What does it mean when you don't miss things?

Originally written in the end of November...

I was chatting with a friend whom I haven't kept in touch with, and he was responding to my question about what he misses in Massachusetts, as he no longer lives there. He then asked me, “What do you miss?”, and without hesitation, I answered, “I have everything I need.”

My jaw then nearly dropped open at my own response, as it implied that I miss nothing in Mass, and that is clearly untrue. So I explained, “I mean, I miss people, of course. But I rarely feel like, "Damn, I miss marshmallows." At which point he laughed, and I wondered if he managed to follow my seemingly illogical train of thought...because I'm sure that someone visiting Cameroon for an extended period of time, let's just say, might at some point, really start missing being able to walk to the nearest supermarket to buy a bag of marshmallows. Okay, not the best example.

Is not missing any thing indicative of something? I talk to my family all the time. I Skype with and write to my parents, my brother's family, my cousins, extended family and friends. So while I do miss sitting across from those people and watching them laugh or blow out candles, or hearing my dad play piano and sing for all his grandchildren, and I miss sharing a long, tight hug when our busy lives let us slow down for a day to enjoy one another's company...we still connect while I'm gone.

But those things that I have always appreciated so much every year, which my friend and I discussed, like New England foliage and the smell of logs burning, I'm not longing for them. So what is going on? Am I failing at being human, or am I experiencing so much novelty and goodness in each place I go, that I have somehow detached from those things that I always counted on to make me happy? Autumn in New England is phenomenal. I have never taken for granted. So it seems impossible that I haven't broken down on the streets of Brasil – okay, Brazil- because I'm feening for a crisp caramel apple, a Thanksgiving meal, or one of Starbuck's silly seasonal lattes. Is my world is becoming less material or am I simply finding new material to construct my world?

Perhaps it seems silly to you to write about this, but not missing things back home has really caused me to question my own level of sensitivity. I suppose a reflection like this during Thanksgiving isn't so absurd. We're all focusing on being grateful for what we have, right? What I can't seem to determine is if this peaceful disengagement is an indication of some type of humanity that I'm lacking, a defense mechanism for a long-term traveler, or if I've just learned to fully savor each moment I'm experiencing. Maybe it's a trade-off, and if it is, so be it. As long as my family and friends know that I love them and think of them all the time, no homesickness is fine with me.

Unveiling India

       

   

I just spent a month in India, a place that for many years, had not even made it onto my map of places to visit. I had given it some consideration, but didn't think I could handle the sensory overload and wasn't excited by its extreme weather. To ice the cake, getting to India from Boston typically involves a thirty-or-so-hour trip, and my vacations are normally only ten days long. So even when I began to think more about visiting India, I was still forced to the conclusion that for the time-being, it was too difficult a destination.

When I decided to take this year off, I told myself I would go to many of the places that have been impossible to get to during a normal school year. India is said to be wonderful in November and December. At worst, if you get as far down as Kerala, you hit the tail end of the monsoon season, but the rain is quite a relief from the stifling humidity. I arrived in the second half of October, hoping to be ready for anything.

India brought so many positive experiences that trying to describe just one or two seems unfair. What an remarkably colorful country! Everywhere you turn there are deep, wrinkled faces framed by a shocking array of brightly colored sarees. Children with curious, expectant eyes stare back at you, sometimes beaming excitement. 

 Somehow, in India, everything seems mystical...and the color white seems surprisingly white. Incense burns, hands come together in prayer and faith permeates the air. Coconuts are put forth as offerings with flowers and bits of rice. If you sit quietly, you can hear the murmurs of believers, praying to their gods, and the afternoon chants across the lake.

 

Every meal felt like Christmas (said the Jew), excitement bursting from every anxious taste bud in my mouth. What would be on the menu today? I tried everything I could think of and relished being in an environment so friendly to those who prefer vegetables. What a luxury not to have to be concerned about finding red meat in my dish! Mutter paneer, tikka masala, palak, tandoori chicken, I was in food heaven. Are you going to have bread with your meal? Would you prefer nan, paratha, chapathi, roti or kulcha? With cheese and garlic? Perhaps mint? I got used to eating spicy foods, which I never believed I could. And what was my prize? Cucumber raitha to sooth my mouth and a mango lassi to wash it all down. Outside of Delhi, well-known for their cuisine, Keralite cooking stood out the most. Their use of coconut oil made meals rich and scrumptious, each bite worth savoring for a long time before swallowing. I've never looked so forward to meals every day. 

If you are accustomed to floating through places you visit unnoticed, rest assured, India knows you are there. I was admittedly caught off-guard by men who pulled over their vehicle to ask if we could take a picture together, and by families who would stop me and request that I stand next to them for a photo. I suppose many visitors find this to be a nuisance, or at the very least, uncomfortable. Naturally, it feels awkward to pose with a stranger and wonder what s/he is going to do with that 1-2-3 “Cheese” moment. But if that's all it takes to make someone happy, isn't it worth sacrificing your comfort for a moment? Goodness knows how many strangers across the world have obliged my request for a photo.

The Indian population, as a whole, strikes me as incredibly eager to please, and we, as visitors, should recognize and return this kindness. They are a remarkably hospitable people, and it is with great patience and acceptance that visitors must approach this baffling mass of a subcontinent. If we are to focus only on the poverty-stricken piece of its identity and all the ensuing chaos that results, we completely miss all the wonder that bubbles on India's surface and deep within its belly.

Valuable lessons were learned in India. My favorite – I love discovering I'm wrong. It is inexpressibly rewarding to suddenly discover that something you thought or believed is not quite that. To realize I'm wrong and to allow myself to accept it means a moment of conscious growth of the brain and soul – a possibility to expand my own horizons. So I would like to apologize to India for not giving her a chance sooner than I did. I was a bit of a coward. But I know now, and I'm prepared to spread the word. 

The Harshest Hours in the Himalayas

It was just before 5am, the sky still dark and cold when we departed. Outside the lodge, porters were pulling on their hats and gloves and adjusting their bundles. Trekkers were slowly stepping out into the chilled air, bracing themselves as they turned on their head torches, watching the frosty breath leave their mouths after a last bowl of hot porridge or garlic soup.

Shubas, my porter, came unprepared with no torch, so it was up to me to lead the way. As we set out for the great mountain ahead of us, a very distinct feeling came over me. It was the first time I would walk these paths in the dark, and as I carefully tread over different sized rocks and sensed the vastness of the abyss that lay in wait beside me, only inches from my innocent feet, I realized what I was feeling was fear.

Sukra, my scrawny Nepalese “guide” with less-than-adequate English and almost no inkling as to the importance of communication and professionalism, was already far behind me, accompanying my much slower roommate. And here I was in the blackness of the night on the edge of this beast of a mountain in the freezing cold with a lightless, phoneless porter who brought himself only one liter of water for a five thousand four hundred and sixteen meter pass.

“You can do this, Lauren. You've made it this far. This is the last test”, I told myself. I searched in front of me, unable to make out the curves of the trail ahead. Behind me in the distance, I could see the slow-moving torches of other trekkers, already much lower on the mountain than I found myself. I wondered if they, too were unsure of their footing.

When the first hints of light began to reveal the trail beneath my feet, I felt immense relief. My fingers ached from the bitter cold and I questioned whether or not I could afford to blow hot air into my gloves at such a high altitude. I was already measuring my breath, and noticing that the inside of my nostrils was now frozen. The further we walked, the slower we got. My usually fast feet seemed to be betraying me as the trail steepened. Shubas stopped to sit on a rock, removing the bundle from his skinny frame. “Water”, he exhaled, his voice already exhausted. I stopped walking and looked up at the magnificent golden coat that swept over the snow-capped peak we were facing. I shook my head in disappointment but smiled at the irony. For the first time in my life, I was too tired and too cold to take out my camera.

As it got lighter, my fingers did eventually thaw, reminding me of a pain I had experienced only once before while bike riding near midnight in a rural Dutch village one New Year's Eve. I wondered how long frostbite might take to set in and tried not to worry. My feet moved more slowly than ever, one occasionally crossing over the other as my body responded drunkenly to the increasing altitude. Less-affected trekkers cautiously, respectfully passed me from time to time, greeting me first and exchanging the familiar lift of the eyebrows or shake of the head to acknowledge the challenge we were taking on.

The landscape was changing beneath my feet, crunching as I stepped over the thin layer of hardened snow. Another rock, another rest. I marveled at the peaks that surrounded us and listened to my own quiet breath, until the silence was broken by a helicopter flying overhead, which in these parts, could only mean one thing. I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer. This mountain seemed to have a way of making one feel so small – so insignificant.

The two hours and forty-five minutes it took me to reach the almost eighteen thousand foot pass of Thorong La were some of the most challenging hours of my life. I spent them on a pendulum of ponderation, swinging between the awe-inspiring Himalayas and hyperconciousness of my own mortality.

When I spotted the colorful string of traditional Buddhist flags at the top of the pass and the group of Polish trekkers lifting their glasses to toast, I stopped moving and simply raised my eyebrows and smiled back at Shubas. “Black tea?” he asked, as we weakly eased ourselves onto a bench in the small wooden lodge where ten or fifteen other trekkers were attempting to regain some warmth. I was shaking so much that I couldn't hold my tea, so I set it on the table and used the metal mug to warm my hands.

 After about thirty minutes I decided I was ready for the four hour descent. Just as I stepped outside, I heard my name and turned to see my roommate arriving on horseback with a giant smile on her face. “You made it!” she shouted excitedly in her adorable Chinese accent. “Barely” I laughed, “but yes, I did.” Suddenly I looked over to where the path would continue and I felt a surge of energy. I made it, I thought, and it's all downhill from here.

Stomping On Fear

Sometimes we fear so much in this world that we allow it to get in the way of our most enriching opportunities. We watch the news and decide that a country is too dangerous to visit. We don't talk to strangers because they might want to do us harm. We keep to ourselves because we're not sure what people want from us.We don't skydive, and we decide not to white water raft, or in some cases, even get on the dance floor because we don't know what will happen. Fear can come in teaspoons or in vats, but somehow, regardless of it's quantity, its effect on us is always similar. At some point in my life I decided that if I let my fears get in my way, I'm going to end up bored, with nobody to blame but myself.

Are you familiar with Couch Surfing?

I've been traveling to remote corners of the world for a while now, and only one year ago did I discover an organization that completely changed my approach to visiting new places. Couch Surfing is an organization that aims to create cross-cultural connections by facilitating friendship and a free place to stay in virtually any part of the world.

My reaction was the same as yours. “What do they get out of it?” My American brain couldn't fully grasp the concept of opening my home to a total stranger – just because. But one year ago when I planned a trip to Cape Verde, a group of islands off the coast of west Africa, an unexpected flight cancellation caused me to have to extend my stay by an entire week. I hadn't budgeted for that, much less in a nation where hotels would cost twice what I was accustomed to paying. It was time to be resourceful.

Aware of the numerous risks I was taking as a solo female traveler, I decided to take my chances and contact potential hosts. I was thrilled to receive welcoming responses, and in the end, Couch Surfing turned out to be an amazing solution. I stayed in the homes of four different incredibly generous, friendly and helpful people as I hopped from one island to another.. I could feel my heart growing fuller as my days were spent talking and laughing over meals with my them, visiting places of interest, hiking or taking walks, listening to music together, and sharing stories. It was truly mind-blowing to me that there were these incredible people out there willing to extend their friendship to me, help me as much as possible, and offer me their spare bedroom and their trust. Clearly this is more than anyone could possibly hope for.

I know that some of you can't help but judge me for seeming naive. But really, is it worth thinking about what could go wrong? I don't think it is. If you trust your instincts and you read the references made available to you, this is one of the most fabulous opportunities you may ever choose to take. I have now couch surfed in Cape Verde, Mozambique and Trinidad and Tobago, so when I decided to come to India, it seemed all too obvious what I needed to do.

I have always felt intimidated by India. The things I had heard repeatedly from other travelers – the strong smells, constant crowds, unsanitary conditions, extreme begging, groping men, and the almost inevitable chance of becoming violently ill for at least a few days - caused me to keep putting India on the back burner of where my list of destinations was slowly cooking. But when I decided to take an entire year off of work to travel, I knew this would be my only chance to avoid monsoon season and visit India with a proper amount of time to explore. Perhaps I couldn't escape the sensory overload I so dreaded, but I could still try to do this right...and right it was.

It was past midnight when I landed in New Delhi, and I had a place to go and people waiting for me upon arrival. We sat and chatted for a few hours until sleepiness overtook me and I retired to my bedroom. The next day we shared breakfast and tea and my host helped me to map out a plan for the three to four weeks I intend to spend in the country. In the afternoon, he and his friend took me around the city a bit. We visited an old fort, watched the sunset, and then decided it was time for a nice meal.

Maybe it's silly, but the simplest things thrill me. As we sat at the dinner table of a Delhi restaurant, my host and I looked at the menu together; dal, paneer, matter, aloo, palak. I was able to name all of them in English, and he gave me a “five out of five!” for coming to India prepared with some Hindi vocabulary. When we were almost finished with dinner, my host and his friend both had big smiles on their faces as they watched me eat. “Wow”, one of them commented. “You are doing a really good job with that naan. I can't believe you can break it with just one hand. Even many Indians cannot do this. You know our fat friend that you met yesterday? As much as he likes to eat, he still hasn't learned to use only one hand.” I started laughing and might have even blushed. It was one of the coolest compliments I think I've ever received.

There were strong smells in the street that night. A begging child approached me at the ruins, causing me an immediate pang of sadness. The roads were crowded with honking cars and fearless drivers who knew no such thing as lanes. And the stares! Men stared at me from cars, from restaurant tables, and as they passed on the street. There was no groping, thank goodness, but there was no blinking either. Staring seemed to be an indulgence. But you know what? There wasn't a moment that I felt uncomfortable. I was welcomed to this country by people who offered me friendship, a home and a wealth of information. My introduction to India was perfect. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Go stomp on your fears. You'll never wish you hadn't. 

Things We Take For Granted

 

On the day I left Ethiopia, my first flight was to Istanbul, and seated next to me was a very beautiful, Muslim Ethiopian woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. I greeted her in Amharic as she sat down in the middle seat, with nothing but her purse in tow. She smiled, but looked slightly uneasy.

After several moments of staring at and inspecting the metal and fabric in her hand, she turned to me with a slightly embarrassed look, and asked me with her eyes if I could fasten her seatbelt. I smiled in an effort to reassure her that there was no problem, demonstrated with my own seatbelt what she needed to do, then repeated it one more time for her to see. “Wow”, I thought to myself. This woman has never been on a plane!

Once everyone was settled into their seats, the flight attendants came by with little plastic packets of headphones, offering them to each passenger. My seatmate accepted one, and then turned to me, again confused. I pointed to the small tv screen on the back of the seat in front of us, and the small hole in our armrests. I plugged her earphones in and then switched the tv on and then off again. Her eyes widened and she looked over to the woman on her right to see if she could believe this discovery.

Another flight attendant came by, this time delivering a small red pouch for each of us. She hesitantly opened the zipper and removed a small packet of foam ear plugs and stared at them. I tapped her arm, waiting for her to watch as I took my own, rolled one into a spiral, and carefully inserted it into my own ear, unsure if she understood the purpose of this neon yellow cone in my ear.

Next she took the eye mask out of the pouch, and I tried to help her put it on without disturbing the perfectly-placed scarf that covered her hair, which was clearly in a pony tail or a bun underneath. She removed the last item from the pouch, and looked for confirmation from me that those really were socks they had given us. I gave her the thumbs-up sign and we got ready for take-off.

Even if I had sat and thought about what it was like to fly for the first time, I still could not possibly have imagined all the things that were new to this woman, and how incredible it would be for me to witness her experience. She spoke slightly more English than I did Amharic, and we were able to use this limited selection of words to exchange very brief conversation.

At meal time, our trays came complete with a rather nice array of food. She sat without touching her meal, and I wondered if she was praying, but noticed that she seemed to be waiting for something. As I reached for and opened the cardboard packet holding the utensils, I saw a look of recognition on her face, and she reached for her own with her beautifully henna-covered hands.

With about 45 minutes left to our flight, I opened my window shade, and again, her eyes grew wide. We were seated next to the wing, and she asked me if that was a different plane. When she saw the clouds below us, she wanted to know what they were. “Do I draw a picture?” I wondered. She asked where the houses were as we stared from our window to the landscape below us. I tried to explain that we were so high up, that it wasn't possible to see the houses just yet. They would look very, very small.

As we started our descent, she began to grimace and brought her hand to her ear. I wasn't sure how successfully I could explain to her how to plug her nose and blow to release the pressure, so I dug in my backpack and handed her a piece of gum, and also encouraged her to yawn.

I couldn't get over how new this all was, and when I couldn't stand the curiosity anymore, I asked her where she was headed. A big, shy smile came across her face, and she said in a very thick accent, “Norway”, and held up her boarding pass to Oslo. I looked at her, smiling and puzzled by her response. She held up her left hand, showing me her ring finger, and said, “I start a new life.”  

Hanging On to Tradition

It is 2004 according to the Ethiopian calendar. Recently deceased Prime Minister Meles Zenawi's image appears on every television screen, on the back of rickshaws, and memorial cards in the streets. It is even displayed on the walls of the immigration desks in Bole International airport. There are unusually large crowds in the streets, gathering to watch funeral coverage of this man who oppressed the majority of the country's tribes while favoring the Tigray of the north.

Meanwhile, in a village tucked away in the southern Omo Valley, something very different is happening. I am in the good company of Toni, my new traveling companion, and Kalla, a twenty-six year old man from the Hamer tribe who speaks impressively proficient English, and is almost done with his high school education. He is wearing his hair in traditional Hamer corn rows, but his clothing is western. I inquire about this, and he explains that the government insists, “This high school is modern and students are required to wear western clothing, remove their tribal jewelry and cut their hair”. Girls are not allowed to wear their traditional goat skins, nor should their breasts be exposed. Kalla says he wonders what's next, and if the government will soon ask the Hamer to cut their own throats.

We walk for seven or eight kilometers down a dirt path created by the dried-out river, surrounded by trees. Occasionally we pass other Hamers, identifiable by their traditional dress, body painting and ornamentation. We stop under the shade of a tree to talk to three men who are preparing to head up to the village. They are painting their legs and we sit down to join them. Kalla paints his legs first, which only men do, and then paints our faces and arms. “Okay”, he smiles, “Now we are ready. Can you hear them singing?” We listen and nod as we begin to walk.

 

Whips, welts, blood and bells... breasts, body paint... goat skins, gourds, guns and horns. We are attending a Bull Jumping ceremony, and this is NOT intended for tourists. If a Hamer male wishes to be eligible for marriage, he must go through this passage first. He is to be the focus of the entire village starting very early in the day, and the women will start by gathering in a very large huddle and dancing. They wear bells tied to their legs, and as they all jump and flip their head and clay-covered hair from side to side, forward and back, the sound is deafening. They carry sticks, blow horns and chant songs that help prepare the jumper on his big day. These actions are repeated throughout the day until right before sunset when the jumping occurs.

Around 2:00, Toni and I see the women begin to rush away, all in the direction of a small group of men who are coming toward us from a distance. The whippers have arrived. These women bombard the men who arrive very nonchalantly, some of them smiling, others looking very serious. As the men separate, several women surround each of them, pulling on their arms, blocking their path, trying to force their switch into the men's hands...and it begins.

Each man singles out a woman who looks him boldly in the face as he slowly raises his arm behind him and lashes out hard and fast. The switch comes down so quickly on her back that it's over in a blink, leaving a bloody, five to eight inch mark across her back. These women do not yell. They do not cry out. They hardly blink. Friends circulate, putting a special butter on the gash, causing it to become infected and form scar tissue. As I watch this, I now understand why Hamer women's backs are covered in huge, inflamed welts.

We spend the next several hours finding a balance between participation and observation. Some of the Hamer women invite us to dance. I am more worried about saying “no” than about how ridiculous I feel. Later, we sit on a goat hide mat and share Parsi with a few others. Parsi is an alcoholic mix, passed around in a gourd, made of sorgum, honey, water and I don't know what else. It looks just like mud, and as I force my worried, western self to take a sip, I say a little prayer that the water was first boiled. I smile big at Toni and she returns the smile. We are silently laughing together as we know we're sharing the same thought, and pass the gourd on for others to drink.

It is past 6:00 when they round up the bulls. The women are still dancing and singing, horns blowing and bells jingling. There are hundreds of us standing in an expectant circle, and the bull jumper stands disrobed in the middle of it all, surrounded by about fifteen bulls. The other men gradually line the bulls up in one straight row, remaining one at the front and one behind to ensure that they do not run.

The moment is finally here. There is no hush as one might expect. The jumper takes a very short running start, and without using his hands, manages to climb right up the side of the first bull and run straight across all of their backs without missing a beat.

He must do this four times, and will take a beating if he shames his family by falling. He is on his second run when I realize I am holding my breath. I am so nervous for this perfect stranger that I almost cannot hold my camera steady. As he finishes the fourth run and his feet touch the ground, Toni and I find ourselves jumping up and down cheering as the men around him cover him up and congratulate him.

The sun is nearly down, and Kalla grabs Toni's hand and mine and leads us quickly through the crowd. Braids covered in clay, goat skin skirts, rifles, babies on backs – it all whooshes by as we head down the hill, knowing we have an eight kilometer trek ahead of us to do in the dark. Toni and I look at each other, eyes wide, still in disbelief at the day we have experienced. As we walk, I think to myself how fortunate we were to be a part of this Hamer ceremony. Ethiopia is changing rapidly. Just six years ago I visited the southern Omo Valley, and it was a very different place. Tourism is growing, the government is making demands of the tribes, and it is quite possible that in a few short years, the Hamer may cease to practice this custom the way they do today.

Suddenly, I find myself thinking to the future. I imagine myself a grandparent, telling my children's children about this age-old ritual that I witnessed with my own eyes, and I picture them shaking their heads in disbelief, just like Toni and I did. I sure hope I live to tell these stories for generations to come.

Finding a Balance

The more I travel in Mozambique, the more aware I become that each day is made up of a see-saw-like pattern of goods and bads, which in the end, allows me to stay sane in what most well-traveled people would consider a somewhat chaotic place.

Almost daily, I experience the sensation that the person I am dealing with is trying to take advantage of me. Most frequently this has to do with transportation and can be blamed on the lack of posted prices that westerners are so used to, along with the money collector's power to charge whatever he is in the mood to for the piece of luggage one is carrying. I usually spend the beginning of every ride somewhere shaking my head at having been overcharged.

However, there is always some turning point, either during the ride, or at the very end, when I am reminded of how wonderful people can be. After my second experience being ripped off for a ride, a very friendly man who turned out to be a teacher, like myself, was kind enough to walk with me from the ferry to the place where I needed to catch my next mini bus. It took us about 15 minutes to walk there, and he insisted on taking my bag for me. He took it upon himself not only to find the right vehicle for me, but to also speak personally to the driver to ensure I was being charged a fair price. Imagine how grateful I was!

It was already quite dark upon arrival in Vilanculos, and I had no idea how to get to where I was heading from the bus stop. Earlier that same day, I was charged an exorbitant amount by the mini-bus driver to drop me off what turned out to be one kilometer further from the official bus stop. Yet this driver saw that I had luggage and it was dark, and he actually drove me to my destination instead of dropping me off and wishing me good luck finding a taxi. This is unusual, and again, not taken for granted.

Today was an incredibly long day. I got on my first bus at 4:30am after a 20 minute walk in the dark (thanks to an unreliable taxi service). At 12:30 we arrived in Inchoppe and it was time to board the next bus immediately. This mini van had four small rows, and one extremely aggressive, inhumane money collector. By the time he was done loading us in, there were 27 angry passengers, plus our driver and a boy who replaced the money collector.

Despite appearances, we are in transit. These people are not boarding the bus.

At 7:30pm, our driver determined that it had taken us too long to get to the Caia junction, and we would not make it to Quelimane by that evening, as planned. Passengers stood in a semi-circle around the driver, waiting for their unloaded luggage and the difference in money returned to them so that they could use it for tomorrow's fare. The driver offered to let me sleep in the vehicle if I didn't want to pay for a hotel, but when I explained to him that I had been on a bus for the past 13 hours, he said he understood, and said that he just wanted to help. After returning the money due to the leftover passengers, he reached out again. “Would you like me to take you to an affordable hotel? The rooms aren't going to be very nice, but it's only to sleep, right?”

Not only did they bring me to the hotel, where I was able to get a room for $7.40, but he also offered to bring me somewhere so to have a hot meal. As I sat with Fred and Escurinho (“Darkie”), eating Price Chopper-rubbery chicken and rice, Fred hoping that I didn't mind eating in such a simple place, I thought about how lucky I am. My diet today consisted of two pieces of bread, four tangerines, an apple and a small bag of peanuts. There was one stop to use the “bathroom”, on the side of a busy road in a town center where there was no place to hide myself. Kids rode by on their bikes or walked past and laughed as they saw me squatting to pee, unable to find privacy. But here was this driver who saw that I had a rough day and reached out. After dinner, he brought me back to the hotel, and even offered to come pick me up at 6am and knock on my hotel door when the bus will head to Quelimane. 

I know that we will then sit on the bus for up to two or three hours where we stopped last night, waiting for it to fill beyond capacity before we can leave. I'm also pretty sure that I will most likely have someone else's baby sleeping on one of my arms while the two-year-old behind me bangs on the back of my seat and the man on my other side unknowingly assaults me with his body odor. But the ride will be shorter, and I will take it with Fred and Escurinho, two people who didn't have to care, but chose to. And that's what the African see-saw is all about. You will be frustrated and down over and over, and for every time you are, someone will surface out of the blue to bring you back up and restore your faith in humanity. It's amazing how inspiring negative experiences can be.

My bag (in its green cover) and some company for the ride.

Speed Bumps

(Originally written Aug. 4th) 

Life is fantastic. This morning I didn't want to spend an extra second in my bed. The moment I woke, I heard the waves rolling in and crashing outside. I knew the sun must be coming up and I didn't want to miss it. I untucked my trusty mosquito net, slid on my flip flops, and walked out of my little thatched-roof bungalow in my pajamas to find the sun shining brilliantly over the soft, beige sand. It is incredibly peaceful here at 6:40 in the morning, and I am particularly thankful that at 8:30 last night, despite it being a Saturday, I was too tired for anything but bed. A Great Dane and a Jack Russell Terrier are running together, playing on the beach. Further down, there is a woman in a traditional African sarong walking alone with a large bucket. Other than that, there is no one, and it is bliss.

I've only been in Mozambique a few days now. I spent the first two in Maputo, and was so spent from three weeks of camping, firmly scheduled days and being part of a group, that all I wanted was to do nothing at all. I went to bakeries, cafes and spent most of my time reading and investigating where I should spend my time in this long-coasted country. Flights are terribly expensive, so I opted to make my way up the coast via chapa, their version of the minibus. However, the hostel I was staying at offered a convenient door-to-door shuttle service that would bring me from my hostel in the capital directly to Tofo, my next destination. Although somewhat pricey, I decided the convenience was worth the cost. I double-checked that the shuttle would at least make a couple bathroom stops and signed up to leave at 5:30 the next morning. Wow, a direct door-to-door service! I was off to a good start.

“Too good to be true” is the expression that springs to mind when describing the said “direct shuttle”, and it shouldn't have been, for the seven hundred meticais that I paid to the hostel's reception desk. Before I continue, let me clarify a few things. Seven hundred meticais is equal to about twenty-six U.S. dollars, and it is a long ride from Maputo to Tofo. But this is Mozambique, not the United States.

The shuttle arrived on time, and approximately 10 of us, all foreign, were loaded into its small inside, where the twenty-something year old in charge proceeded to cram our luggage into the aisle and our day packs into our already-limited foot and leg space. I looked around at the variety of, “Oh boy, here we go” expressions around me, and reminded myself that it could be worse...and worse it became. Ten minutes later, we stopped at the very traditional African bus lot, where we sat for the next hour as our man in charge searched for passengers to fill the rest of the breathing space. Once he had successfully found six more passengers, he snapped his fingers and made seats appear where they previously failed to exist, charged each new arrival 435 meticais for the ride, and we were on our way. Failing to notice the stunt that had just been pulled, the non-Portuguese speakers around me sat quietly, trying to readjust their bodies in a way that would be comfortable enough for the six-hour journey. I sat there annoyed, suddenly remembering the hand-written sign at the reception near the information board about the shuttle. “Any questions or complaints, speak to the driver.” Why didn't that raise a flag in the first place?

The next eight minutes were spent in an unsuccessful attempt to bring to the attention of the driver and other man in charge that we were aware we had been overcharged by 265 meticais, and would like some type of fair action taken. Yes, the others got on the bus ten minutes later than we did, so they didn't owe us the entire difference. But we had all assumed that we were paying the price we were for the convenience of a non-stop, comfortable ride. Had we known we could have gotten on the vehicle in the same place the others did and paid 435 meticais, we certainly would have.

The man in charge wouldn't look me in the eye as I asked him why we were being charged 700 meticais for nearly the same exact service. He paused, repeated my question several times, paraphrased it, and finally declared that we should take it up with Fatima, the hostel owner, if we had a problem. I explained that there is a sign in the reception, directing us to speak to those in charge of the shuttle, not Fatima, should there be “questions or complaints”. Indignant but unsurprised at having been taken advantage of by both the shuttle service and Fatima, I was unable to keep my mouth shut about the obvious corroboration. This useless exchange came to an end with one last sudden comment from a Mozambican passenger who decided to chime in. “What does she want? For us to pay 700 meticais for the ride? We're not slaves! This is Mozambique!” and mumbled something about racism to frost the already overcooked cake. All I could do was shake my head and laugh in my mind at the accusation. If only she knew me.

Despite the unpleasantries of the shuttle, getting to Tofo was so worth the trouble. I think sometimes we think about going somewhere, but we know the ride is too bumpy, cramped or long, and we let it discourage us. But what about the fresh grilled lobster and coconut rice, the eleven dollar hut on the beach, and the chances to swim amongst dolphins and whale sharks? Isn't all of it part of the journey?  

Sweet Surprises

When it comes to travel, I love not knowing what to expect. It's true that I like to feel prepared for events and weather. I want to be wearing the right clothing and have enough money with me to cover my needs. I want to make sure my camera batteries are charged before the lions appear, and that I shower right before the 3-day stretch with no running water. But I love the feeling of not knowing what I might see when I'm already on my way.

Years ago, when I finished my Masters program, my friend Larry gave me two gifts that to this day, have always played a significant role in my trip planning; a beautiful beige globe and an image-filled travel book that dedicates two pages to every country in the world. Each entry features beautiful pictures, useful facts about each country's official languages, population, must see/do ideas and fun facts, among other handy information. I like to page through this book with my globe next to me on the couch the way most people like to watch HBO. About four or five years ago, I opened the book to Botswana. About thirty-five seconds after looking at the tall green grass and the razor sharp close-ups of ostriches, hippos and the Okavango Delta, I said to myself, “I want to go to Botswana.”

So here I am, and for the first time in my life, I decided to take a scenic flight. This granted me the opportunity to better understand the delta, where I was about to spend three days. The aerial view not only provided a larger perspective, but also allowed me to process the fact that there really were animals everywhere on the delta. As our single-engine plane got further from Maun, I began to spot them: groups of elephants bathing in the deep blue water, a giraffe couple walking slowly across the maize-colored grass, hundreds of water buffalo enjoying the late afternoon sun and hippos making their way slowly to the water.

Early the next morning, we were taken by speed boat to the mokoro jump-off point. Mokoros are dugout canoes, and there were several polers waiting to take us to the island where we would pitch our tents. One poler in particular caught my attention. I don't know if it was simply his hat or the way the he smiled with his eyes, but I wanted to remember him. When I asked if I could please take his picture, he said, “Yes, and then remember this number,” and pointed to his mokoro license plate. “Come with me. I am Beeeetee. I would like to be your poler! ” and flashed me a smile that shone brighter than the sun's reflection on the Botswana-blue water.

The days that followed were the most relaxing I have experienced since my arrival to Africa. I lazily dozed on and off as we glided in the mokoro through the tall reeds using the paths that hippos had created. The gentle splash of the water as the pole came down was soothing, and I would wake up and watch here and there when I would hear Beeeetee's voice. “Kubu gueeele” (There's a hippo over there.) “Lauren, tho! (elephant) Do you want to take a picture?” Beeeetee quickly picked up on my affinity for language, and began to teach me new words and phrases throughout the day. He would quiz me hours later, enthusiastically appreciative of my desire to learn Tsetswana. Sunrise and late afternoon walks were exciting and educational, and included Beeeetee picking up all types of poop with his calloused, bare hand, saying, “Can you guess what kind this is?”, proceeding to explain all types of details one can learn about the animal from their looking at their feces. And who knew that those beach ball-sized holes in the ground were dug by giant anteaters and inhabited by warthogs? Did you know that a warthog can kill an unsuspecting lion?

This morning I returned from the delta, and looking back on my experience, there are so many things to say that it's difficult to choose what to include and what not to. I reckon most trips to southern and eastern Africa include similar details, and it's true – it is amazing to walk through the plains and see masses of black and white stripes, infinite lines of wildebeest, and sneaky families of baboons bolting from one point to the next.

Thrilling does not do justice to what it feels like to hear elephants come crashing down on the trees and brush right behind your campsite at bedtime, or to watch them shake an entire palm tree and trumpet as you're finishing your egg at 6am. But if Beeeetee hadn't been there to tell me, “It's okay. There is a down wind. The elephants can't smell us so they won't charge”, perhaps thrilling might have turned horrifying. The Okavango Delta would not have been the same had I not had this caring, enthusiastic person to walk and talk with me and answer my questions. So when I remember the delta, what I will think of first is what made it the most memorable, and for me, that was Beeeetee.

Camping in Africa 

(Originally written days ago) 

This morning I experienced two amazing things almost simultaneously upon waking. First, I realized that I had slept through the entire night for the first time since this camping trip has begun.. As an ultra light sleeper, this was huge. Getting enough rest is no easy feat when surrounded by the sounds of tent zippers, rustling backpacks and people talking and getting up at all different times in surrounding tents.

Seconds later, as I began stretching comfortably in the warmth of my sleeping bag, I heard an unfamiliar noise, which I could identify only as non-human. As I lay still, eyes open in the darkness, I smiled to myself, imagining the animals gathering at the nearby watering hole. I am camping in Africa! I thought. I am laying in a sleeping bag, listening to wild animals roam freely nearby. I get to watch the sun rise each morning as I take down my tent, and witness the sky changing its mood, from warm pink to rose to a soft blue. How lucky am I?  

I savored the moment, still cozy and content, knowing I had woken early, and would have a while before needing to step out into the chill of the Namibian dawn. Minutes later, my tentmate woke, and just as we were greeting each other, I heard it again. ...“Did you hear that?” I whispered excitedly. “Yes. What do you suppose it is?”, she wondered.

It was 5:20, and we decided to get a head start. The cold metal of the tent poles on our palms made us move quickly, and I silently wondered as we rolled up our tent if I'll ever stop minding all the dirt, sand and grass that immediately coats my hands when packing it. But as usual, once it was in the bag and we were carrying it back to the truck, I looked back at the ever-changing sky and felt a sense of accomplishment - a strong feeling of satisfaction. As we headed over to the breakfast area and I began to spoon some oatmeal into a dish, our driver greeted us all. “Good morning everyone”, he said, in his charming South African accent. “Did anyone hear the lions this morning?” “WHAT lions?” everyone responded, almost in unison. And I smiled to myself as I sprinkled some sugar on my oatmeal and gave the cinnamon a few more taps. I am camping in Africa. 

To Pee or Not to Pee?

That is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The torture and discomfort of a full bladder,

Or to disregard the group of jackals outside

And by urinating fearlessly in the open air, liberate myself. To lie awake or to sleep?

Last night I realized a few things. First of all, stating that one is “not afraid of the dark” may change quite unexpectedly given a new context. I, for example, have boasted for years of not being afraid of the dark, and it was true. It really was...until last week.

It was my first night in Namibia and I was feeling rather proud of having successfully pitched a tent for the first time. Mid-July means winter here in southern Africa, and temperatures hover right above freezing. But thanks to twenty-seven visits to R.E.I., I was ready to brave camping in this weather. It was not even 9:30pm when I allowed myself to peacefully drift off in my silky cocoon.

But at 3am (thank you, Indigo Timex), I awoke from my slumber, despite my earplugs and 30 degree sleeping bag keeping me toasty. Why was I awake? I had to pee, of course. I lay there silently, wondering if I tried hard enough, might I be able to fall back asleep without taking the 2-minute-awfully-dark walk to the bathroom facility? Yes, I do have a head torch – but wouldn't the light make me an easier target for the animals? I silently willed my tentmate's urge to go to the bathroom to wake her from her sleep so we could go together, laughing on the way about how scared we both were.

Thirty unsuccessful minutes later, I decided I needed to take action. Perhaps I don't need to go all the way to the facilities, I thought. After all, this is all about nature, right? So I attempt and fail to quietly unzip my tent, and search for something behind which to hide. Do I turn my light off in case somebody comes outside? Or do I need to keep it on so I can watch out for scorpions near my feet? Halfway through drainage I hear the zipper open on someone else's tent. Do I stop mid-stream? Do I say hello? I've had no schooling on urinary etiquette.

I pulled my thermals up faster than a teenager and her boyfriend who just got walked in on by a parent and rushed back to my tent feeling relieved and stupidly proud. I did it! I have come a long way from the scared little girl whose father had to set up a light switch right next to her bed within arm's reach. I can handle the Namibian night. Quick note to self: early dinners and no fluids after 5pm for the rest of my trip.  : )  

I Never Thought I Would Do It.

That applies both to blogging and to taking a 13-month trip around the world. Yet here I am, sitting in Windhoek, Namibia, thinking about how to approach something as daunting-yet-exciting as documenting this journey. I'm not a writer. I've forgotten the rules of punctuation and I'm terrified of boring you. Still, I feel compelled to do this for my family, my friends and myself.

I remember back in high school, right around my 15th birthday, my cousin Deb gave me this less-than-aesthetically-pleasing red and black journal. On the very first page she drew me a watering can and wrote me a message. "Write down your hopes, your dreams, something that makes you want to tear down walls, something that makes you want to jump for joy, something you never thought you'd try but you DID, something you WANT to try but don't think you ever will..."

Each time I wrote in it, I included one of each. I loved that fugly journal with all my might, and wrote in it for years. It lead me through some amazing growth. Going back and re-reading what I wrote months and even years later was even more eye-opening for me. So I would like to end this entry and begin this blog by sharing the one piece that stands out most in my memory:

November, 1997 - Something you want to try but don't think you ever will... I want to spend a year traveling all around the world by myself.

Thank you, Deb, for that incredible present, and for telling me, "Do iiiiiit!" when I was daydreaming out loud.