I was told by someone recently, a very smart someone who I am still yet to really know, that every action speaks a need. It seemed to me that the space between two people is filled with this speaking and needing and yet we are often hard pressed to be speaking exactly the same language. Over the last few years of working within behavioral health, from adult trauma therapy patients or (currently) at-risk youth in the wilderness, it feels like I have had to choke on this idea more than once- when they start abusing again, it has nothing to do with you; when they say fuck you, bitch what they really mean is this is scary and I’m homesick. But still, I love people and as much as I have placed myself in a space of ‘helper,’ I sure as hell would not have done any of it if not for the fact that I grow into an easier, happier life learning through and from these humans I have met.
My last week on trail was one of the more difficult weeks I have yet walked out of. A friend and fellow guide, in decompressing from the week, said it sounded like something of a ‘staff development’ sort of shift. By that, we mean that I felt like I barely kept my head above the water, numbed my own emotional needs to care for those of my students, and in the end saw some beautiful humans showing their ugliest sides. I learned even more sharply that these young boys and girls in wilderness programs for the greater part of 10 weeks have so little choice and autonomy that it must be created. Many were yanked from their warm beds in the ungodly hours of the morning and sent to Utah by parents at the end of their long, though some shorter, ropes. Sometimes, the best gift I can give to the young boys I work with is to ask them where they think they want to make their backpack line rather than telling. When you have to stand in a circle to brush your teeth every day for exactly two minutes with your whole group and then do pretty much EVERYTHING else with them too, it doesn’t really matter how small the blister is- sometimes you just need someone to give you their undivided attention and support. I’ve seen this with boys, girls, young adults, and fellow staff. The trouble is, I guess, when the action does a poor job at speaking this need.
I went to Burning Man recently, my second time in three years, and was amazed at how differently it felt this time around. My first year was like being born. I remember walking up to my friend Ethan one morning as he played around in the Yum Cart and told him, “I get it.” In the time I had spent on the playa, up to that moment, I felt like I understood why it existed, at least for me. It is a place where people are given the space to cut out from under the weight of their chosen lives and run and play and explore and love with other people doing all of those same things. My greatest need the first year I came was to find the sort of community of spirit I had found myself in for two years living in Africa. America, I thought, would disappoint me. Seems not, and I left the dusty desert knowing that the space I create around me, the speaking actions of needs, is what can draw near the love of strangers and friends and self.
My second voyage to the dust introduced something slightly different. Out there in that Black Rock Desert, I saw a lot of humans expressing themselves in ways that were at once real and full of life. It looked like people being their most-selves: their sexiest, funnest, deepest, playfulest, wildest, highest selves and it was spectacular to see. Next to this, I also caught wind of a great amount of sadness about the ‘default world’ they would be forced back into. Why was it that these folk were their “–est” selves here and not away? Why was it that a friend told me, driving away covered in dust, that he wasn’t as nice at home? Why was I more paused and positive in that place than in my own home, with my own students? Maybe it is that chosen weight we carry, the one that feels comfortable yet debilitating, that keeps us doing the same things even when the results are decreasingly satisfactory, the same need with the wrong speaking. The same weight of impatience that explains it is easier to tell a kid rather than ask, the one that steps on my toes when I want to skip and tells me I should rather walk.
Hard to say where the weight comes from and where it goes, but however you slice it, your guess is probably just as good as mine.
and she asked that this time the world to come gently round to her,
B
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Such and Such
I wrote this nearly a year ago. With my recent resignation from guiding, I guess it is all the more poignant and real just how overwhelming the work can be.
And now for the such and such...
I was told by someone recently, a very smart someone who I am still yet to really know, that every action speaks a need. It seemed to me that the space between two people is filled with this speaking and needing and yet we are often hard pressed to be speaking exactly the same language. Over the last few years of working within behavioral health, from adult trauma therapy patients or (currently) at-risk youth in the wilderness, it feels like I have had to choke on this idea more than once- when they start abusing again, it has nothing to do with you; when they say fuck you, bitch what they really mean is this is scary and I’m homesick. But still, I love people and as much as I have placed myself in a space of ‘helper,’ I sure as hell would not have done any of it if not for the fact that I grow into an easier, happier life learning through and from these humans I have met.
My last week on trail was one of the more difficult weeks I have yet walked out of. A friend and fellow guide, in decompressing from the week, said it sounded like something of a ‘staff development’ sort of shift. By that, we mean that I felt like I barely kept my head above the water, numbed my own emotional needs to care for those of my students, and in the end saw some beautiful humans showing their ugliest sides. I learned even more sharply that these young boys and girls in wilderness programs for the greater part of 10 weeks have so little choice and autonomy that it must be created. Many were yanked from their warm beds in the ungodly hours of the morning and sent to Utah by parents at the end of their long, though some shorter, ropes. Sometimes, the best gift I can give to the young boys I work with is to ask them where they think they want to make their backpack line rather than telling. When you have to stand in a circle to brush your teeth every day for exactly two minutes with your whole group and then do pretty much EVERYTHING else with them too, it doesn’t really matter how small the blister is- sometimes you just need someone to give you their undivided attention and support. I’ve seen this with boys, girls, young adults, and fellow staff. The trouble is, I guess, when the action does a poor job at speaking this need.
I went to Burning Man recently, my second time in three years, and was amazed at how differently it felt this time around. My first year was like being born. I remember walking up to my friend Ethan one morning as he played around in the Yum Cart and told him, “I get it.” In the time I had spent on the playa, up to that moment, I felt like I understood why it existed, at least for me. It is a place where people are given the space to cut out from under the weight of their chosen lives and run and play and explore and love with other people doing all of those same things. My greatest need the first year I came was to find the sort of community of spirit I had found myself in for two years living in Africa. America, I thought, would disappoint me. Seems not, and I left the dusty desert knowing that the space I create around me, the speaking actions of needs, is what can draw near the love of strangers and friends and self.
My second voyage to the dust introduced something slightly different. Out there in that Black Rock Desert, I saw a lot of humans expressing themselves in ways that were at once real and full of life. It looked like people being their most-selves: their sexiest, funnest, deepest, playfulest, wildest, highest selves and it was spectacular to see. Next to this, I also caught wind of a great amount of sadness about the ‘default world’ they would be forced back into. Why was it that these folk were their “–est” selves here and not away? Why was it that a friend told me, driving away covered in dust, that he wasn’t as nice at home? Why was I more paused and positive in that place than in my own home, with my own students? Maybe it is that chosen weight we carry, the one that feels comfortable yet debilitating, that keeps us doing the same things even when the results are decreasingly satisfactory, the same need with the wrong speaking. The same weight of impatience that explains it is easier to tell a kid rather than ask, the one that steps on my toes when I want to skip and tells me I should rather walk.
Hard to say where the weight comes from and where it goes, but however you slice it, your guess is probably just as good as mine.
and she asked that this time the world to come gently round to her,
B
I was told by someone recently, a very smart someone who I am still yet to really know, that every action speaks a need. It seemed to me that the space between two people is filled with this speaking and needing and yet we are often hard pressed to be speaking exactly the same language. Over the last few years of working within behavioral health, from adult trauma therapy patients or (currently) at-risk youth in the wilderness, it feels like I have had to choke on this idea more than once- when they start abusing again, it has nothing to do with you; when they say fuck you, bitch what they really mean is this is scary and I’m homesick. But still, I love people and as much as I have placed myself in a space of ‘helper,’ I sure as hell would not have done any of it if not for the fact that I grow into an easier, happier life learning through and from these humans I have met.
My last week on trail was one of the more difficult weeks I have yet walked out of. A friend and fellow guide, in decompressing from the week, said it sounded like something of a ‘staff development’ sort of shift. By that, we mean that I felt like I barely kept my head above the water, numbed my own emotional needs to care for those of my students, and in the end saw some beautiful humans showing their ugliest sides. I learned even more sharply that these young boys and girls in wilderness programs for the greater part of 10 weeks have so little choice and autonomy that it must be created. Many were yanked from their warm beds in the ungodly hours of the morning and sent to Utah by parents at the end of their long, though some shorter, ropes. Sometimes, the best gift I can give to the young boys I work with is to ask them where they think they want to make their backpack line rather than telling. When you have to stand in a circle to brush your teeth every day for exactly two minutes with your whole group and then do pretty much EVERYTHING else with them too, it doesn’t really matter how small the blister is- sometimes you just need someone to give you their undivided attention and support. I’ve seen this with boys, girls, young adults, and fellow staff. The trouble is, I guess, when the action does a poor job at speaking this need.
I went to Burning Man recently, my second time in three years, and was amazed at how differently it felt this time around. My first year was like being born. I remember walking up to my friend Ethan one morning as he played around in the Yum Cart and told him, “I get it.” In the time I had spent on the playa, up to that moment, I felt like I understood why it existed, at least for me. It is a place where people are given the space to cut out from under the weight of their chosen lives and run and play and explore and love with other people doing all of those same things. My greatest need the first year I came was to find the sort of community of spirit I had found myself in for two years living in Africa. America, I thought, would disappoint me. Seems not, and I left the dusty desert knowing that the space I create around me, the speaking actions of needs, is what can draw near the love of strangers and friends and self.
My second voyage to the dust introduced something slightly different. Out there in that Black Rock Desert, I saw a lot of humans expressing themselves in ways that were at once real and full of life. It looked like people being their most-selves: their sexiest, funnest, deepest, playfulest, wildest, highest selves and it was spectacular to see. Next to this, I also caught wind of a great amount of sadness about the ‘default world’ they would be forced back into. Why was it that these folk were their “–est” selves here and not away? Why was it that a friend told me, driving away covered in dust, that he wasn’t as nice at home? Why was I more paused and positive in that place than in my own home, with my own students? Maybe it is that chosen weight we carry, the one that feels comfortable yet debilitating, that keeps us doing the same things even when the results are decreasingly satisfactory, the same need with the wrong speaking. The same weight of impatience that explains it is easier to tell a kid rather than ask, the one that steps on my toes when I want to skip and tells me I should rather walk.
Hard to say where the weight comes from and where it goes, but however you slice it, your guess is probably just as good as mine.
and she asked that this time the world to come gently round to her,
B
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Even Nudes Get the Blues
“Okay, so here is the bathroom. And you have your, what did you call it again?”
“Sarong.”
“Yes, we’ll see you out there in a few minutes, then.” He smiles and leaves me to undress. I take a breath, smiling to myself. Here’s looking at you, kid.
My belt clanks on the tile floor as pull off my skinny jeans. I stand up and give myself a look in the full length mirror; well, I think, if I can’t lay around naked in a room of strangers at 26, young and careless, when can I? I wrap my sarong around me and walk back into the studio where I will sit in one pose for three hours while five artists furiously paint what they see. A ‘stage’ has been set on the floor of drapes and cushions, brightly lit by additional lamps.
“Will you be posing me or, um, should I just give it a go?”
“Well,” Rick replies cautiously, “let’s see what you come up with and maybe we can make adjustments?”
I turn back to what will be my little nook for the next three hours and hesitate to remove my covering. For one half second the discomfort seems almost unbearable. I remind myself that nothing about this is going to be easy and I must embrace the discomfort for a moment until it passes. As I set myself down on the red velvet draped stool, I am supremely aware of the… shall we say, vantage points… of each of the artists. I am not interested in giving away any more intimate a glance than has already been afforded. Taking full advantage of my own artistic license in this scenario, I decide to sit on the floor. With over-cautious grace, like that of a young girl wearing heels for the first time, I lower myself to the ground with my back against the stool. Dropping my knees over, I form a kind of greater-than symbol with my legs and look up for approval.
“That’s it. Don’t move. Wait, tilt your chin.” As he says this, I rotate my shoulders more openly to the room, twisting my back slightly.
“Perfect!” Another artist exclaims, “Everybody got a good angle on this one? I’d say we got it on the first shot.” They all nod, I make a few more minor adjustments to the tilt of my chin, playing with the light until it sounds like everyone is satisfied from their varied angles. Suddenly, like at the sound of the gun at the races, there is a fury as brushes make scratching sounds on canvas with slight tapping interludes as they reload. Amidst all of this, I sit. I sit with only my thoughts to entertain me, wearing nothing but patient concentration.
There was that moment, less than a moment, when I thought this may have topped all of my crazy ideas. Really, Blake? The pay isn’t that good, even if all you have to do is sit around. But, then I remembered. I remembered that in fact I have done things much, much stranger than this and as the world spins madly on I am somehow comforted by this thought. Sitting in this form of silence, I go looking for a distraction. In no time at all, I find one.
I have this theory, you see, that goes something like this: if people were naked more often, and naked around more people, we would be happier. We would be happier because we would stop lying to ourselves about what ‘perfect’ really was, we would stop looking at our bodies in relation to “everyone else’s.” The fallacy of this being, of course, that the bodies most people are seeing undressed have been gymed, or starved, or photoshopped, or just plain lucky because those are the one’s people are told are okay to bring out of doors. Most people don’t look like that and it never seemed to be as much of a problem as it is today. If we were more comfortably naked, maybe we would stop judging ourselves as much. If we stopped judging ourselves, well hell, we might just lighten up our judgment of others. But that’s probably just a crazy thought from the crazy girl sitting naked while strangers paint her.
After 30 minutes passes, an alarm goes off. “Okay, you can take a 10 minute break.” I get up, already a little stiff, and try to, as daintily as possible, stand while wrapping my sarong around me. Somewhere along the line, sitting had begun to feel safe while standing undressed just didn’t suit me at all. Leaving the safety of my nook, I wander around behind the easels to catch the first glimpses of these developing pieces. Strange, I don’t know what I expected to see but when I looked at the first painting I was… amazed; that is me, wholly and unfiltered, rendered in oil paint. And there, again, that is me, but different. And still, three more me’s. In attempting to stifle my gasp, I raise my hand to my mouth. This is way more than I bargained for. This is big.
After a few more minutes of walking and stretching, chatting and listening, I walk back to my nook. This time, I take off my sarong without batting an eyelash and take a seat, quickly finding the muscle memory of my previous pose and settle back into my meditation. Floating in and out of thought and the absence of thought, I make plans for the week; friends I will see, bike rides I will take, books I will read. I quickly tire of these thoughts, thoughts I can busy myself with any old time, and just settle my mind and think of nothing but the space between my eyes and the wall plug upon which I have chosen to fixate.
And so goes the rest of the night. Every 20 to 30 minutes, I get up, stretch and watch myself develop through the eyes of these artists. We talk about what it means to recreate what you perceive and then sell it, how it will never be perfect until we let go of the need to make it so. The present is just too precious to be copied, I guess. Then I sit, back in my meditation of non-thought, just me and the wall plug. I like to think it was meditating back on me, but we will never be sure.
At the end of the three hours, I dress and am handed over a check for my time, along with the promise of calls in the near future from several of the artists looking for models for longer term projects. I give my thanks for their patience on my first sitting and bid them all a safe drive home. I walk out into the cool of the evening and I can no longer stifle the laugh that has been sitting on my heart all night. As I step off the curb, I give my heels and playful click. It was meant as a reminder, a reminder that I am not that girl painted so stoically on so many canvas, looking like a petal recently fallen. No, no, I am… well, I don’t really know what I am yet but maybe that is exactly the point.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Weather in the Everglades
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.
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.
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.
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