Its 6 AM and my little watch alarm is emitting its meager beep, strong enough to wake me while faint enough to not disturb the other four people sleeping near me. I stumble down to the waiting truck and make myself comfortable for the two hour drive from Key Largo to a boat ramp 40 miles inside Everglades National Park.
Course 196 has been in The Glades for about a week now and there has been no more than hour long breaks in the constant, heavy rain. They are wet, rashed, and fighting. The kids that we serve in Outward Bound Southeast range in age from 13-17, but all are classified as ‘at-risk.’ That is to say, they come as a combination of pot heads, school-skippers, rule breakers, parent disrespecting, grade failing youngsters and have been referred to us to teach them a bit of responsibility and hopefully some coping skills while they are at it. Our strategy? Twenty day flat water canoe trips, 48 hours of supervised solo on day 11, and community service to wrap it all up. Basically, we are taking what has become the average adolescent and guiding them through what could be the greatest and most challenging adventure of their lives.
At the boat ramp, we load our canoe and all the resupplies into the speed boat and head out, twisting and turning through ‘islands’ of trees but no dirt. Mangrove ‘islands’ are basically deep rooted trees that grow out of the mucky floor of tropical, slow moving rivers like the Glades. After about an hour we arrive at our drop off spot. We tie down the 13 replacement dry sleeping bags, dry clothes, food, and a dozen other weighty and sizable needs into the center of our canoe and start off towards where the team said they would be. It is 11:30 AM.
At 12:30, we arrive at Coot’s Bay, the intended meeting place. We wait there for an hour and a half as they assume they are lost about but are in fact right around the corner, so to speak. Navigation in the Glades is more of an art than a science. While there are charts (not maps, mind you) the only real reference is previous experience. Often you can get by with, “Okay, I recognize this so I’m pretty sure we are at The Witch,” and othertimes that just gets you more lost. When all 7 of the canoes are lashed up (tied together) it is 2 PM and the team is famished. They are thankful for the fresh veggies we have brought and we dine happily on subs.
We unlash our boats and begin the convoy towards the board up site. Because there is no viable land in 95% of the Everglades, we create a kind of raft to live and sleep on each night. These are made by lashing the boats together and covering them in a network of 2’X8’ boards that we carry in the bottom of each canoe. It doesn’t create a whole lot of living space, but it is enough for kitchen/Food Circle and to lay out our individual, enclosed bug nets each night, albeit shoulder to shoulder. Very intimate quarters no matter how you slice it. Upon arriving at the site, we have to wait two hours in lightening drill, waiting for the storm to pass so the group could safely move around without the threat of electrocution. It takes another 2 hours to complete the long and and still relatively new process of ‘board up’ for the students. There is a lot of shuffling of stuff from one canoe to another to another to get out the boards and then organize everything for easy finding through out the evening and in the morning. In fact, this process has been known to take up to 6 hours depending on the behavior of the students. By 8 PM, the boards are placed, the tarps are up and the ‘kitchen’ is firing on all cylinders. It comes as almost no surprise, however, that shit begins to hit the fan at this point.
“Naw, man, tell him he needs to shut his mouth. I ain’t trying to hear that.”
“Whatever, bitch be crazy. I didn’t say nothin. Tell her sit back down.” Nia raise herself and throws her shoulders towards Tony in the most common intimidation move south of Canada. “Man, I wish I was a pimp so I could slap a bitch.” Right as the word ‘slap’ comes from Tony’ mouth, Nia lunges forward right into the lead instructor, Liz.
“Nia, sit down.” Liz has brough out her firm voice and it works well. “Tony, go sit over there with Eric.” At this point, Tony is usherd out of the scene by Eric, an assist on the course, all the while cussing over his shoulder knowing he is safe from what was impending doom.
“Okay, Nia, I need you to step back and collect yourself before you make a poor decision.”
“Naw, Miss Liz, its easy, just let me stick him. That will solve everything, it will all be over.” She pauses, looks Liz square in the face, “I just can’t let him talk to me like that.”
These sorts of altercations, while not common, are neither rare. We are bringing together kids from different backgrounds and putting them in stressful situations with no break. Kids pick fights in math class just like kids are going to pick the same sort of fights on the river. On the river, however, there is a way of dealing with it that does not include the principle’s office. After Nia and Tony have cooled down, they are brought back into the group and asked to explain themselves, take ownership for their actions, empathize for the other person and finally make a plan to keep themselves from repeating the same behavior. By this point in the course, the students are not new to this technique and come back ready to simply stay out of eachother’s way. Sometimes, however, it is not so easy and students have to remain separate for the group overnight until they can come back and communicate respectfully with a mind for reconciliation. Whether you are in an office or the Glades, communication like this is as simple as it is incrediblly difficult but at least these kids are getting a taste of it earlier than later.
As the meal of some weird pasta concoction is being served to the students, there is suddenly two kids puking off the side of the raft. One young girl, Aleni, has just started her period and hasn’t eaten today. I plant myself, crosslegged, next to her as she heaves into the brown water. Feeling like distraction is the best medicine for her nausea, I try to calm her down and we start talking about how annoying periods are and how aweful it was to use a tampon for the first time today. She laughs, “Yeah, my mom will be surprised,” her voice cracks slightly, “When I’m sick I miss my mom.” We talk about taking things for granted and what it means to truly appreciate. When I ask what she has learned so far, she tells me about knots and paddle strokes and community. “I have never seen people your age, wait how old are you, anyway? Nevermind, you guys probably can’t tell us. Anyway, you guys all talk to eachother and us like, I don’t know, like you are friends and parents at the same time. It’s hard to explain. But yeah, I couldn’t get through this without you guys and the other students.” She giggles, looking out at the black night around us, “We are such a weird family.”
When we are finally able to get the students into their nets, it is past midnight and the team stays up until 4 AM talking about the previous 5 days of behaviors, insane weather, and wet everything. We have brought the gift of refined sugar in its many forms and during the next 4 hours of laughing, venting, problem solving, we all binge like the emotional eaters we have become. When we finally are settling for sleep, it is 4:30 AM.
I ready my space, laying out my sleeping bag and placing my headlamp in easy reach. It is at this point I make a decision that even at the time, I guessed would come back to hurt me. I decide that I will remove me damp, smelly clothes and instead sleep in my sports bra and undies. At the time, the risk is equal to the discomfort so, placing my clothes at the foot of my hammock, I accept the possible consequences and there’s no turning back. Through the night, there is a drip on my face and the constant threat of waking Liz or Eric crammed in next to me with the slightest wiggle. Needless to say, I was not asleep at 6:30 when the wind picked up from 20 MPH to about 40 and lightening crashed deafeningly close.
“Okay guys, let’s get the kids up.” Liz bolts upright next to me and I am awake and scared. I start to unzip my net and look down remembering my untimely decision. Shit, I knew this would happen. I scamble around in sleeping bag and netting looking for my shorts and t-shirt; evaporated. More frantically, I search, “They are bright fucking red shorts, how can I not find them?!,” I scream at myself. I look around as Eric and Phil are pulling the raft in closer to the mangrove, allowing it to protect us from the incredible winds. Liz has moved towards the kids, trying to rouse them from their slumber.
“I need someone to help me get this tarp off the kids.” No one moves towards her, I continue looking for what should have remained on my body in the first place. In a more frantic voice, Liz calls out again, “The tarp is full of water and has fallen on the kids, I need someone to help me lift it. Now!” It was the change in her voice that pulled me, almost without thought, from my net. As I am stepping over and around the sleeping kids, I keep repeating one manta: underware is just like a bathing suit, underware is just like a bathing suit. Its fine, just help the kids, they probably aren’t even awake right now, anyway. Later, Eric would admit that the sight of me running around in my (luckily very conservative) undies gave him a good laugh in the middle of all the tension. You’re welcome, Eric.
Upon completing Operation Undies, I scurry back to my hammock and remember my stinky, yellow rubber rain gear is under my sleeping mat and I pull it on quickly. Once on, I walk to the edge of the raft and look out into the dark morning. It is 7 AM and as dark as midnight, save for the blasts of lightening striking no more than 100 meters away. At this moment, I am the most scared I have ever been in my entire life. We are unreachable by our own base and it is unlikely the park staff will come for us either. I push this thought down as soon as it rises to the surface. I am focused on my part in the machine working to keep everyone safe and as I turn back to the tumult of the raft and start shaking kids awake, I know they will be more terrified than I am.
“Brandon, hunny, you have to wake up. We have to get into lightening drill. Kyle, can you wake up Matt for me?” Brandon is rolling over and begining to wake up, and I raise my voice to explain to whoever can hear, “There is a bit of a storm outside, so we have to all get up and get our rain gear on and take down your nets.” Next to me, Stephanie is trying to wake up Nia, who is refusing all encouragement in that direction. I can’t say I blame them, really. This is their first night in days with adequate tarps and dry sleeping bags. Besides, who wants to wake up and deal with pandemonium? Not I, says the 13 year old inside us all.
Once all the students are gathered, with the wind still whipping at 40 MPH, thunder and lightening crashing, and rain dumping, Liz takes change of the moment. “Do you guys know how Outward Bound was started?” They are all sitting on the boards looking up at her as she sits on a bucket, leaning forward expectantly. Their eyes are riveted to her; the calm center of their universe, the closest thing to a mother they can ask for right now. “The owner of a shipping company approached Kurt Hahn, you know the founder, and said that all the of new sailors were dropping like flies out there in the harsh conditions of sea while the old guys were trying to save their tails and still take care of business. So, Kurt Hahn went out with them and saw that these young guys didn’t have the experience and strength of character that these old guys had and they were dying based on their arrogance and poor decisions. Basically, they were soft and their environments and lifestyles had kept them that way.” Liz took a dramatic pause, all eyes still on her as the world rained down outside of our safe haven. “Kurt Hahn decided to start a school to teach these young men about responsibility, tenacity and fortitude that would prepare them for sea, carrying them safely through the rigors of war and shipwreck and all of life’s storms. And here we sit in the middle of one such storm, having worked together, communicated, stepped up and survived. Feel proud for being here, feel proud for being a part of the Outward Bound family.” All around eyes lowered, some bobbed their heads in agreement, others just clutched their knees in front of them.
After a few minutes, there was business that still needed handled. Snacks were given, space was more effectively cleared and everyone settled to wait it out. After a moment of silence, Matt turns to me, “Yo, Miss Blake, what time did that storm start?”
“Um, about 6:30.”
Matt sucks in his cheeks, showing disapproval, “Man, storms need a snooooze button.”
And we’re back on track.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Satirically True, Poignantly False.
“Welcome everyone to Travelers Anonymous. It looks like we have a new member. Would you like to tell us a little bit about yourself?” she smiles warmly, as though I need an invitation. No, lady, I've been practicing.
“Hi, um," I begin, "Well, I’ve got that itch again. That one that starts in my toes, to the arches of my narrow feet. Through my spine it crawls, friendly but certain, to the back of my neck where it turns my head to the sky. Run, it whispers, kissing my ear lobe. This itch is more than a mood, it is in my muscles and bones, it speaks in the way I carry my body in the way I walk and dance and listen and... My itch, my teacher.
“There is no reason for me to be unhappy or bored with my life in Connecticut. I love my job, the community I work in, my coworkers, and the city within which I live. It is by chance I ended up here and I am daily coming to understand why I am here at this time. I am grateful everyday for what this decision has taught me. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I just go through the motions of loving work and time with new friends while I occasionally make the time to connect with all of those I left behind, again. Maybe the way I look at maps and long for the summer and the end of responsibility is more than just casual, a little more covetous than I care to admit. Or it could be in the way I look at pictures from the past 2 years spent abroad, telling myself it is to do some of that Photoshop work I put off while I was rocking and rolling in novelty and freedom. These recent habits hurt so good. I can only call this the cabin fever of winter for so long before it starts to creep into my normalcy; I’m in line at the grocery store and, triggered, my mind takes me swiftly and comfortingly back to that Time with that Person and that Story... no less that 5,000 miles away. Or when use my left hand and feel the visceral discomfort of committing such a heinous taboo. But wait, it is not taboo, and the trigger in the grocery store is really just organic broccoli and I’m laughing with only myself because no one else showed up to this private joke.
“Sometimes I lie awake and think of all the adventures out there. All the grand things I am bold enough to accomplish that other people are afraid of; I only want it if it is difficult, dirty, and at least 5 people tell me it is dangerous. On these sleepless nights, I wonder where I will be in exactly one year and I am tickled with fantasy, I’ll be having the fun some people can’t even imagine. Well, I think first I’m I’d like to... Oh, sorry, I guess I got carried away...Hi, my name is Blake and I am a traveler living in the past.”
“Hiiii, Blaaaake,” the whole room stammers at me in unison after the customary half-a-beat pause.
“Hi, um," I begin, "Well, I’ve got that itch again. That one that starts in my toes, to the arches of my narrow feet. Through my spine it crawls, friendly but certain, to the back of my neck where it turns my head to the sky. Run, it whispers, kissing my ear lobe. This itch is more than a mood, it is in my muscles and bones, it speaks in the way I carry my body in the way I walk and dance and listen and... My itch, my teacher.
“There is no reason for me to be unhappy or bored with my life in Connecticut. I love my job, the community I work in, my coworkers, and the city within which I live. It is by chance I ended up here and I am daily coming to understand why I am here at this time. I am grateful everyday for what this decision has taught me. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I just go through the motions of loving work and time with new friends while I occasionally make the time to connect with all of those I left behind, again. Maybe the way I look at maps and long for the summer and the end of responsibility is more than just casual, a little more covetous than I care to admit. Or it could be in the way I look at pictures from the past 2 years spent abroad, telling myself it is to do some of that Photoshop work I put off while I was rocking and rolling in novelty and freedom. These recent habits hurt so good. I can only call this the cabin fever of winter for so long before it starts to creep into my normalcy; I’m in line at the grocery store and, triggered, my mind takes me swiftly and comfortingly back to that Time with that Person and that Story... no less that 5,000 miles away. Or when use my left hand and feel the visceral discomfort of committing such a heinous taboo. But wait, it is not taboo, and the trigger in the grocery store is really just organic broccoli and I’m laughing with only myself because no one else showed up to this private joke.
“Sometimes I lie awake and think of all the adventures out there. All the grand things I am bold enough to accomplish that other people are afraid of; I only want it if it is difficult, dirty, and at least 5 people tell me it is dangerous. On these sleepless nights, I wonder where I will be in exactly one year and I am tickled with fantasy, I’ll be having the fun some people can’t even imagine. Well, I think first I’m I’d like to... Oh, sorry, I guess I got carried away...Hi, my name is Blake and I am a traveler living in the past.”
“Hiiii, Blaaaake,” the whole room stammers at me in unison after the customary half-a-beat pause.
Friday, August 20, 2010
To my family, far and wide.
Hello again after long last,
"Why do I travel? I get hot, exhausted, burnt about the face, frightfully thin. I get covered in fleas, and all the sand flies and mosquitoes in the district come and graze on me. I eat the most awful food and drink the most awful water. If I lie down in the shade, the suns goes swiftly around the tree until it is shining right on me... But I see views, people, places I never imagined existed. I learn new customs and hear old history. Sometimes I am wonderfully lucky and see something very few outsiders have seen before. I make friends with servants, soldiers, and odd charming people in remote villages. I get hard and strong, my mind opens out and becomes more receptive. Birds sing new tunes for me and I smell new scents. And for a short time I am not only independent but completely responsible for my own safety. I shed the aura of civilization and become quite a different person. And everywhere I go makes me love home even more."
This a quote from the 1935 diary entry of an English aristocrats wife while she was traveling through Kurdistan on her own.
When the young man behind the desk returned my passport as I passed through US immigration yesterday, he smiled and said, "Welcome home." The sincerity of his smile warmed me and I was struck with the sudden sense that, in fact, I had never stopped feeling at home. That, rather, as I traveled, my sense of 'home' effortlessly and quite unconsciously expanded to include every part of the world I have passed through, traveled in, and even those I haven't. Maybe that is why it took me so long to come back to California, much to the confusion of some; I was home all along, just connecting with family else where.
I don't know where I am going or what I will be doing today, tomorrow or any of my days. For now, I am connecting one branch of family in one part of my home until the wind blows and I pack a bag to meet others. And whenever the wind blows is always the best timing for me.
Until again.
"Why do I travel? I get hot, exhausted, burnt about the face, frightfully thin. I get covered in fleas, and all the sand flies and mosquitoes in the district come and graze on me. I eat the most awful food and drink the most awful water. If I lie down in the shade, the suns goes swiftly around the tree until it is shining right on me... But I see views, people, places I never imagined existed. I learn new customs and hear old history. Sometimes I am wonderfully lucky and see something very few outsiders have seen before. I make friends with servants, soldiers, and odd charming people in remote villages. I get hard and strong, my mind opens out and becomes more receptive. Birds sing new tunes for me and I smell new scents. And for a short time I am not only independent but completely responsible for my own safety. I shed the aura of civilization and become quite a different person. And everywhere I go makes me love home even more."
This a quote from the 1935 diary entry of an English aristocrats wife while she was traveling through Kurdistan on her own.
When the young man behind the desk returned my passport as I passed through US immigration yesterday, he smiled and said, "Welcome home." The sincerity of his smile warmed me and I was struck with the sudden sense that, in fact, I had never stopped feeling at home. That, rather, as I traveled, my sense of 'home' effortlessly and quite unconsciously expanded to include every part of the world I have passed through, traveled in, and even those I haven't. Maybe that is why it took me so long to come back to California, much to the confusion of some; I was home all along, just connecting with family else where.
I don't know where I am going or what I will be doing today, tomorrow or any of my days. For now, I am connecting one branch of family in one part of my home until the wind blows and I pack a bag to meet others. And whenever the wind blows is always the best timing for me.
Until again.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Zen and the art of shoveling cow poo.
For those of you that don't know, I have been volunteering on organic farms in South Africa for the past 4 months. The farms open their doors to workers in exchange for their food and housing. I found them through the organization WWOOF.org. It has been an incredible 4 months on 4 different farms and some adventures in between.
One thing that I am unable to forget when anyone asks how I am doing, what I am busy with, and what my days are like is that I am learning every day; lessons through dinner table conversation, hands on experience, trial and error on all manner of things. While my adventures now revolve almost entirely around my daily farm work, the work varies and the expertise of the people I work with has opened a thousand new doors of insight and practical skill development.
My days are never the same, even as the weeks pass on the same farm. For example, on my current farm there is one very large red bull that gets to... enjoy all the female cows. This bull is massive and ugly and daunting with down sloping horns that reach about 2 feet on each side. His name is Konkul. Two days ago I accidentally let the big bull out of his holding area. I thought I needed to pass through it on the little tractor (actually, I didn’t) and he was too close to the gate and got out before I could shut it AND keep 15 feet of space between his horns and my body. I tried to wrangle him with the tractor, but he evaded my traps and slipped in to the next field where there was fresh grass AND a better view of his lady friends. Lucky boy.
My lessons haven’t all been around milking cows or turning compost since my departure from CA almost a year and a half ago. Some of them have been funny, others embarrassing or scary but they are all jewels, treasures I worked hard for and will not soon forget.
Here are a few that you might get an alternate glance at my adventures away from the great U S of A:
Border control officers are the same as bored young boys, entertain them lest they remember they have the power to waste your time and money.
Being barefoot is fun but African germs have a way of making every scratch a septic pain
Not everyone is on the same frequency as you, but your best teachers are the ones you can hardly stand
Slow down, in everything you do.
Never use your left hand when dealing with people influenced by Islam or you might have it smacked
Don’t forget to email your mother when you say you are going to or she might start making expensive long distance phone calls to any possible number she can find to track you
The stress you feel you also have created.
Don't be afraid to eat the street food but sometimes its best to not know what it is eating (Boiled silk worms in S Korea)
Say yes. Stay positive.
When asking directions, ask 3 people and go with the majority (nearly going across town when the post office I sought was around the corner, Accra Ghana)
If you are out at night in a strange city with nothing but your camera, its not a good idea to separate from the group. (New Years Eve in Mali, 2009)
Laugh at it now, it warms you up for laughing at it later.
Don't take it personally.
If the guide book says it is beautiful and great, chances are everyone else is going there for the same reason
On that note, use your guidebook to start a fire.
If you see a job, its yours.
When a 1976 Land Rover makes a sudden loud noise, it will be expensive. (Lesotho, 2010)
Never, ever sit at the back of public transport as such seats have a way of making even pebbles feel like pot holes (Mali, 2009)
Always carry a handkerchief (West Africa, 2009)
Skipping is more fun than walking (Afrika Burns, 2010)
Listen.
Translating jokes is no way to make people laugh (Burkina Faso, 2009)
The weight of carrying your camera charger for a month will quickly be forgotten when your battery dies in the middle of your trip (Yikpabongo, 2010)
Always travel with playing cards (Ferry out of Timbuktu, Mali 2009)
Open your eyes, novelty is everywhere
Accents are funny, especially yours.
If you say it in a nicer way, people are more likely to do it (Nikolas, 2010)
Don’t leave stuff at one place because you don’t want to carry it and think you will be coming back for it, you won’t and it will frustrate the hell out of you (Lesotho 2010)
Don’t trust a cap unless you tightened it yourself. (spilled bottle of Tabasco in the Rainne’s Landy, 2010)
Share with people the things you love and you’ll never grow tired of them (Legon yoga, 2009)
Don’t plan
Avoid ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, especially in regards to transport. The question is, “Where does this bus go?” not “Is this the bus to Tamale?”
Peanut butter+raisins= dinner (Dogon, Mali 2009)
Food eaten with your hands tastes better (Ghana, 2009)
There is profound beauty in our similarities and our differences (every day)
I don't know where I am going but everyday I learn to appreciate where I have been.
One thing that I am unable to forget when anyone asks how I am doing, what I am busy with, and what my days are like is that I am learning every day; lessons through dinner table conversation, hands on experience, trial and error on all manner of things. While my adventures now revolve almost entirely around my daily farm work, the work varies and the expertise of the people I work with has opened a thousand new doors of insight and practical skill development.
My days are never the same, even as the weeks pass on the same farm. For example, on my current farm there is one very large red bull that gets to... enjoy all the female cows. This bull is massive and ugly and daunting with down sloping horns that reach about 2 feet on each side. His name is Konkul. Two days ago I accidentally let the big bull out of his holding area. I thought I needed to pass through it on the little tractor (actually, I didn’t) and he was too close to the gate and got out before I could shut it AND keep 15 feet of space between his horns and my body. I tried to wrangle him with the tractor, but he evaded my traps and slipped in to the next field where there was fresh grass AND a better view of his lady friends. Lucky boy.
My lessons haven’t all been around milking cows or turning compost since my departure from CA almost a year and a half ago. Some of them have been funny, others embarrassing or scary but they are all jewels, treasures I worked hard for and will not soon forget.
Here are a few that you might get an alternate glance at my adventures away from the great U S of A:
Border control officers are the same as bored young boys, entertain them lest they remember they have the power to waste your time and money.
Being barefoot is fun but African germs have a way of making every scratch a septic pain
Not everyone is on the same frequency as you, but your best teachers are the ones you can hardly stand
Slow down, in everything you do.
Never use your left hand when dealing with people influenced by Islam or you might have it smacked
Don’t forget to email your mother when you say you are going to or she might start making expensive long distance phone calls to any possible number she can find to track you
The stress you feel you also have created.
Don't be afraid to eat the street food but sometimes its best to not know what it is eating (Boiled silk worms in S Korea)
Say yes. Stay positive.
When asking directions, ask 3 people and go with the majority (nearly going across town when the post office I sought was around the corner, Accra Ghana)
If you are out at night in a strange city with nothing but your camera, its not a good idea to separate from the group. (New Years Eve in Mali, 2009)
Laugh at it now, it warms you up for laughing at it later.
Don't take it personally.
If the guide book says it is beautiful and great, chances are everyone else is going there for the same reason
On that note, use your guidebook to start a fire.
If you see a job, its yours.
When a 1976 Land Rover makes a sudden loud noise, it will be expensive. (Lesotho, 2010)
Never, ever sit at the back of public transport as such seats have a way of making even pebbles feel like pot holes (Mali, 2009)
Always carry a handkerchief (West Africa, 2009)
Skipping is more fun than walking (Afrika Burns, 2010)
Listen.
Translating jokes is no way to make people laugh (Burkina Faso, 2009)
The weight of carrying your camera charger for a month will quickly be forgotten when your battery dies in the middle of your trip (Yikpabongo, 2010)
Always travel with playing cards (Ferry out of Timbuktu, Mali 2009)
Open your eyes, novelty is everywhere
Accents are funny, especially yours.
If you say it in a nicer way, people are more likely to do it (Nikolas, 2010)
Don’t leave stuff at one place because you don’t want to carry it and think you will be coming back for it, you won’t and it will frustrate the hell out of you (Lesotho 2010)
Don’t trust a cap unless you tightened it yourself. (spilled bottle of Tabasco in the Rainne’s Landy, 2010)
Share with people the things you love and you’ll never grow tired of them (Legon yoga, 2009)
Don’t plan
Avoid ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, especially in regards to transport. The question is, “Where does this bus go?” not “Is this the bus to Tamale?”
Peanut butter+raisins= dinner (Dogon, Mali 2009)
Food eaten with your hands tastes better (Ghana, 2009)
There is profound beauty in our similarities and our differences (every day)
I don't know where I am going but everyday I learn to appreciate where I have been.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
I will always be Obruni
Dear Ghana,
While our time together may have seemed long given that most students only spend about 3 months learning from you, it still hurts to say goodbye. I’ve never been good at this part, letting go of something while it still gives me such happiness, but I am working hard to convince myself that everything has its time and place and currently is the time to exit this place. Maybe you can rely on a little of the patience you taught me so well and wait for my happy return; your prodigal American daughter, always leaving my family just when they start getting used to having me around. There is no doubt that I realized how fortunate I was to travel and live with you, even before my arrival, but everyday I appreciate you more and more. As an outsider to your circle of friends, there were times that were more than awkward, everything from how to “properly” eat fufu with my hand (the original s-p-o-o-n) to how to pee in those just-slanted-concrete enclosures you try to pass off as bathroom facilities without… well, let’s just say “making a mess.” A little humility is easy to come by after a few weeks of hanging out with you. Slow to judge but quick to aid in my exploration of new things, I will always be a work in progress no matter how long we travel together. I don’t want to minimize all that you have taught me, but it seems that after so long and so many lessons learned (especially those learned the hard way), they have just become as much a part of me as everything. Something so simple as the importance of a greeting to the unimportance of worry, they all have worked their way into my system, just like the stomach worms you gave me more times than my parents would enjoy hearing about.
Over the last few days, as my departure has been finalized, the “I’ll miss you” ‘s have become almost unbearable. I don’t like the phrase, to be honest, but have to acknowledge that there are times when it needs to be said. So, allow me to tell you, exactly and acutely, some of the things I will miss about you. I will miss the way you call “Craw, craw, thirt-seven, craw, craw,” from the tro-tros flying down Liberation Ave. I’ll miss eating kenkey with plantains which you think is weird but still like that I like it. I’ll miss when you talk to a stranger with the same openness you would speak to family. I’ll miss your PolyTank-bucket showers and my feet always being dusty. I’ll miss speaking Twi and using the strange Ghanaian accent I have acquired.
My time with you has left a deposit on my soul and for as much as I have felt a part of your community, welcomed and loved, you have also taught me the value of home and recognizing where you came from. It is not for the struggle of finding my comfortable place with you for the past 12 months that I say this, but rather for the recognition that there are also these experiences and adventures to be had closer to the family and friends I left 7,000 miles away. I have looked for excuses to stay but now see that yours cannot currently be my home but, as for the future, it is in god’s hands, as you are so fond of saying. No matter where I am, though; regardless of what comes and goes, I will always be obruni.
While our time together may have seemed long given that most students only spend about 3 months learning from you, it still hurts to say goodbye. I’ve never been good at this part, letting go of something while it still gives me such happiness, but I am working hard to convince myself that everything has its time and place and currently is the time to exit this place. Maybe you can rely on a little of the patience you taught me so well and wait for my happy return; your prodigal American daughter, always leaving my family just when they start getting used to having me around. There is no doubt that I realized how fortunate I was to travel and live with you, even before my arrival, but everyday I appreciate you more and more. As an outsider to your circle of friends, there were times that were more than awkward, everything from how to “properly” eat fufu with my hand (the original s-p-o-o-n) to how to pee in those just-slanted-concrete enclosures you try to pass off as bathroom facilities without… well, let’s just say “making a mess.” A little humility is easy to come by after a few weeks of hanging out with you. Slow to judge but quick to aid in my exploration of new things, I will always be a work in progress no matter how long we travel together. I don’t want to minimize all that you have taught me, but it seems that after so long and so many lessons learned (especially those learned the hard way), they have just become as much a part of me as everything. Something so simple as the importance of a greeting to the unimportance of worry, they all have worked their way into my system, just like the stomach worms you gave me more times than my parents would enjoy hearing about.
Over the last few days, as my departure has been finalized, the “I’ll miss you” ‘s have become almost unbearable. I don’t like the phrase, to be honest, but have to acknowledge that there are times when it needs to be said. So, allow me to tell you, exactly and acutely, some of the things I will miss about you. I will miss the way you call “Craw, craw, thirt-seven, craw, craw,” from the tro-tros flying down Liberation Ave. I’ll miss eating kenkey with plantains which you think is weird but still like that I like it. I’ll miss when you talk to a stranger with the same openness you would speak to family. I’ll miss your PolyTank-bucket showers and my feet always being dusty. I’ll miss speaking Twi and using the strange Ghanaian accent I have acquired.
My time with you has left a deposit on my soul and for as much as I have felt a part of your community, welcomed and loved, you have also taught me the value of home and recognizing where you came from. It is not for the struggle of finding my comfortable place with you for the past 12 months that I say this, but rather for the recognition that there are also these experiences and adventures to be had closer to the family and friends I left 7,000 miles away. I have looked for excuses to stay but now see that yours cannot currently be my home but, as for the future, it is in god’s hands, as you are so fond of saying. No matter where I am, though; regardless of what comes and goes, I will always be obruni.
New Year Sharades
“Mamatal, I think we are going to head back to the house.”
“Go back?”
“Yes,” I say, in slow, clear English, “my bus leaves early tomorrow and I need to get some sleep. We have had a wonderful evening though, a wonderful New Years.” I look at Melody, we feel awkward separating from our kind host, like it is probably even ruder in Malian culture than in American, but the fact is I have a long journey ahead of me and am beginning to get a cold. Mamatal, our host during our stay in Bamako, the capital of Mali, speaks to his friend in the passenger seat in Tamashek and we continue to drive from Party 1 to Party 2. Suddenly, we pass a taxi, the friend in the passenger seat jumps out and returns to our rear window, “He says it is 2,000 francs.” It is a high price but we get in and away we go.
It only takes us about 5 minutes to realize that we are without a key to the house. “Oh, shit, Melody. We’re going to have to wait outside for hours.” I grumble but it gets worse.
“Blake, we don’t have any money on us for the cab fare!”
“Wait, call Mamatal and see where… dude, you left your phone!”
I expel a series of curses that would curl the pope’s toes and sit stewing in frustration. This will not end well. For the next 20 minutes of the cab ride, we try to anticipate what will happen when our driver realizes he will not be paid. We can tell him to come back tomorrow? We can trade my scarf! Its cashmere! We can run really fast and escape payment!
Well, when we get down at the house, our driver is not in a giving mood for the sake of the New Year. In fact, he is livid and my French cannot adequately apologize beyond repeating “Je suis desolate” over and over again. His only answer to our offered solutions and pleading is to go to the police station and handle the situation. What? Police? NOOO! African police are generally pretty freaking corrupt and obnoxious. My dealings with them have been few and shirt and I’d like very much to keep it that way. Nonetheless, there are not other options and Mr. Taxi Man is insisting.
“Melody,” I turn to her on the drive, “we will laugh at this someday.” At that, we both erupt in some kind of disgusted laughter, at which the driver looks quizzically in the rear view mirror. Never again will I leave the house without an ounce of ‘insurance’ to get myself home. I should know better by now, gees.
At the police station, my limits of French are stretched but I get us by well enough. Melody doesn’t speak in French, and rather sucks when she tries but she does try very hard still and I am usually called upon to fill in the blanks. The chief on duty that night (well, morning at it was already 2:30 am) decides that the best course of action is to pay the driver the fare, keep Melody’s camera, the driver will return us to the house and we will return to make the payment and retrieve the camera. No, Melody will not leave her camera with these men just as I will not leave Melody with these men (whose first question to me, by the way, after the situation was figured out was, “Madam or mademoiselle?” Translation: are you married, baby, because I hear white girls are loose.”) At that, we make the tough resolution to wait at the grimy station with the creepy officers who keep asking me if I’m married and if I like African men.
While we sit outside amongst the benches with several other waiting civilians, a woman in front of us asks one of the officers that was handling our “problem” what happened. He explains in Bambara, she replies, he gets up and walks towards to the office and grabs the camera. I jump up and walk swiftly to him; that camera is not to be moved from my sight, mister. To my surprise, he hands me the camera. “Why? I mean… por quoi?”
In French, standing uncomfortably close he says, “The lady paid for you, go home.” Great, but we still don’t have money for a cab fare or keys to get in to retrieve that money. No worries, her boyfriend is going to give us a lift so we can wait on Mamatal’s doorstep like the little lost lambs that we are. I look at my watch, god save me, I have to catch a bus in 3 hours.
Shit happens when you leave home and you must leave room for the good shit as well as the bad.
This is Africa. The Africa I have loved and am pained to leave after over a year of enjoying it, wallowing in it, being loved every moment of my time in it. It is more than just hospitality, it is a deep sense of interconnectedness and respect that means that you always have someone watching your back, and often you have a multitude. It might seem like a simple thing, being escorted 30 minutes out of a stranger’s way so he could help me find my destination was one of the most remarkable instance of my time in Ghana. The man didn’t ask anything in return for our walk but conversation, not even my number, which many men request only after seeing my Caucasian skin.
“Go back?”
“Yes,” I say, in slow, clear English, “my bus leaves early tomorrow and I need to get some sleep. We have had a wonderful evening though, a wonderful New Years.” I look at Melody, we feel awkward separating from our kind host, like it is probably even ruder in Malian culture than in American, but the fact is I have a long journey ahead of me and am beginning to get a cold. Mamatal, our host during our stay in Bamako, the capital of Mali, speaks to his friend in the passenger seat in Tamashek and we continue to drive from Party 1 to Party 2. Suddenly, we pass a taxi, the friend in the passenger seat jumps out and returns to our rear window, “He says it is 2,000 francs.” It is a high price but we get in and away we go.
It only takes us about 5 minutes to realize that we are without a key to the house. “Oh, shit, Melody. We’re going to have to wait outside for hours.” I grumble but it gets worse.
“Blake, we don’t have any money on us for the cab fare!”
“Wait, call Mamatal and see where… dude, you left your phone!”
I expel a series of curses that would curl the pope’s toes and sit stewing in frustration. This will not end well. For the next 20 minutes of the cab ride, we try to anticipate what will happen when our driver realizes he will not be paid. We can tell him to come back tomorrow? We can trade my scarf! Its cashmere! We can run really fast and escape payment!
Well, when we get down at the house, our driver is not in a giving mood for the sake of the New Year. In fact, he is livid and my French cannot adequately apologize beyond repeating “Je suis desolate” over and over again. His only answer to our offered solutions and pleading is to go to the police station and handle the situation. What? Police? NOOO! African police are generally pretty freaking corrupt and obnoxious. My dealings with them have been few and shirt and I’d like very much to keep it that way. Nonetheless, there are not other options and Mr. Taxi Man is insisting.
“Melody,” I turn to her on the drive, “we will laugh at this someday.” At that, we both erupt in some kind of disgusted laughter, at which the driver looks quizzically in the rear view mirror. Never again will I leave the house without an ounce of ‘insurance’ to get myself home. I should know better by now, gees.
At the police station, my limits of French are stretched but I get us by well enough. Melody doesn’t speak in French, and rather sucks when she tries but she does try very hard still and I am usually called upon to fill in the blanks. The chief on duty that night (well, morning at it was already 2:30 am) decides that the best course of action is to pay the driver the fare, keep Melody’s camera, the driver will return us to the house and we will return to make the payment and retrieve the camera. No, Melody will not leave her camera with these men just as I will not leave Melody with these men (whose first question to me, by the way, after the situation was figured out was, “Madam or mademoiselle?” Translation: are you married, baby, because I hear white girls are loose.”) At that, we make the tough resolution to wait at the grimy station with the creepy officers who keep asking me if I’m married and if I like African men.
While we sit outside amongst the benches with several other waiting civilians, a woman in front of us asks one of the officers that was handling our “problem” what happened. He explains in Bambara, she replies, he gets up and walks towards to the office and grabs the camera. I jump up and walk swiftly to him; that camera is not to be moved from my sight, mister. To my surprise, he hands me the camera. “Why? I mean… por quoi?”
In French, standing uncomfortably close he says, “The lady paid for you, go home.” Great, but we still don’t have money for a cab fare or keys to get in to retrieve that money. No worries, her boyfriend is going to give us a lift so we can wait on Mamatal’s doorstep like the little lost lambs that we are. I look at my watch, god save me, I have to catch a bus in 3 hours.
Shit happens when you leave home and you must leave room for the good shit as well as the bad.
This is Africa. The Africa I have loved and am pained to leave after over a year of enjoying it, wallowing in it, being loved every moment of my time in it. It is more than just hospitality, it is a deep sense of interconnectedness and respect that means that you always have someone watching your back, and often you have a multitude. It might seem like a simple thing, being escorted 30 minutes out of a stranger’s way so he could help me find my destination was one of the most remarkable instance of my time in Ghana. The man didn’t ask anything in return for our walk but conversation, not even my number, which many men request only after seeing my Caucasian skin.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
who do voodoo you do
Da wears dresses. Okay, well, he wears skirts. In the same fashion as almost every woman we have encountered in the past 5 days of traveling, he has simply hemmed the edges and wrapped about 3 yards of bold African print around his waist. Da has a big happy belly and gives me a child’s smile when I tease him about his fancy dress. When men festivalize, one is bound to experience the ‘kente toga’ in abundance. They take 6 yards of heavy, hand woven cloth and drape it across their shoulders in a very particular, regal manner that makes them look like a king and a pile of curtains at the same time. On his feet are chunky sandals covered in gold that make a crinkle noise when he walks.
“Oi, ‘zalle?” Da asks, and we start our walk to the main road. Everyone we pass greets Da in Fan and bid us bonsoir. So, we tail along after our respected host and emerge on the main street. He calls to men on motorbikes and in an instant our moto-chariots await. Off to the ceremony as we zip-zip along a few dirt roads and we get down at what looks any random house, walk a maze and emerge in the heat of the ceremony. The drums are beating and all eyes are on a group of dancers whom we cannot yet see. Da taps a young man standing on the outside of the ring of people and a path through the crowd is created for him. When we get to the opening, I hesitate. I hate hate hate hate any situation that encourages even more attention than my pale skin normally affords me whilst I traipse around Africa, but I press on. Suddenly, people are raising their voices and I freeze where I stand, forgetting every French word I ever learned that might have helped me understand their commands. I don’t know what is going on, but Ian and I are surrounded by the gathered crowd and we have done something very, very wrong. A man comes beside me and pushes on my back while he squats down, indicating I should do the same. He is pointing at my sandals, so I remove them. A very large man dressed in orange, whom dancers are circling in the middle, looks at us with a confused glare. The people sitting near me point me towards the side of the crowd and I walk as low as possible, next to Da. I look back at Ian, his face is blank. We are lost lambs in a big scary voodoo world.
When finally we are settled and doing all the things we are supposed to be doing (what Da should have told us to do before hand, that is), we are front row to the ceremony. Da has left us, saying “When you finish, go home, okay? Bye-bye!” Great, now we just have to sit for fear of committing any more mortal voodoo-sins.
It is a yearly ceremony commemorating the deaths of past Dahomey kings and seems to be well attended. Voodoo is the national religion of Benin and those in the community practice it just like any other religion. I can honestly say that I have respect for those that have retained it against the formidable influence of western evangelism besides that it is just so damned complicated and interesting to me. About 1,000 people are gathered, creating a circle around open dirt, with another smaller crowd inside and to the left. The dancers alternate from performing en mass in the front, and circling around the inner group. Half of the crowd is sitting on the dirt and we all look a little like children as we gaze up at the dancers passing by throbbing to the drums. African drumming generally consists of several drums, bells, and shakers all creating an incredible polyrhythm (instruments play different beats; that is, one playing a 4 count, another plays a 5-7 count, etc.). The women bob their shoulders forward and back to the rhythm while shuffling their feet as they move in a circle, the layers of cloth around their waist creating a dramatic figure. They each wore no less than 20 long strings of beads around their necks and 6 inch wide aluminum wrist-cuffs with small bells that sing with the movements of their bodies. Compared to the men, the women move subtly, as if they have nothing to prove. The men, however, throw their bodies to the music and spray dirt as they kick their fast moving feet past the crowd. They are draped in fabric and bells and all wear large anklets that bounce with their feet. They get very close to the crowd and cause a roar of shouting. I hear the same 2 or 3 phrases shouted over and over again to the dancers as they pass. It is yelled in low tones, like a jeer aimed at an opponent, and comes out like a song in the tonal language of Fan (the meaning of a word can change based on the tone in which it is spoken; high, low, nasal, etc.).
There something about the female dancers that seems different and I can’t quite name it; after they make several passes by us I realize the variation: they are all at least 50. To see these women throb their bodies like all of the youth I’ve seen responding intense African drum language is exhilarating. It reminds me that there is a dancer to greater or lesser extent in every African, and these mamas were good enough to move side by side with young 20-something men. During the ceremony, as dancers broke into group performances, the women went about acknowledging the crowd. Some came around repeatedly to the women that were somehow important enough to have chairs for the ceremony and would lean in close and clap their hands while the seated woman sat up, speaking to the dancer earnestly and rubbing her hands together. Many women walked around with bottled to perfume and would spray it on the chair wielding amongst us, afterwards presenting an open hanky for a few coins.
In the middle of a large collection of people seated on the ground was someone of high importance. He sat much higher than anyone in his immediate area, with a group of young women who would regularly break out into songs that were then followed by songs from a group of older men to their left. At one point in the ceremony I looked over at this honored man and noticed his face lit from below in a strange way with a look of concern across his brow. I continued watching, hoping for any interesting. Instead, his face broke its expression and he looked back up to the ceremony with a smile as he slipped his cell phone back in his shirt pocket; text messaging.
The ceremony ended and we got as far away from what was once the ‘stage’ before we replaced our shoes. Fool me once, right? As we walk back towards the road, we are greeted by everyone with pass with a sincere smile. As the only yevoos (white people) there, I sensed a bit of appreciation for having attended their gathering rather than sticking to tour guides and museums like so many others. As Ian and I make our way back to the guest house, stopping to buy baguettes and oranges along the way, we wonder the significance of all the subtle elements of the ceremony we had just witnessed. In fact, we began many sentences with “I wonder why…” during our trip and very few were able to be answered with my survival level French.
When we approach the guest house on the dark sandy ‘street,’ Da is waiting for us outside. “I had to go inside the… the… house because I am, umm…vestiged. You could not go because you…”
“Are not vestiged?” Ian completes his sentence with a laugh and we bid our host good night and head for the dark hall that leads to our simple room. We spent that night staring at water marks on the ceiling and describing what we saw them as in our imaginations. In no time at all we are asleep, safe within a mosquito net cocoon. You can never tell what the next day will bring and a good night rest certainly takes the edge off troublesome occurrences.
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