Kismet

So there I am minding my own business...and Kismet strikes!

  And it's looking like "Woman Alone in the Wilderness" is about to become "Woman and Dog in the Wilderness".  

But my apartment is really not conducive to a dog!

Even a dog who will not leave my side unless I physically restrain her (with a leash, of course).

This is a moral dilemma.

Woman Alone, in the Wilderness, Mountain Biking in Snow!

Desired location – San Antonio Hot Springs

Month – January

Distance from Highway 126 – 5.2 Miles

Issues – Forest Road 376 Closed for Winter

Solution – Bicycle

It’s January in New Mexico and I have a wild hair; which happens frequently. Anyways, I decide that now is as a good a time as any to visit the reportedly beautiful San Antonio Hot Springs. So I talk to some people, do the internet research and realize that Forest Road 376 is definitely closed in the winter. Now I am not intimidated by a 10.4 mile (round-trip) hike, in a day absolutely no problem. I have done 25 miles in day, 16 in the rain – hiking doesn’t bother me. Boredom does! So I think to myself why don’t I bike it. Now I am from Arizona, where I have spent most of my winters and snow...it’s not really an issue for us. Here New Mexico we have had a number of winter storms, but the last one was weeks ago, before Christmas, and in Albuquerque there isn't anything resembling snow. So biking seems easily feasible. I pack extra clothes, lunch, sneakers, hiking boots and gaiters, and head for the mountains.

Oh sh*#! I forgot to tell someone where I was going. Now here is where I am going to convince you that biking, hiking and swimming, my primary activities, are absolutely do-able as a single female. The contradiction - guys go into the woods by themselves on a relatively regular basis and nobody questions them. But if a competent “young lady" wants to go out and get her kicks by herself she will encounter opposition and questioning all along the way.  Now I am not exactly a typical female. And I will admit that before seeing 127 Hours I may have ventured far into dangerous places without telling a soul, but I learned from Ralston’s mistake (BTW I have immense respect for Mr. Ralston. If I had been in his shoes the headlines would have been a lot more ordinary - "The search for Ms. Fabry-Wood ended today when they found her body. Her arm having been pinned by a boulder to a wall in Southeastern Utah"). Today I sent out 2 text messages; each of which resulted in panic and a variation of these three questions:

Who are you going with? 

Why are you going alone? 

What if something happens?

I am not going to comment on my answers they will come with time. What I will comment on is the fact that as a woman traveling alone in Africa I encountered these same questions. And yes, in my travels I landed myself in situations which I would not wish upon anyone, but I got myself out by using resources which were available to me, by keeping my head, and by never giving up. I apply these same principles to situations I encounter ‘out there’ as well. The truth is I have never been truly scared in the wilderness; I am currently knocking vigorously on wood. Not to say that I have never been truly scared, just to say that those many moments when I have been paralyzed by fear always, always happen in civilized settings. So when I enter the woods, the wilderness, when I go outside – I do so calmly, with great excitement, expecting nothing but wonder. And these things I have always found there. Plus what's out there that would pose more danger to a woman than to a man? Bears? Hypothermia? Being lost? Rocks pinning you to a wall?  All of these things are unbiased, if you let them they will take you, woman or man. Creeps on the other hand tend to prey upon the weaker sex, but a woman is just as likely to run into those in the city as she is in the woods. But you say "Wait! There will be people around to help her." Good argument, but a fallacy if you assume good Samaritans abound.

The drive from Albuquerque to the Jemez mountains is minimal, taking about 1 ½ hours. The scenery filled with mountains, sunrises and increasingly more snow. I venture on undeterred and spellbound by the rocks and trees. I arrive at the parking lot for Forest Road 376. There is close to two feet of snow on the ground. I park the car, stare at the snow, let down the window and decide that neither hiking nor biking are my thing; right at this moment at least. I drive 20 miles east to Valles Caldera; formed by a massive volcanic eruption which collapsed in on itself. As I come round a curve the forested slopes give way to a massive bowl, surrounded on all sides by mountains. The volcanic crater, 12 miles wide, is perfectly white and breathtaking. The forested slopes above the crater evergreen and the sky above them cloudless and blue.  The sun continues westward and with it the temperature rises. I think again of San Antonio Hot Springs and decide to give it another go.

After parking and looking at the road I notice that some earlier traveler has been considerate enough to pack it down for me, using skis and/or snow shoes. I decide to ride. I wear sneakers, because boots on a bike are too bulky and I will more than likely be walking part of the time. I attach and zip-up my gaiters. I pack water, a towel and extra under garments (in case there are people). I put on my woolen cap, my gloves and my helmet. I start riding.

During the first 500 feet of uphill I begin to understand why people don’t ride in snow. Even with the intense traction of fat tires the rear wheel will not bite, it skids all over the place. But I make it to the top of the hill and am excited to see a long downhill stretch. Heading down I aim for patches of frozen mud and avoid deeper snow, much like driving a car. Then directly after a long patch of dirt I hit the ice -frozen solid with an unfriendly just slightly melted surface. The bike losses it, I disengage myself from the bike and skid 5 feet on my stomach. Yeeehaa! I jump back on the back on, look at the ice so I know what to avoid in the future and ride on. The road has a generally even grade, with slight uphills and significantly more downhill grades for the entire 5.2 miles. It takes all of my concentration and lots of balance, but I stay up most of way. Having learned quickly to avoid ice, to stay in the ruts, go steadily on, undeterred and happy.

I get to these isolated hot springs and find 8 people submerged in the steaming pool. There is more snow and the view is absolutely pristine.  After settling into the water I strike up a conversation, which of course began with familiar questions:

“Where’s is the rest of your group?”

“It’s just me?”

“You came alone?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“No.”

They look shocked and doubtful.

I continue “Oh, I have a lot of experience out here.”

“Really? You’ve been here before?”

“No, not here. What I meant was I have a lot of experience in the outdoors. I learned to walk at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.”

Their eyebrows go up. Perhaps they think I am lying, or at the very least exaggerating. I am not and tell them this with my eyes.

“But it’s still dangerous.”

“Yes, but I find that if you head into it unafraid then things usually go your way.”

In this moment I understand, perhaps for the first time, why I often fail so miserably in social settings - I enter them with fear. But out here...alone...I am free, as free as it's possible to be.

The ride up is great too, easier in fact. The tires get great traction on the compacted snow and riding is easy as long as I avoid the icy patches. Overall a worthwhile trip. I was in the right place at the right time and everything worked out. That's life in general, it's all about timing.

Please comment and check out more photos here: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/114436305155907830473/albums/5698457267392641345

Full Body Percussion

She had wanted an instrument which allowed her to create music while dancing.  But not simply bells on her ankles, not tap shoes on her feet. She wanted something which would fully encompass the sounds she felt while dancing.

She envisioned drums below her feet, drums behind her, a ten foot tall stand of cymbals available to her side. Wrapped around her arms would be stretchy material and attached to the end would be rubber balls which could be thrown against the drums or held in her hands.

They had built her dream and now she danced. Her feet thrilled on the metallic drums, reminding her of dancing on the metal sheets which covered hidden spaces below the sidewalks of Flag.  The cymbals sang as she fluttered them with burst from the elastic material on her left arm. The heavy bass drums boomed in happy protest as her right arm flung the rubber high, whipping it back and for in a ten foot fall.

She danced with her entire body. She composed with her mind. The audience roared to its feet as she collapsed in utter abandon, spent and free.

With Sad Green Eyes, Wondering What She Did to Deserve This Cage

She was on the last leg of the triathlon. She was tired, stretching and preparing for the run. She felt him approach her from behind. He bent and whispered in her ear "You are a jaguar..."

She looked up and over her shoulder in surprise, because no one knew of her obsession with the cats. Her reply "With sad green eyes, wondering what I did to deserve this cage."

"Break free and run like you were on the hunt."

And she did. She ran, muscles taught, but not tight. She ran as if this were all she was ever meant to do. She ran without thought for the future. She ran in a wild race away from the cage.  And wildness  flew through her veins flexing itself in her heart, pulsing through her quads, and dancing out her toes.

Flight From Engineer

She had wanted wings. He had built them, and then almost refused to let her test them out. There had been trial runs from lower towers and then with parachutes as safety nets. But now she was preparing to launch herself from the top of Engineer Peak, in the San Juans. She looked so excited, so ready, how could he refuse.

The bones of her wings constructed from titanium. The feathers an intricate working of nylon. Her feet, in their harnesses, would control her tail. Her arms would be outstretched the entire time. He had worried that she would become exhausted and so there were locks, controlled by her fingers, which would hold the wings in place should she need to rest. Her shoulders would be responsible for flapping, which would only allow slight lift, but could be useful should she be headed into danger.

With a look of perfect excitement she ran towards the sky and a gust of wind, seeming like a protective hand, lifted her high. He watched to make sure her feet made it into the harnesses after her run, then he began to descend, as quickly as possible.

Reaching timberline and the wildflower filled meadows he looked up at the sound of a far off screech. She sounded hawk-like and he watched as she glided on an air current, flapping just slightly to control her direction. She looked hawk-like.

The wait has nearly been to much to handle. First the prototypes and then test after test; she had waited for this day. And the climb up the peak, which was actually fairly easy since the flying structure was collapsible, with a series of locking gears at various points along the titanium frame. She had wanted to carry it up the mountain, but he had insisted that she would need all of her strength to fly down, she finally agreed to let him help.

And then she was running and the wind was lifting her and she was circling and calling out. She rode the gusts high above the conifer forests, high above the alpine meadows and their bright cloak of flowers. She screeched a warning at the marmots and flapped just slightly to catch another gust. And then her body began to fail her. She held out, but finally it was all she could do to hold her arms out. She clicked the locks into place, glided for a while and was about the descend and land in a meadow when suddenly the air seemed warmer, it was moving faster and in the wrong direction. She unlocked the wings and tried to flap her way out of the current...without success. She almost panicked, but when she looked up there was this hawk. It was riding the current, it glided with such ease. It was then that she understood flying. She locked her wings and rode the current.

Soon she dropped into cooler air. She had nothing left. She held on, just barely and landed in a meadow. Falling face down with the wings covering her. She slept.

This is how he found her. Surrounded by flowers, covered by his wings. For a second he thought the worst and rushed to remove the contraption. But she was warm, unbroken and murmuring happily in her sleep.

In Response to Thoreau's "Walking"

All quoted (and green) material is referenced from Henry David Thoreau’s essay “Walking” found in a compilation of his work Civil Disobedience and Other Essays.

"Knights of a new, or rather an old, order...No wealth can buy the requisite leisure, freedom and independence, which are the capital of this profession…You must be born into the family of the Walkers.” I have known of Thoreau since high school English. I remember an expert from Walden about ants; it resolved some of my confusion regarding war. Then my brother sends me Civil Disobedience and Other Essays. I started “Civil Disobedience” and decided that more discussions of poor governance and war would never resolve my confusion. So I moved onto “Walking”. This essay describes my life; or rather a vital part of it. Nothing soothes my savage beast like a good walk. As a child 5 minutes of walking, through the pines of Northern Arizona, could bring more composure than just about anything I can remember. “More over you must walk like a camel, which is said to be the only beast which ruminates when walking.” If I used day dreams to escape, my imagination soared when walking: on backpacking trips, on the way home from school…As Program Director for Southwest Conservation Corps. “But sometimes it happens that I cannot easily shake off the village. The thought of some work will run through my head and I am not where my body is, -I am out of my senses.” Lucky for me even at SCC, where I allowed my job to become my life, I could always escape with a good hike. Some hikes I took while directing were so soothing that I might say they saved my life/job. “Two or three hours walking will carry me to as strange a country as I ever expect to see. Man and his affairs, church and state and school, trade and commerce, and manufacturers and agriculture, even politics, the most alarming of them all, -I am pleased to see how little space they occupy in the landscape.” On one such hike I remember looking up from the spread of Tucson’s lights, which I viewed from atop the Catalina Mountains, to see the moon and a big sky full of stars. It reminded me that I was a tiny speck in a big old universe, and that whether or not I hired enough people or secured enough project weeks really did not matter that much. And that in the end I would be just fine. I heard a family, who was camping next to the spot where I stood, remark on the moon. I felt too shy to join them; so I wrote a note. Letting them know I appreciated their company; though from afar. I slipped it under their wiper, climbed into my Subaru and floated down Catalina Highway.

“You may name it America, but it is not America: neither Americus Vespucius, nor Columbus, nor the rest who were the discovers of it. There is a truer account of it in mythology than in any history of America…” I remind myself that I am a tiny speck and whether or not I succeed…Or whether my thoughts help America recapture itself… “Walking over the surface of God’s earth shall be construed to mean trespassing on some gentlemen’s grounds. To enjoy a thing exclusively is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it. Let us improve our opportunities, then, before that evil day comes.” Pros: we have our public lands, we are moving towards a widespread environmental consciousness, the world is beautiful. Cons: the beast consumes our wild places ravenously, in times of need our government turns public to private with the signing of a deed, our Dream is currently clouded by consumerism and a biased media. Ahhh…But perhaps I’ve gone too deep. “To forget the old world and it’s institutions. If we do not succeed this time, there is perhaps one more chance left for this” species. Thoreau provides the answer: “I trust that we shall be more imaginative, that our thoughts will be clearer, fresher and more ethereal, as our sky, -our understanding more comprehensive and broader, like our plains, -our intellect generally on a grander scale, like our thunder and lightning, our rivers and mountains and forests, -and our hearts shall even correspond in breadth and depth and grandeur to our inland seas. Perchance there will appear to the traveler something, he knows not what, of leata or glabra, of joyous and serene, in our faces. Else to what end does the world go on, and why was America discovered?” Yes it is idealistic. But I think the hope of America lies in an obsession with joy and serenity, as opposed to accumulation of property, image, medications, and so on and so forth. This hope requires that each citizen exhibit heroic tendencies “for the hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men.” Stand up America, make the right choices. “That in wildness is the preservation of the world...A town is saved, not more by the righteousness of the men in it than by the woods and swamps that surround it. They survive as long as the soil is not exhausted...Alas for human culture! Little is to be expected of a nation, when the vegetable mould is exhausted, and it is compelled to make manure of the bones of its fathers. In short all good things are wild and free...American liberty has become a fiction of the past, - as it is to some extent a fiction of the present, -the poets of the world will be inspired by American mythology.” 


I have one major criticism of Thoreau’s “Walking”. He demoralizes the very answer which he seeks. “The very winds blew the Indians cornfield into the meadows, and pointed out the way which he had not the skill to follow. He had no better implement with which to entrench himself in the land than a clam-shell. But the farmer is armed with a plow and a spade.” Tools and language; they make us human. But at this point in time we master so completely, with technology and media; that they truly are entrenching us. So what did the indigenous people of America, and elsewhere, do differently? Or rather what ideology, or religion, guided their lives? I do not know the answer. What I do know is that Western cultures operate under an assumption that this world was created for our use; that humans were given the right to anything and everything from mammal to conifer to mineral. We are not part of this world. “Here is this vast, savage, howling mother of ours, Nature, lying all around us, with such beauty and such affection for her children, as the leopard; and yet we are so early weaned from her breast to society, to that culture which is so exclusively an interaction of man on man, -a sort of breeding in and in, … a civilization destined to have a speedy limit.” Once again I delve too deep. I apologize. I do not mean to criticize. I appreciate the beauty of language, the comforts afforded by modern technologies. But we must redirect our path. I have no words to describe my love of this world and the people which fill it. “I would not have every man nor every part of a man cultivated, any more than I would have every acre of the earth cultivated. Part will be tillage, but the greater part will be meadow and forest, not only serving an immediate use, but preparing a mould against a distant future, by the annual decay of the vegetation it supports.” Must we have the answer to every detail? So many of our resources are dedicated to the accumulation of knowledge. To what end? "A man's ignorance is sometimes not only usefull, but beautiful, -while his knowledge, so called, is often worse than useless, besides being ugly. Which is the best man to deal with, -he who knows nothing about a subject, and, what is extremely rare, knows that he knows nothing, or he who really knows something about it, but thinks that he knows all? My desire for knowledge is intermittent; but my desire to bath my head in atmospheres unknown to my feet is perennial and constant. Live free, child of the mist, -and with respect to knowledge we are all children of the mist.” While walking my mind flies free. No worries of validity, nor value, tie it down. “We have to be told that the Greeks called the world Koouos, Beauty, or Order, but we do not see clearly why they did so, we esteem it at best only a curious philological fact.” 


We praise reason and rationality, but do not understand, an understanding that comes not from our eyes nor the left side of our brains, how to live with this world. Have we sacrificed belonging and purpose, in our stoic quest for logic? Thoreau ends his essay with a dreamy description of an imaginary family and accurate account of an earthly sunset. Perhaps the passages seem ill-placed in a critically acclaimed essay? Or do they? “We saunter towards the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than he has ever done, shall perchance shine into our hearts and minds, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in autumn.” Only that it happens before I pass into the great unknown of afterlife.

Gift's Mound

The rains have come; after a month and a half of suffocating heat, proceeded by six months without precipitation. Over the last couple of weeks there have been hints of rain; a cloudy day which offered showers and relief from the returning sun’s intensity, but nothing to penetrate the baked soils.

Starting around 0 hours last night it poured. The thunder woke me. As I watched the brilliant flashes light my thatched hut I heard it coming. The wind shook the trees and then the water came all at once. It brought a refreshing chill, which got me out of bed in search of my sleeping bag.

This morning the air is alive with electrons; charged by the thunderstorms. My neighbor’s wife just left. She wanted grasses, but not the ones I offered. We have difficulties communicating most of the time. However, I understand much less when she wants something. Not that I am opposed to sharing; I rather enjoy it. Giving only becomes dangerous when need abounds. I had helped her husband, my neighbor Gift, the week before. As the pattern goes she now views me as the solution to her problems. She had many and they were dire. But I was one and in my area, with a population of around 6,000, her situation prevailed.

Last Friday Gift came by. We chatted.

“How did you wake?”

“Nauka bwino, kaya namwe?”

“I awoke fine.”

The conversation’s momentum seemed strained; driven by a pressure I could not pin-point. After some bushwhacking and beating around and stuff he asked for money. He had to feed his family; they had not eaten in days. As he asked this I noticed his shaking. He was not humiliated at having to ask, but hungry. He would pay me back; he promised. The point, now pinned, did not concern me. I resolved months ago the issue of giving out loans. If some asked me to lend them money, I would give it only after accepting that I would not be repaid. I hadn’t loaned money as at yet. I only pledged this after being asked, refusing and then suffering through the resulting guilt.

It was the shaking that got me. All thoughts of sustainability fled. So we settled on an amount; the equivalent of $5. He could feed his family for a week. I concerned neither of us with questions of how; though the annual crop would be planted with the rains, the maize maturing some four months after sowing. The only other source of income for the family being the reed mats Gift made; the reeds were depleted for the year.

The rains have come. The village as charged as the air. My life feeds on moments like this. The excitement…The transition. Even such there existed an element I could not name. Gift stopped by, just to chat.

“Mvula yabwera.”

“It started last night.”

“Mukudya inswa?”

“What is inswa?”

“Termites.”

“NO, I’ve never eaten termites.”

“I want to catch too much tonight.”

“You want to catch a lot of termites?”

“Yes, I’ll go to my mound around 16 hours.”

“How do you catch them?”

“You dig a hole in front of your mound and hold a torch over the hole.” ”Really!?”

“Yes, their wings are burnt and they fall into your hole.” “Can I come?”

“It is far.”

“How far?”

“About 5 kilometers.”

“Will you ride your bicycle?”

“No, I will go by footing.”

“You leave at 16 hours?”

“Yes, I will return in the dark.”

“Oh…”

We, me and myself, debate for a while. Do I really want to walk 5K in the dark asks me. Will I ever be able to do this again inquires myself in reply.

We decide I need more info. So I head over to Gift’s.

“How often does this inswa thing happen?”

“Only after the first rain.”

“So once a year?”

“Yes.”

“And how many flying termites will there be?”

“Millions.”

“Millions!?”

“Yes.”

“How does it work?”

“Just after dark they open the mound and the inswa fly out.” “There are termite mounds all over the place, why do we have to walk 5K into the bush?”

“You’re coming” he was excited.

“Maybe, tell me more.”

“Everyone has their own mound. Mine is at my relatives field.”

“Ok, I’ll go. At 16?”

“Yes, can you bring your torch?”

Gift came to collect me and my headlamp just after 16 hours. He carried a nylon sack and a bundle of grasses; the grasses about six feet long. So that is what she was after to myself. I wore my leather hiking boots; for the first time in months. I bought them, in the states, with snakes in mind. Here closed toed shoes, let alone 10 inch leather hiking boots, made no sense…Before, but in the dark, though the bush…I was happy for them.

We climbed into the trees, out of Nsamba drainage; which separated our village from the forested ridge. Nearing the top we stop at some boulders; viewing the village from on high.

“Can you see your hut?”

“Yes, I think it there next to the Mauyu. It all looks so small and simple from here.”

“Yes.”

My faded gold thatched roof stood out in the green monochrome. The various trees in our village, including the Baobab next to my house, began leafing out weeks ago. To me the release of foilage seemed premature. Who am I to question evolution and the natural processes which result? The view is as picturesque as they come.

We move on. Winding our way through the virgin forest, through abandoned villages. I figure we’ve gone about 3K. Here the forest ends. These are new fields; I had no idea they existed. The sight produces the same hollow sadness as Gift’s shaking had. It fills the pit of my stomach as my head tackles the contradiction. The trees are lost to feed the people. Why do I torture myself?

The last couple of kilometers drag. Hiking 2.5 miles in the states…easy. But on the way back it would be dark and this was African bush; well at least portions of bush remain. There were snakes. With thoughts like these the village and it’s small simplicity slipped further away.

We arrive just before sunset, there are a lot of people out here; or rather more than I expected. Everyone here for the same purpose. They tie grasses into torches; the bundles Gift had carried. Fires being constructed next to each mound. Holes, smaller than I expected (Too many expectations I guess), being dug.

I find an orchid next to our mound; spurting from the ground as a purple funnel.

“I want to find more flowers.”

Gift and his nephew look at me in confusion.

“These people” says the nephew.

I laugh, prompting their laughter.

“Don’t go far and get lost” Gift warns. I laugh some more.

They send Gift’s niece, her infant secure on her back, just in case. I think she also wants to observe this Muzungu who steps slowly, bent at the waist, looking for flowers in the fading light. There are more of the same orchids, but no other types. This young mother and I wander through the trees, which form borders between the fields. We stop at her neighbor’s shelter. A stick structure supporting a grass roof; for protection against rain and sun. We head back toward Gift’s mound with her neighbor. We, the women, collect dried twigs along the way. They tell me when I have enough, then holding the base of the bundle in one hand, the deftly grasp the length with the other hand. I am told this will be used to sweep the termites into the hole. How is this termite catching going to work? I ask myself.

We reach Gift and darkness completes itself. Embracing us in a humid velvet with diamond stars above. The clouds have left, for now. There are more sounds than ever before. These are the sounds I have read about. Descriptions of the African night remind me of descriptions of love. The authors always seem to be grasping. This night I get it. I attempt to break down the cacophony. There’s a cricket and the rib-it of a frog. Last week I saw a Pennant-Winged Nightjar. Is that a Nightjar? Moisture has returned to the savanna; bringing life. Oh, how she sings! Do the songs differ throughout Africa? I ask myself. I have not heard the drier Kalahari sands, to my south, nor the wetter Congolese jungles, to my north. Perhaps this morph, dry to wet, speaks to them as well.

I check the mound every couple of minutes. Wanting to catch not only bugs, but details as well. I find a strange looking frog at the base of our mound. The hind legs match the front; this one has no jumping power. I show Gift.

“Can I pick it up”

“No, watch.”

He pokes it with a stick. It inflates like a Blowfish. Then he shows me the sticky secretion coming from glands on it’s back.

“Strong enough to kill a chicken.”

“Huh!?” I ask. Very confused.

“It is glue, the beak gets stuck.”

He really pokes it. I wince, even before it releases a harsh scream. These creatures. I say to myself. Companions, us humans and these strange amphibians, joined by a common cause. To eat…Lots of termites! I am about to eat bugs! I ate a grasshopper in Oaxaca. I can do this?&?

I notice a milky white film by one of the Screaming-Blow-Toads. What’s that? They are miniatures of the tannish termites I am used to seeing. I give the mound a once over and find the workers and bigger dark headed soldiers. They have created holes at the base and up the sides of the mound. None have wings.

“They are opening it. Are we ready? Can I help with anything?”

“We are ready. Just sit and wait.”

I sit for a minute, noticing the many fires around us. Then I go check the mound. The holes are growing. Shining my headlamp in I see termites a little bigger than the soldiers. They seem to be struggling. The teenage years are so awkward. They are smaller than I expected. Are you shocked? Their wings are dark.

“I see them.”

“ Chabwino.”

I move around the living pillar. I hear no African night. I ask no questions. I am there. It is happening.

They are exiting in mass now.

“Turn off your torch. We want them flying into the fire.”

“Sorry.” I say turning off my headlamp.

I return to watch Gift’s torch. It is held over the hole; 2 feet in diameter and about 6 inches deep. There are bugs everywhere. They are not flying into Gift’s torch, but into my hair, my shirt. I jump up to shake them out of my pants. I scream, try not to scream and scream some more. Gift is holding the torch in one hand and sweeping, with the broom I helped make, with the other. The hole is full. How did that happen? I jump in to help. He hands me the torch and broom. He grabs the sack and starts filling it with the squirming, recently de-winged termites. I am struggling with the torch and broom.

“Hold the fire over the hole!”

“You made it look so easy.”

I look up at him and notice the swarm we are in. In the firelight their wings are coppery. Gift pops one into his mouth, smiling. I am still not ready.

“Here, roast it on the fire” he demonstrates and eats that one too.

Passing the torch I decide to try. Grabbing a wing, I squirm inside. My screams… now whimpers. I discover that you need to get both wings. I pinch both with my thumb and forefinger. Then I roast the bugger. And then being brave, cringing…I eat it!

I have to spit out the wings. Yuck! But it tastes alright.

Gift hands me the torch, the hole is full, again. He loads the bag. I sweep the masses. We swap again. I notice the fires and the sweeping silhouettes. I eat more bugs. The blow-frogs are feasting. I notice two termites stuck together. Ah, gamete exchange.

The numbers start to diminish. They are still everywhere, only the mound seems to be empty and we are securing many in our sack. I figure we’ve collected about 15 pounds. That’s a lot of bugs! And they aren’t dead.

We’ve used all four of the torches we started with. The bag is full. We sit and eat for a while. The fire dies and we prepare to walk back.

With my headlamp I lead the way. Soon we become ten people. Me in the lead, everyone else carrying pounds of living protein, in sacks, on their heads.

I see a snake about 5 feet ahead of me.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“It’s a snake.”

“Stay back!”

“Do we have to kill it?” I ask, but he lobby is half hearted.

They do not reply. Intent on survival. First a sling-shot, then a stick, then a hatchet. It is dead, in short order.

“What kind was it?”

“Ndala. I don’t know the name in English.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Like a Green Mamba.”

Good boots, good kill. Sorry snake.

It’s 22 hours by the time I reach my hut. My batteries are all but gone. Happily - I am exhausted.

In the morning I fetch water at the borehole; about 2K from my house. The village mothers are cleaning and drying their inswa. The sun is shining. They are happy, their children are happy. Now, I understand escargot.

It has been a week since that first rain. I have been given pounds of inswa. I’ve eaten Inswa Mac’n’Cheese, Inswa Granola; I’ve put them on salad. The villagers eat them with sima. Sima is the staple around here, a maize dumpling eaten with relish. The relish now-a-days is termites. The inswa tasted best that night; wrapped in velvet, topped by stars and garnished by sound. The novelty has worn off.

I’ve managed to isolate more sounds. There is one that reminds me of no other. It creates harmony. If a crickets call is a series of dashes, a frog’s discontinuous humps; this song is a spiral. The frequency carries it’s own echo; making it continuous. It haunts me.

“What make that sound?”

“The chongololo.”

“A millipede?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes” Gift laughs.

The rains have come. They’ve brought food, song and an abundance of orchids. In the last week I’ve found many species. Some leaf-less and low to the ground, like the purple ones by Gift’s mound. Others with pinkish-white fleshy flowers at the top of a simple green stalk. My favorite is peach in color with violet pollen.

I’ve not asked Gift about the money. The subject will come up; it has been hovering for a couple of days now. Personally I do not want the money. Was the best five bucks I ever spent. But I do not want to create dependency, to set patterns which cannot last.