Intelligent by Design, Beauty by Default

Kismet

2012-02-22T20:55:00.000-08:00

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!

2012-01-16T20:25:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-04T20:25:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-04T20:03:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-04T17:03:00.000-08:00

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"

2011-12-06T00:14:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-05T11:31:00.000-08:00

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.

Without Control

2011-12-05T11:17:00.000-08:00

“We should talk about birth control” she had spent the last 10 minutes finding the courage to bring up this subject.

They had been tested for STDs so that was not the problem. He knew she was not on the pill or any other type of contraceptive. Also he did not seem overly concerned about using condoms.

They were exclusive; they had not talked about it but she knew. She knew: because he still rushed to find her; because there were still sparks whenever they made eye contact; because they kept each other pretty busy.

They had been “together” for almost a year now. They had known each other for 10 years before getting “together”.

He just sat there looking at her. His eggs and toast sat there looking up at him. His coffee let off a thin but steady stream of steam.

“Look if you can’t even discuss the consequences maybe you shouldn’t commit the act” she was pissed; she hated the fact that it showed. So she left for work.

“I mean seriously why do these things have to be so difficult?” she asked her sister over the phone.

“What did you want him to say?”

“Anything would have been better…”

“Do you want kids?”

"If it’s right yes. But honestly I don’t trust him to stay. I mean I’m really happy, really happy. And I would be okay with staying as-is for a good long time. But we’re having sex without control and he can’t even talk about the obvious results.”

“Look sweetie you need to say these things to him; not me. I wish I could help, but this is what you get for falling for a playboy.”

“Yeah, thanks. How are the kids?”

“They’re good. A handful, but worth it.”

She was getting ready for lunch. She thought about calling him, but held back. She did not want to push it. Their relationship, having taken 10 years of flirtation to make, was fragile. And as fragile things go it was more precious to her than most things in this world.

Deciding to wait until evening to call she stood up from her desk, intending to find lunch; something light enough to settle in her nervous stomach, but something with substance. The city with all it’s variety seemed daunting.

He walked through her office door.

Relief replaced lunch plans. She smiled happy to see him; with apology as well.

“You wanna get some lunch?” he asked.

She was 5’7”, he was a foot taller than her. She looked up at him, reading him, or at least trying to. Most of the time his eyes gave him away; a part of him which she had first noticed many years ago. Though sometimes she had absolutely no idea what they were saying.

His eyes stared back. Perhaps reading her as well. Reading her so he would know how to act without crushing their fragility.

Each of them realized the others objective and that was enough to get them smiling.

“Yes, I was just getting ready for lunch.”

Lunch seemed much less complicated with him standing there so obviously relaxed.

“Where were you thinking?” she asked while getting her bag together.

“How about sammies at The Waterfront?”

“Perfect.”

She was at his side, ready to leave her office. He bent down and wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. She melted against his chest. Seconds later they were walking out the door, his right arm having remained at her waist.

They had a table on the deck overlooking the water. The air was that perfect temperature. Cool, but not cold. Moist, but not sticky. The sun burst through the clouds in rays that danced on the water. The water rippled gently, it’s colors changing from moment to moment.

The fresh lemonade was spot on. Her sandwich, veggies and cheese on toasted whole grain, hit the spot. His Club disappeared; quickly.

They did not talk about the morning. They did talk about plans for the weekend: a trip up the coast, surfing if it worked out, otherwise just some down time with friends.

“I’ll be home a little late. I want to do some shopping. Are you coming over?”

“I think I’ll stay at my place tonight” he said.

“Alright.”

After paying, outside the restaurant, they said goodbye. He had errands to run across town. She was headed back to work.

Having turned to walk back to the office, she turned again to call him back.

“Hey, can we talk sometime soon?”

“Yes” he said.

Now he didn’t always stay at her place. She did not always go to his if they weren’t at hers. Previously their nights had worked out relatively naturally. Though honestly most nights, since their first, had been spent together.

Relationships were funny for her. When single it was very easy to be alone. But having been with him so frequently, lately being alone required some adjustment.

The afternoon was spent feeling hollow, identifying the feeling and then getting over it.

She decided to go to a movie, by herself; after dropping some groceries at home.

Going to the movies solo used to be a favorite pastime. When she was younger it had taken some practice to accept, but after a while she grew to love walking out of a good movie by herself. Her thoughts could roam; the catharsis was more consuming without others there to distract from it. The same went for eating out. Dinner by one’s self is an acquired taste.

But she was out of practice and feeling vulnerable.

The movie was one of the better ones she’d seen lately. It was intelligent, yet fun. The shots edgy but classic. The movie had distracted her, but the day crept into her head. She felt alone; like those times in her early 20s when she first started going to movies by herself.

Walking home she turned on her cell; telling herself not to expect a message. She did not find one; disappointment replaced the lingering catharsis.

Before getting into bed she picked up a photo of her parents. It was taken before she was born. The image showed a young couple holding hands as they walked through tall pines. The pines stood in the darkness of their own shadows. The sun, bright against the shadows, shone upon her parents. But the light in their faces came from within. She was their first child. She knew how their story ended.

Crawling into bed she hugged her pillow and smiled because it was Thursday.

She dreamt of him and awoke to find that he’d let himself in.

Lifting her head from his chest she studied his sleeping face. Moving past his stubbly chin she noticed a pool of drool on his left peck. She wiped it away. Before they were together it was situations like this that made her hesitate. Waking up to find that she had drooled on his chest would surely send him running. But this had happened before and he didn’t really mind. He’d said it was cute.

She got out of bed to wash the drool off her hand and to shower.

After showering she found him still sleeping. Looking out her bedroom window she watched the mist move through the skyscrapers.

From behind he hugged her. She snuggled in and they stood for a while; waking with the city.

“Look I’m not trying to pressure you into ANYTHING. We just have to talk about this.”

“I know, I got scared” he said.

“I’ve been taking the morning after, but it’s not healthy. I don’t like the pill. I could just figure out something, but this is on your shoulders as well.”

“I know.”

“You say that, but if I get pregnant and you get scared, you can walk away. I can’t.”

“What do you want?”

“I want us.”

“Kids don’t figure into us?”

“I’m afraid kids might destroy us.”

“Why?”

She took a deep breath, puffing her cheeks out with the exhale. She rested her head in the subtle valley between his pecks and let her body relax against his. She thought for a minute about the photo of her parents. Maybe she was the one who was scared. Then she remembered his reaction.

“Because we can’t even talk about the possibility.”

Chimwemwe

2011-12-05T11:13:00.001-08:00

Chimwemwe is the Nyanja word for happiness; it infers an enduring happiness. Some one called me Chimwemwe Phiri the other day. I had told her my name was Kuwala Phiri; she got mixed up. Kuwala is the closes translation I could come up with for Aurora, b/c Aurora here in Zambia is a difficult name; Rs are not pronounced. And so most call me Lola; which I did not like for a long time and have come to tolerate. Phiri is a common last name in this area, meaning hills. I adopted this surname mostly for fun, but also because my homestay family were Phiris.

Anyhow the slip in my name I appreciated as I am writing a children’s book based on The Lorax and have decided to call it Mr. Chimwemwe. I came up with the name because the most highly motivated community mobilizer in my area has been given the affectionate nickname Mr. Chimwemwe. He goes by JV Zulu, but if you know him Mr. Chimwemwe fits perfectly. He lives away from the village, because there are more trees. When he was young he left rural Petuake to work in the industrial Copperbelt. Before leaving he planted a tree and made a promise to himself that some day he would return to build a home next to it.

The revision of The Lorax will be geared towards Zambia. With Elephants instead of Brown Barbaloots, Ground Hornbills instead of Swamy Swans, Hippos, Giraffes, Lions and the like. The narrator will be a Baobab. Mr. Chimwemwe will be the champion of the trees.

An enduring happiness…What more can we ask for from life? Marriage, adventure, health and wealth; not worth much without happiness. And in this world endurance is necessary in all things. Especially a thing as fleeting, as delicate as joy.

When I was a teenager happiness eluded me. Then in my early twenties it filled my life almost to the bursting. Tragedy threatened to snatch it away. This terrified me and the more I attempted to gain it back the faster it receded. It took some years, but I began to understand that in order to maintain a steady smile I had to accept that at times sadness would replace it. That when my smile returned I appreciated it all the more.

Now I am able to maintain a balance; at least somewhat. Floating through the good times and acknowledging that bad times are inevitable. But that if I can relax, if I can learn in the end happiness will return to me. That is what an enduring happiness means to me.

Marriage used to be this romantic idea; in my minds eye it would have to be perfect or I was not having it. These days I have begun to understand that it too requires persistence. I am still far from achieving anything close to permanence in the intimate relationship department; due largely to a fear of commitment driven by a desire to avoid vulnerability. But perhaps I am on my way. This understanding, that marriage will never be painless, is new. With time perhaps it will dissolve the fear which prompts flight.

I would hope that adventure will be ever present in my life. But I want a symbiotic relationship between adventure and happiness. So that each feeds the other. For when we seek the extreme in hopes that happiness will be the result we are in fact running. Running in the hopes to fill a void, in hopes that if we move continually we can leave the emptiness behind.

Wealth does not mean capital. Capital should be no more than the means by which we facilitate the logistics of life. The more I recognize aspects of my life which bring me happiness, the more I understand exactly how rich I am. The most valuable things in life are non-monetary. For me these things are: a wealth of experience in the outdoors; multitudes of good people in my life; an understanding that most people will return a smile; years of learning, loving, laughing; the ability to cook without cookbooks, to dance regardless of judgment, to sing anywhere and everywhere, to write as a means of understanding.

Some 40 years later JV returned to find his tree grown tall. He, his wife and their children live next to the tree. JV left the Copperbelt 2 years before completing the allotted time required to receive a pension. He left because his happiness seemed in danger of dissipating permanently. Today he is one of the happiest people I have ever met. He does not regret forfeiting his pension.

Vulnerable

2011-12-05T11:09:00.000-08:00

I realized this “loving someone did not have to make a girl vulnerable”. Just before this realization I had told someone I loved him. This someone was perhaps the most dangerous man I have ever met. Dangerous because he made me feel amazing in a way that no one else ever has. Dangerous because I saw us growing old together and wanted that more than anything. Dangerous because after I told him how I felt he said I was selfish and naïve. So in facing this rejection I was forced to look myself in the mirror and acknowledge a difficult truth. This being that I run from vulnerability; the thing in this world which renders me most vulnerable is attraction to a guy. Accepting this part of myself I decided that being interested in someone does not require defensive measures on my part. I never let that dangerous guy get anywhere close to me, because I knew that I would not survive if he felt less than I. The irony is perhaps that what drove him away the most was my defensiveness. And he did feel less than I, yet here I am making the same mistake again.

Now this all happened four years ago and I would like to say that I took my own advice and grew up. But recently I am 0 for 3 in the guys department. Meaning of the last three guys I have been interested in none have returned the feeling. By interested I simply mean spending some quality alone time together; not marriage. Anyhow, those are tough odds.

I am not saying that I loved these three guys. In the strict sense I did not know them enough to feel anything close to the big L-word. But I sure did like parts of them, just a I “loved” parts of the dangerous one. The way this one danced, or the sadness another carried so bravely, or that ones youthful belief in all things good, mostly the way they all looked me in the eyes. A friend once told me “Aurora perhaps he does not mean what you think he means when he looks at you that way.” Well what do they mean?

When will someone make a move? Because I am tired of making all the moves; and in all truth getting no where. Here’s the thing - Guys that don’t make moves won‘t make moves. Either because they are not interested, or because they don’t know how to. Or perhaps I am blind to the subtleties. In any case I am feeling vulnerable because I made another move and once again he said no.

Later…So someone I was interested finally made a move. This is a first in my life. However, he read my Chimwemwe blog, assumed I was proposing marriage and is no longer interested. Now for those of you who’ve read my stuff you know I don’t really talk about things like marriage and children all that often. The reason I refrained from writing about these topics in the past was to avoid situations like this.

From where I stand this situation is so completely ironic that I have to laugh. And hope that somewhere down the road he will understand and forgive me my indiscretion. That he will look back and be able laugh about a girl he once knew, who spent 30 years looking for something which was inevitably tied to the very thing she was avoiding.

Up

2011-12-05T10:55:00.001-08:00

So at this point I am wrapping up my Peace Corps Service. Lately it has been feeling like the end. At times I feel I am ready for it all to be done. I am tired for I have: been in a car accident; taken more medications than I ever thought possible; mitigated terrorism in Malawi; been disappointed in Mozambique; survived break-ins; been surrounded by hunger & sickness. But all of that is the wrong side of the coin. When doing staff trainings I told my crew leaders that the most effective leaders in this world are those people who can find the positive in any situation. For those people are able to achieve a happy ending no matter what this world sends their way.

So here is me leading myself to a happy completion of PC. By April I will have spent 26 months living in Africa. Among: the smiling faces; the mega fauna; under the at times hot-hot sun; in the thunderstorms; the lakes; the oceans; the forests and mini-buses; meeting fellow travelers, who have helped me to see this world in an entirely new light; laughing with the amazing group of people that is Peace Corps; dancing, singing, learning and dancing again.

It would be impossible for me to encapsulate in words all the good I have been a part of here. Seeing women shine because English is not so hard to learn after all; watching two friends, who have spent the last 80 years growing old together, laugh at life’s misfortunes; swimming under the moon in the Indian Ocean; watching a fisherman cast into that ocean from a shipwreck surrounded by waves; swimming, 15 meters under Lake Malawi’s surface, around an old VW and watching the little cichlids pass above the seats and out of the trunk; waking Mom so she could watch Ground Hornedbills promenade along the Luangwa River; seeing Jim happier than I have ever seen him after his first walking Safari; dancing to Akon at The Lounge, at Alpha, in my hut, in cruisers; cooking Thanksgiving with 40 other Volunteers at the Chipata House; eating termites for the first time; teaching about Conservation Farming with Mr. Chimwemwe as a translator; reading The Lorax to anyone and everyone; giving a condom demonstration while the students squirmed and tried not to laugh, then telling them it was up to them to take care of each other; looking forward to introducing Dad to Africa and seeing my little sis’ for the first time in over 2 years; talking to everyone from home while they were all in Flag; walking in the twilight of evening as I sang to the children who follow me; stepping outside my hut to see a sky full of stars for the first time since the rains began, then looking to the east to watch clouds lit from within by lightning; growing soya, maize and sunflower along side this community; hosting first site visit; chasing Zambian children for the first time during my own first site visit; shaving a spiral into my hair; outlining and starting a book; Victoria Falls glowing in the moonlight; planning to climb Kilimanjaro; working with BaDon; training with Henry and giving him hell for being a Bemba; diggin perm-a-garden beds in my yard, … The list goes on of course, but you all get the picture.

So maybe our lives are like a river. Lets, for fun, say we are buoyant in that river. We start high up near the continental divide, where the water is fresh, it’s cold yet clean; nothing really makes sense; staying afloat requires more effort as currents get stronger, pebbles turn to boulders. We learn, we figure some things out and gently float into a big shallow lake; here there seems to be no outlet the water is extremely salty, floating requires no effort, the sky above is perfectly reflected around us so that we seem to be bounded by cloud and the infinite blue. For a while the safety is comforting; it occurs that we could settle in this bubble where water flows in but never out. Then we begin to miss the unkown, the challenges suddenly seem desirable, but where to go? We realize the more we focus on this stuck feeling to harder life becomes; so we decide to relax and enjoy the easy floating. As we do this we notice evaporative processes. We let go and are lifted upwards no longer part of the reflection but creating it instead. We weather the storm enjoying the excitement of lightening, the blasts of thunder and then we fall from the thunderhead; with it’s white tops lit by a setting sun and it’s slate grey bottom turned deep purple. Perhaps we fall into yet another lake. This one deep and encircled by desert. We float through the houseboats and bumps of jet skies. Then we are sucked through the hydroelectric turbines, twist our way through a granite gorge, another dam and then are floating in a deep placid river. Our buoyancy is not as great as in that silent lake, but life is good. Finally we reach the sea, the ocean, the big mighty waters. Our buoyancy increases and we become part of a body much larger than ourselves. Looking back we enjoy the whole picture, seeing all of the parts enables us to understand that an easier path would not have made a better bed. That the challenges, especially those times when the most challenging part was no challenge at, gave life character.

Anyhow Peace Corps is a fantastic experience. They say it’s “the hardest job you’ll ever love”. I must say: I’ve had more difficult jobs, that my struggles here are different, more manageable, that I want to stop qualifying my life and to appreciate each part, for attitude is everything.

Mocambique

2011-12-05T10:55:00.000-08:00

This beach is stunning. The dunes here higher and more diversely vegetated than in Tofo. The population non-existent; compared to the hordes of tourists I recently left behind. The sea rougher, less forgiving, but demanding more respect. I walk along the beach observing the rusted innards of a ship wreck. A man stands atop the exposed gears and chambers using the point to cast his line further into the sea. He is long, dark and focused. Turning to examine the dunes more closely I notice recently abandoned ruins. The cement slabs eaten by wind, rain, sun and sea mist. They tell me a number of things about this place. First the beauty I have noticed drew the attention of persons in the tourism business. They believed it attractive enough to warrant business investments. Secondly they left. Perhaps its rugged nature drove them off. Anyhow the beach is lonesome, minus the fisherman; though his attention lies elsewhere. This lonesomeness soothes my own. I arrived in Mozambique with a travel partner. I am now alone.

We boarded the first truck to cross the border. Having minutes ago cleared customs ourselves. The two of us make ourselves comfortable on the driver’s cabin bed; located in a dark recess behind the driver and his co-pilot. Joe engages the driver in friendly conversation. I sit against the rear wall of the cabin, with my legs stretched out along the mattress; allowing my feet to hang over the edge. I have a limited view of the scenery passing; the trucks windshield a screen to my movie. Their conversation provides dialogue; increasing the cinematic quality. I love traveling; it produces the feelings passing through me now. These feelings give meaning to my life, fill it with purpose, accent it with beauty, liven with adventure. The landscape gradually changes. The woodlands we pass following natural law, as opposed to national demarcations. The truck, guided by proficient driver, curves its way off Zambian Plateaus. Dropping into the Zambezi River Valley, a great number of Baobab trees characterize the scenery. We arrive in Tete, where a queue of trucks waits to cross the bridge. There are not only trucks traveling south, from Malawi and Zambia, but also trucks headed north to those locations. Our driver scoots his way to the front of the line; as he dropped his cargo in Zambia and therefore carries no load. Due to structural inadequacy the authorities allow only one semi at a time to cross. We cross the Zambezi, which at this point in time touches both of its banks. Our goal for the day is Chimoio; which on the map looks to be about the same distance we have just traveled. The driver informs us that the trip will take longer, as the roads are bad. Bad does not really describe the sea of potholes and ruts he must negotiate. I manage to get some sleep, regardless of bumps, while Joe watches the screen; his iPod provides the soundtrack. We reach Chimoio just after midnight. The driver, and co-pilot, will continue on to Beira; their home. He speaks English, as such we have yet to encounter Portuguese. Speaking Portuguese and negotiating with the cabbie he books us a cab to a guest house I have read about in my travel guide. We say our goodbyes; expressing our gratitude in Meticais, Mocambique’s currency. Arriving at the guest house around 1 am we are both too wired to contemplate sleep, though we plan to be back at the bus station by 5 am. I do yoga to loosen up. Joe wanders around the guest house. Watching tele and doing what he does. Finally, after showers, the exhaustion creeps in. We retire to a twin mattress and rest for 3 hours. At 5 am I suggest we continue sleeping for a couple hours. Joe gets us up and out. Much to his amusement we arrive at the station right as the bus pulls up; I grumble my praise for his efficiency. The bus drops us at Inchope, from here we will continue hitching. For lack of traffic and anything better to do we start walking down the highway. Waving our palms, faces down, to all passing vehicles; hoping they will slow down, then stop, that we will board and they will take us to our yet to be determined doorstep. We walk a good couple of miles, carrying 2 bags (one big and one small) each. We had done this same thing, walking while hitching, about 8 months ago. We were both headed to Livingstone from Lusaka. That day of hitching, filled with good conversation and laughter, prompted me to invite Joe on this trip. The traffic is practically non-existent. Those vehicles that do pass either: do not want to pick us, are too full to carry 2 more passengers, or are not traveling any great distance (they communicate this by rotating an index finger and then pointing in downwards). We jump on a mini bus. Like all minis this one is crowded, it stops a LOT, and we receive excess attention as foreigners do not frequent minis. The mini reaches the end of its route and we are back to hitching. Along the side of the road school children, on lunch break, pass us by with interest. Joe playfully greats them; they giggle with nerves and joy, unsure how to react to these two whites standing along the road flagging down vehicles. The passing children keep us company as we wait and wait and wait some more. Finally a white truck picks us. I sit between the South African driver and Joe. The ride is not as comfy as the truck, but we are moving and that feels good. After a couple hours the smooth sailing gets rough. There are more pots holes; worse, tough I did not believe it possible, than yesterday's. The driver comments on how driving this stretch of road, a number of months earlier, gave him a minor heart attack. I can relate. Being in the middle I have nothing the hold onto. I brace myself, feet to the floor and back to the bench, as he slams on the breaks and swerves around gaps large enough to swallow us. Joe is sleeping; go figure. I wonder, but do not ask, why this heart attack surviving driver does not simply drive slower.We stay the night in Vilankulo at a backpackers which rests on a high bluff overlooking the Indian Ocean. Our driver had planned to stop here and would be continuing on to Maputo in the morning. He would be happy to drop us at Maxixe, from where we could reach Tofo. The lodge where he stayed charged more than we wanted to pay; we found ourselves a backpackers and he agreed to pick us in the morning. That night, after a brief dip in the ocean, Joe and I have some beers in the bar. Our discussion that evening moves us from mere acquaintances to friends. Memories we share, of growing up and losing dreams are painful. However, in our own company, the sharing of disappointments provides a common ground.We reach Tofo in just over 2 days. People, whom we asked before leaving, had told us 3 days. We rocked it. We were finally here. It was stunning. The ocean that blue green color which just makes you happy. The sand white and squeaky clean. I lead us up a rickety staircase in search of lodging. It turns out to be Fatima’s, a backpackers, which had been recommended to Joe. The view is spectacular, the bar relaxed. 5 minutes after we arrive another volunteer, who Joe knows from his district in Zambia, arrives. She is traveling with her boyfriend, who she broke up with as soon as he arrived from America. I found that out later. I struggle with group dynamics; at times I thrive when surrounded by people, at others withdraw. Joe’s neighbor, having recently dumped her guy, needed Joe? Finding myself in this unexpected disaster of a social setting I become confused and therefore withdraw. I decided to work my way through it; asking Joe if we could talk. We decided to visit Inhambane, the big town in the area, as we had planned to do a couple days earlier. It’s just the two of us, which I prefer. That day we stood on the foundation of friendship we had discovered in Vilankulo. We were back on track, my confusion dissipated. That evening I go swimming for a good hour and decide I am ready for some proper dancing. We all decide to go to Dinos, the standard dance club in the area. Things go south towards then end of the evening. Group dynamics shatter the foundation. In the end she and Joe prove to be more compatible then Joe and I. I leave after 4 days at Tofo. Her X goes home to America after 2 days. That’s life I guess.

After traveling South to Quissico I end up on this lonesome beach. It’s incompatibility with tourism and the mainstream population tourism requires, comforts me. I join the fishermen, they lend me the equipment. The rhythm of line casting and reeling-in eases the tightness in my chest. The pain is caused by shame. I feel shame because this isolation is self-inflicted. A part of this I accept and understand. I love beautifully underpopulated places. The part I cannot accept is that I have not, after years, been able to figure out how to negotiate dynamics like those I faced in Tofo. After two days of fishing, walking through breathtaking dunes, and swimming against exhausting currents I come to a decision. I will go back to Tofo. To compare its tame quality to this beaches wilderness. Hopefully to understand, so that I know how to travel in the future. But I will stay at Barra, not Fatimas, so as not to create a disturbance. I will go diving and on Ocean Safari; both of which I had originally intended to do.

I hitched back the same route I had hitched down. I was alone, traveling thousands of kilometers across southeastern Africa, but I knew my route. The most daunting aspect of my return trip being the memories. I had returned to Tofo only briefly; spending my time 12 kilometers down the beach at Barra. The visit brought understanding; not all of it comforting. I am still me. No matter how far home, no matter how much older...My personal foundation was intact. I still run from dangers which I know not how to face; and face challenges, which for others may seem out-of-the-question, enthusiastically. Go figure!

Moments

2011-12-05T10:47:00.000-08:00

So I lay in a dune basin, surrounded by soft sand and cloudy sky. I came to Namibia to find a heaven I have found before. Though it was not as I expected, it reminds me of what makes me most happy in this world...Moments of presence like that talked about by Martin Buber, whom I studied in the religious studies class I took with Ken Morrison at ASU.

...Standing at the base of a 12,000 foot peak. Surrounded by high alpine rocks and trees. It is a place I know well for I have hiked to this spot every year of my life. I am 27 years old at this point. I have been waiting my whole life to feel what I am now feeling. Everything has gone soft and cartoon-like, it is perfect in a way that makes me want to sing. And singing I know that there is nothing more fitting that I could have offered. My throat is clogged with emotion, my heart pounds... ...Swimming and walking through a series of lakes at the base of The Sisters in Oregon. Once again I am present. It is a presence that Shel Silverstein looks for in his poem The Perfect High. I am surrounded once again by high alpine forest. The water is warm. I swim past a bald eagle, and disturb a school of tadpoles. Here the feeling is a mixture of excitement and peace. ...Hiking in the Rincon Mountains outside Tucson through grass taller than me; after a heavy monsoon season in the desert. I have spent the last year working to rebuild a corps. Not sure I am doing it the right way; only later understanding... Anyhow the grass is hyper green as I watch the sunset. And I know that soon someone will be wearing that color and I will take note. ...Swimming in the Carribean Sea at sunrise, with mist rising off the warm water into a cooler air. Then braving the distance as I swim to the reef. Where I find myself flying over a world filled with color... Being asked to stay, or at least to return, in a Eugene cafe. Asking "Ya?" and hearing truth in the reply. Feeling like anything was possible. These are some of the pure moments of my life. And I can only hope there will be many more like them. Or that the moments in between, moments which remind me they have occurred, will be enough to keep me brave and hopeful. The lady who re-wrote my resume proclaimed me a "highly motivated team leader". What do I do? How do I show the above world to those around me? How do I achieve the MORE that is required to redirect us? Or perhaps I do not. I just experience it; while doing the best I can everywhere else.

You'll Live as You've Never Lived Before

2011-12-05T10:36:00.000-08:00

Let you mind start a journey through a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before, let your soul take you where you long to be…Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar, and you will live as you have never lived before.

I found this quote, during my first week at site, on a letter given to me by Peace Corps Staff. It rang for me. Just as life rang while I walked back from a football game. As darkness settled in an almost full moon rose, a little girl (one of my favorites in the village) rides on the back of my bike as I push it towards home, I sing to the children as villagers move in mass around us. The first week at site was spent cleaning, meeting people, “scouting” on my bike (this by far being the best part), understanding a difference in the meaning of time, dancing with the women, ect. Riding my bike through elephant grass twice my height, in a landscape which holds you captive…There is always something new to discover. A termite mound, a little stream which reminds of home, a big open view that spreads before you, villages placed oh so remotely… The simplicity of this village life is full of meaningful activity. Time has definitely slowed for me, though not in that reciprocal to “time flies when you are having fun”. Rather in a way where hustle just is not necessary, for there are many things to do, but if you take your time and enjoy the moment everything is completed by the end of the day, and you feel accomplished, tired and happy. I have started a garden. The first part was to clear the grass, for it was very tall and very thick. I then started turning the soil and planting. I have replanted a mint and aloe plant, which I picked up at training. I have also planted tomatoes, sugar cane, Echinacea, red sun hemp, and Marigolds…I plant to bring in bananas, eggplant, cabbage, squash. The soil is very dark and moist. Though as things dry up I have been told it will become hard due to a lot of clay, and when the rains come it may flood. So what appears to be an Eden may soon become an earthly lot of hard work. Though I do look forward to eating homegrown veggies! The women have been teaching me to dance; in a closed dark room so as to keep the secrets hidden. Though the secrecy is a front for most men and young girls, those who are to be kept in the dark or out of it, know. Their hips flutter like birds and I have finally accepted that I just can’t shake it like they can, though I practice. Some women asked for a women’s group meeting…Women are always women…There are rivalries, laziness, exclusivity and a want for immediate satisfaction that stands in the way…It will happen when it happens. While visiting my BOMA (British Occupancy Management Area) I watched The Band's Last Waltz. In doing felt a homesickness that was refreshing. Not that I was ready to return yet, but that I began to see the forest for the trees. I also watched some BBC news and realized just how important America's spending is to the world???????? As part of the world's financial review the reporter talked of how American's are avoiding big ticket items like automobiles and tending towards discount stores like Walmart. And though Walmart's was experiencing a rise in profits they were not anticipating meeting yearly targets. With consumerism as a way of life, is the pursuit of happiness in vain? I have realized also that my desires to run to the wilderness, like Christopher McCandless or my father, represented a longing for silence and calmness. I have found this in the village; there are disturbances, but they are manageable and not overly distracting.The biggest stressors are: sickness (both humans and animals), witnessing deforestation, and dealing with a neediness felt by those that surround me. Was told the other day by a Zambian man that if a women is not married by the age of 20 there is not hope for her. Why does this bother me?

Blips

2011-12-05T09:00:00.000-08:00

April 2, 2010

The rainbow was not bright, not bold; but soft, but subtle.

She saw it reflected in the stream first and thought it a figment, an illusion, perhaps oil on the water’s surface. Then turning to go she looked East, away from the setting sun and saw the misty arch sweeping across patches of cloud and blue-blue sky. She returned to stand on stones in the middle of the stream and again looked at the reflection.

It’s faintness made this spectrum unique. Faint, but real and sure. She could see trees and sky on the water’s surface. She could see through the milky green water to the bed below. And then there she was a shadow among reflection and the real. Her shadow on the surface seemed the sun’s representation of her existence, here and now, with this faint rainbow.

April 9, 2010

These days the rains have come in the late afternoons; when the sun shines horizontal against them. There are often rainbows; like the one I saw 3 days earlier. This afternoon, as I sat chatting with Charity while she painted her walls with my red polish, a storm arrived. The sun was still shinning on us, so I went to look for a rainbow. Instead I saw individual diamond drops shinning bright in the sun; they sparkled against the slate grey from which they fell. I had been looking East: away from the setting sun, towards the storm, above the tall tree behind my hut. Then by chance I looked directly above me; and saw the lit-up drops falling from the dynamic cloud above.

This moment reminded me of a snow storm at Ky’s house when we were both about 10 years old. We lay in the snow just beyond the front porch to watch the flakes fall; they were lit-up by lights from the house.

Little blips in life. Faint, subtle and oh so important.

Life Goes On

2011-12-04T08:35:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking a lot about my little sister, whom to this day I miss...Like some one who has lost a part of herself. I was in a car accident on Labor Day weekend, though I was in Namibia and the holiday was not celebrated. The car rolled a number of times. There was a single fatality and I have spent the month of September recovering; emotionally, as I only suffered a minor scratch and some bumps and bruises.

We were headed down a bright landscape, a landscape which seemed brighter than normal. Perhaps because I slept minimally the night before due to a broken down bus and a tow truck that ran out of gas. Anyhow as I dozed off and on I would notice the whitish brush pass by alongside the warthog warning signs. About 100 km after I boarded the Isuzu trooper-type 10 seater we began to swerve across both lanes of the the highway. We all ended up flying into a triple roll. I tucked into a ball as we went and prayed for all to be well. As soon as we had settled on our side, in the middle of the highway, there was a mad rush by all passengers to be out of the vehicle. I stumbled out to find one man immobile on the pavement beside the truck. His breathing was interrupted and he watched me silently. After wandering around for a confused while I came back to him and struggled to find some way to help him. I came up with none, as his injuries seemed to require more skills than I had. Soon I found myself in a truck headed to the hospital. The others were left behind to wait for the ambulance that was on its way. This man, the driver, I was told died on the way to the hospital. No one else was seriously injured, though there were many abrasions. The people I spoke to after the fact did not know what caused the driver to lose control, but in the end it's not important.

For me this incident served as a wake-up call. When I lost my little sister, to a roll over accident in 2001 on Labor Day weekend, a part of myself was lost as well. A part I took for granted as it had been there for all of my conscious life. She and I were extensions of the other and though we grew further apart as we grew older our closeness defied recognition. In the disoriented months after her loss I struggled to regain a sane grip on life. And in this process realized how utterly precious every moment truly is.

I suppose in the years since then I have healed and once again forgotten this vital lesson. But watching this man die on the highway has reminded me. Now I look back on that time. The pain has lessened, or more precisely I am now able to manage it more effectively. Sitting here I recognize that life does go on. That loss is a part of change and change is unavoidable.

I regret her not being able to live the full and beautiful life she deserved...All I ask of you is forever to remember me as loving you. That was her one request and only now 7 years later am I able to replace the guilt of things I should have done differently with memories of our happiness as children.

Here's to life and not taking it for granite.