming in for a fishing expedition in half an hour. My plane is going to San Jose afterwards. I’ll let you jump on board for half of whatever you paid for that other flight.” My mate flashed me a “Shit! Do we have enough money?” look that Mr. Brown caught faster than I did. He grinned. “Hey…how ‘bout you guys just pay me back the next time you’re in Costa Rica, okay? Deal?!” He flashed us a huge and happy smile, handed me his card and wished us blessings. We were in San Jose less than two hours later.

I could tell a few dozen more stories, but I have faith that the reader is recognizing a pattern. The story problems differ, but the conclusion is always the same; “Everything always works out.” And once this is recognized, the equation can be simplified and the factors of “stress” and “worry” crossed out. Life has this endearing quality of constantly moving forward…and like pulling out the knots on a roll of rope, if you just keeping moving forward, focusing on one inch at a time, things seem to have a way of simply pulling themselves out straight.

“Everything works itself out.”

And the favors that I received from those strangers never go unappreciated. That day in Amsterdam, I happily vowed to be forever in travel-favor-debt. Now I regularly invite homeless travelers to crash on my couch and take opportunities to slip some cash into the book of someone who’s credit card was eaten in an ATM or offer a beer to a traveler on his or her last and penny-less day of adventure abroad; All in aspiration of having the opportunity to offer a Mr.Brown-type-blessing one day. It came around and I will make sure it continues to go around, taking my turn, and playing MY role in “making everything work out” for others.

Many travelers have learned, as I have, that some of the best adventures are found off the planned path. It’s important not to label those turns in the road as trouble or misfortune, for really, they are not so much “turns” in the road, as they are forks. Adventures are never lost, but they can change. And that change might be instigated by something originally perceived as “less-than-lucky.” But if not for lost money, how would I have found a new faith in the goodness of strangers in a hostel in Holland? But if not for a misleading captain, a slow boat and some rough water, how else would I have found the magic in the music of a tambourine and fireworks in the water of a fishing village in Brazil? And if not for sand-patch airports and poor check-in procedures, how else would I have witnessed an angel in action and received the blessing of Mr. Brown? It is in thanks to “misfortune” and “mistake” that today I can raise my hand and proclaim, “Yes! Actually, I HAVE gotten on the wrong plane before!”

Watch events unfold and stay open to a possibility of a happy, even IF alternative, conclusion. For Adventure travels incognito. And recognizing and receiving her as such — are what put both the fun AND freedom into traveling.

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