In lieu of my words...

I have not been a reliable blogger of late, as many of you have reminded me. Unfortunately, this post will not atone for that. I'm incredibly busy with school right now, and it (and J) have been consuming me since late September. I will be back in mid-December, though. Until then, please read/savor:
Photo-A-Day
Beating Bush
PostSecret
Cam Jansen's Protege

listen to:
The Everybodyfields

and, for a rough idea of what I've been up to, or at least what's going on around me, check out Jodi's blog and photos.

and go in peace until I can write again.

This American Life

Terry has convinced me, leading by example, that I should listen to one episode of This American Life per day until I finish their archives. Now, I had known that the internet was a beautiful thing for awhile. You can get textbooks--well, any books--cheap, people will pay to look at my feet, I can send mass emails and self-publish the scattered noise in my brain and feel like I'm keeping in touch with everyone I hold dear. Movie times, weather, eBay--so much to be grateful for. And now this--Ira Glass and, on a lucky day, David Sedaris or Anne Lamott to tell me stories and keep me company. I recommend it to anyone who, like me, can't afford therapy.

In other news, I took a much needed adventure last weekend to Sin City--not the one you're thinking of, but perhaps equally deserving: our nation's Capitol. Skippy the Bush Kangaroo was visiting from Oz, Sarah the Leepfrog from South Africa, and the beautiful people who live in DC were in town to ice the cake. The weekend was wonderful, but in my School of Education we emphasize process over product as much as The Man will let us, so I mustn't get ahead of myself. Getting there proved half the battle.

I cringed as I bought the Greyhound ticket, my memories of South American buses functioning in much the same way as the memory of what you were drinking when you drank so much you threw up. Not one to waste days, I booked an overnight bus with two changes. I left Winston at 11:40 PM (mad props to John for waiting at the station with me to discourage rape-and-pillaging) and, blatantly judging books by their covers, took a seat next to the person closest to the front who looked like she didn't smell bad.

Her name was Sarah. She was 17, traveling alone for the first time to visit her fiance, a Marine stationed in Jacksonville, NC. She had been on the bus for about 20 hours, having started in Ohio. No one had sat next to her the whole time, so she was eager to talk. She works at Burger King, which is better than KFC but her manager is a bitch. She graduated from high school a year early so she could get married. She has three younger siblings, she can't wait to move from her parents' house. She met her fiance when she was 15, and only wishes she could have met him earlier so she could have been spared several bad experiences with men. He is 19, and enlisted earlier this year, despite her pleading him not to. Despite her hatred of the war. He has been gone since February, first in boot camp and now in further training. He may or may not be deployed within the next few months. If he is deployed, they'll get married first, "because he wants to take care of me," she said.

She was so young. It was evident in her false bravado: sure there were sketchy people on the bus, but she would beat up anybody who tried anything with her. But it wasn't so evident in how she spoke of love. Whenever our conversation turned to Josh (her betrothed), she softened, and spoke simply but never trite-ly about him. Inadvertent smiles would dance over her otherwise plain face (her description as much as mine: Sarah, Plain and Tall is her favorite book, because that's what she is), she never wavered in her certainty of their destiny together, which impressed me in one so young who has spent the last 7 months far from the one she loves. She spoke simply, truly. For much of it, she could have been describing my relationship. She was, in a word, wise.

We rode together to Raleigh, where we waited for 3 hours (2 more than we had bargained for, as is the way with Greyhound) for the buses to come that would take us our separate ways. A guy with a Nascar T-shirt and a huge hole in the crotch of his jeans bummed a cigarette from Sarah and proceeded to tell us a story, of which about 15% was at all intelligible (he was very Southern and spoke very fast), of why he had had a bad day.

Let's call him Bo. I never caught his name, but calling him Bo will communicate more about him to you than description ever could. Apparently, Bo's bad day had started 2 weeks ago when he was wrongly arrested in Virginia. I didn't catch what for--but he was definitely innocent, of course. He had to sleep on a concrete floor because they were out of beds, and his woman back in Fayetteville wouldn't answer the phone. So when he gets back there she will probably have moved out because she'll have thought he was gettin' busy behind her back. Meanwhile, during his jail time, his truck got impounded, so his brother picked it up and made off with it and all his stuff, which is why he had to hitchhike and then take the Greyhound from Virginia to Fayetteville and why, apparently, he didn't have a cigarette. He asked where I went to school. I told him. He whooped, and congratulated me, because their hospital is the only one worth its salt and he wouldn't have nobody pokin' around inside him unless they worked at Duke. I felt strangely validated.

By the end of our 3-hour layover, he had some woman with a ratty perm and scrunchie and a few missing teeth sitting on his knee bouncing up and down playing horsey.

Sarah's bus left before mine, and boarded as soon as it was called, so she hurried over. "It was nice to meet you," she said, and before I could say anything, she was gone. Strangely, I felt as though we hadn't had proper closure. No words of well-wishing or advice. No knowing looks of sympathy for the hard road ahead (I had told her all about Jodi as well). She should have gotten back to Ohio sometime today. I can imagine her sadness, but I can't decide whether I'm glad I'll never know if Josh gets deployed or not, if she goes on to nursing school (as was her dream) or works at Burger King for all her life. Because this way, I'll never know they made it, if they do.

So here I am, faced with the Little-Prince-paradox. In one universe, the stars are laughing, in another, they are crying. I guess having both is something to be thankful for--and may be better than knowing the truth.

The First Day of School

Part the First: Into the Fray

When I was little, I almost always got a new outfit for the first day of school. When I was really little, it was a "first day of school dress," and I was always super-excited about it. The first day of school was always a new experience for me, moreso than for most, because I was always at a different school. Yes, gentle reader, except for my fourth and fifth grade years, I went to a different school for each year of elementary (which included, back in my day, sixth grade as well). In all, I have been the new girl eight times, if you count kindergarten and two universities, which may skew the data a bit since, in those situations, everyone is the new girl. Or boy. But even not counting those, I have three summers' worth of summer programs where I didn't know anybody, and then two summers of working in new places where I didn't know anybody--all leading to the conclusion that I have been forced to make an alarming number of first impressions during my brief existence.

Part the Second: In Which Our Heroine Judges Books By Their Covers and is Judged in Turn

I used to sit in new classrooms and look at people, trying to guess which ones were going to be my friends. I was almost never right. Or, to be more specific, there were a lot of false positives, but only a few false negatives. I could tell who was not going to be my friend quite reliably. The characteristics by which I determined this naturally changed over time--I hardly remember anyone specific from my kindergarten and first grade classes, but I remember a few characteristics: the girl who stood in front of me in our alphabetical line for the cafeteria had awful-smelling hair. She was not going to be my friend. With one exception, boys were probably not going to be my friend until middle school, where they might be my friends if I met them through theater, but very rarely if I met them through school. The exception was in fourth grade, where a kid named John played the New Boy opposite my New Girl, and he may have been my first crush. I adored him because A) he didn't make my life miserable, and B) he hadn't grown up in Belmont, North Carolina. That meant, I thought, that the odds were good he came from a more enlightened place. He and I were both Library Assistants, which made us supreme nerds but meant that we got to leave class for a few hours each week to help the librarians shelve books and check them out to students. Sometimes we did this together, which was nice, and sometimes we did it alone, which was sublime. Children are so seldom alone, and I craved it. I hated that school and most of the people in it, but I loved that library because it was an escape. A place to be surrounded by stories better than the one you were in, where the harsh voices of my provinicial schoolmates who thought their lives were the whole world could not penetrate. To be fair, I probably thought my life was the greater part of the world as well, but at least I knew about global warming and endangered species and the Holocaust and the fact that you can't call black people the N word. Most of the people at my school were not thusly educated.

So I sat in class and surveyed all these new people, year after year, looking for likely friends. I discounted the boys with buzz-cuts and rattails and anyone who sweated a lot or was fat. I look back and wonder why I did to them, in my mind, exactly what others did to me in person that made me hate them. And it's sad, scary even to admit, that even at 9 I had some inkling of social capital, and those people were not it. My deep, dark, dirty secret is: I wanted to be in with the in-crowd.

The in-crowd. The girls who never set foot in a K-Mart or a thrift store (until it was cool in 10th grade), whose sweatshopped shirts proclaimed the names of elitist brands in large letters, with "Made in Honduras" in the fine print. One in particular never wore the same outfit twice for all of fifth grade. They laughed at people, made fun, criticized. They were neither very good nor very bad at school. They looked at me with disbelief when they discovered I didn't go to church and that my dad taught at a college for black people. Imagine what they would have done if they knew he taught evolution. My father further added to my mortification by attending a school open house carrying his "green bag," which I had always taken for granted until an in-crowd girl came up to me, giggling: "Your dad carries a purse?!" One time, never-repeat-an-outfit girl and one of her cronies told me I needed a makeover, and pulled my shirt out of my pants where it was tucked in and told me I shouldn't wear those colors together. They suggested I tweeze my eyebrows. And for some reason, rather than suggest they shove their tweezers somewhere unmentionable, rather than tell them they were silly buffoons and I couldn't believe I had to go to school with the likes of them, I wanted to be them. Not, I think, because I wanted to treat other people as they did, but because I saw that no one treated them the way they treated me. At least, I like to think so.

Part the Third: In Which Our Heroine Discovers Self-Consciousness

You might think, after a forced makeover in the hall, I would have learned self-consciousness the hard way. But even though I saw that they had things I didn't, and I wanted their name-brand clothes and their condescending attitudes against my better judgment, I never saw myself as others saw me, which is the true meaning of self-consciousness. Until the first day of school, sixth grade, when I discovered my butt.

By the ripe age of ten, I had certainly begun to notice other people's butts. Their whole bodies, in fact. Not with desire so much as noticing what looked attractive and what didn't, especially as pertained to different types of clothing, and I would look at adults and either wish I could look like that someday or hope I never looked like that ever. Butts were only a small part of the equation. But, trying on clothes in anticipation of the first day of school (I was beyond first-day-of-school dresses at this point, instead attempting to create the perfect f-d-o-s ensemble from found objects in my closet) I accidentally turned around in front of the mirror and saw myself from behind.

I take this for granted now, when trying on clothes at the store. Of course you look at yourself from behind. You do the little shimmy to try to simulate how your butt will look while walking. You bend over and see if anything obscene happens. But before that day when I was ten, I don't think I had ever looked at myself from behind. I had never realized that other people saw me from behind. But I understood now that they did, and that if my own nature was at all indicative of human nature, they (at least some of them) were evaluating me. And their first impression of me would be what I saw in that mirror: baggy jeans that hung like a sack and made my butt look dumpy. Before that day, when I looked in the mirror, I only saw myself. Since that day, when I look in the mirror, I see what I imagine others see.

Part the Fourth: Fast-Forward

It is now 2005, and I am no longer in fourth, fifth, or sixth grade. The trends of self-consciousness and conflicting desires do be both a smart, independent person and a stupid, popular lemming continued throughout high school, and to a lesser but certainly still present extent throughout college, the difference being their waning slightly year by year and the fact that I had friends, so I was not going it alone anymore. I am now a self-confident adult, it's pretty safe to say. If I indulge in throes of self-doubt now, it's always to do with my choices and plans for my life, not my appearance or popularity. I don't know whether to attribute my surge in self-confidence since leaving Duke to A) leaving Duke, B) having Jodi in my life, or C) natural maturation and wisdom, but each has probably played a part. Now, on the first day of school, I debate wearing nice clothes or going to the gym right before class and showing up sweaty (the former won, but only because I was too lazy to go to the gym).

I've used this opportunity to observe others on their first day of school, though. The sorority girls at Wake are all wearing their matching sorority T-shirts and flip-flops--I guess so they can pick out their kind in the crowds. One of my roommates, a new teacher, bought a skirt to wear on her first day of school. The other, who has been teaching for a few years, didn't know what she was going to wear till she got up this morning. But the most touching observations came on Tuesday, when I accompanied Amanda on a trek across town to visit each of her 9 students in their homes, to meet their parents and make sure they knew how and when to get to school on the big day. Amanda's teaching at an ESL middle school, and all of her students are recent (in the last year) arrivals from Mexico and Honduras. Amanda is bravely trucking ahead, even with limited Spanish skills, and announced she was going to do home visits and she had scripted out things to say to the families in Spanish and their possible questions. I asked if she wanted someone to go with her, for moral support, safety in numbers, and the occasional language backup. So we set off to meet her students (glory be to Mapquest).

They had names like Ana, Felix, Luis Infante, and Maria Guadalupe. They lived in houses filled with people, babies, and Virgin Marys everywhere you look. And they were so excited about school. Their parents invited us in, and made us sit down even if it meant they had nowhere to sit. They thanked us so much for coming, even when we interrupted their dinner. Amanda got to school today at 6:30 AM (it starts at 7:30), and two children were already there with their parents, who had to be at work at 7:00. She said they had a wonderful day. At 2:00, their families were waiting outside the door of the classroom to pick them up, wanting to hear how, for many of them, their first day of school in America had gone.

That seems ideal to me. A first day of school filled with happiness and excitement, rather than nervousness and fear. But then it seems natural for them, who have probably known real fear in their lives, probably experienced it in the process of arriving here in this land of promise, that school wouldn't be scary. After real fear and danger, first impressions, and even the first day of school, are a piece of cake.

Something Lovely

how we look to God








(click image to enlarge)

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

My parents have received two citations from the City of Charlotte--one about mowing the grass, and one about clearing weeds from the borders of the property. After the first, we were a bit suspicious--only the backyard grass was high enough to write home about, and it seemed unlikely that roving inspectors whose job it is to find flaw with Charlotte citizens' lawn hygiene (whom we didn't know existed prior to our citation) would have noticed. The second one was a pretty big tip-off that this was not just our unluck of being chosen at random. We were being ratted out by our neighbors.

Picture this: we live in a lovely neighborhood full of lovely folks, most of whom voted for Kerry, many of whom have children and dogs and say hi as you pass and sit on their porches sipping wine in the summer twilight. Most people in our neighborhood would never get this kind of citation, but if they did, they would probably have a good idea of which of their neighbors was the tattletale. But we happen to live between two houses whose inhabitants were equally likely to have made the fateful call. So naturally, after grumbling about having to fix the lawn mower, our family conversations fell to the topic of which neighbors were the culprits.

Neighbor A, on the left side, as you're facing our house, was my mother's favored contender. Let's call her Lurlene for our purposes here. For the 12 years that we've lived here, she has lived alone, keeping the same daily routine, becoming older and dumpier year by year as the weight of time crashes upon her. She works in a security booth at some ritzy subdivision, but be not fooled--she doesn't really come across as the bouncer type. The church on our corner holds weekly AA meetings, and the attendees' cars have been known to spill over now and again onto the street. Lurlene's response was to put up a sign reading "No AA Parking" in front of her house. A few years ago, she cut down a big tree in her yard, which was the only beautiful thing about said yard in the first place, and replaced it with gravel on which to park her car. My dad has not spoken to her since.

Neighbors B, on the right side, shall hereby be called John and Maude. John is probably approaching 60 if he's not there already, and Maude is his mother, about whose age we will not venture a guess. John does some kind of work with computers in South Carolina, and Maude spends her time spying on her neighbors out the window and playing computer solitaire. She comes out to have a word with us if we or our visitors park in front of our house too close to her driveway, since it would be unsafe for her to back out (in her estimation). That's if she had somewhere to go, which seems a rather rare occurrence--but then, I don't spy on her as often as she probably does on me, so I'm not 100% sure. They have a can-crusher mounted on the side of their house outside my bedroom window, and they seem to get great joy from crushing about 50 cans a day at 7:00 in the morning. They have a greyhound that John walks once in the morning and once in the evening to a distance of about 4 houses away before returning home. Once, a tree limb from one of our trees was hanging over their side porch roof and threatening everything they hold dear. They told us we would have to pay for them to call someone to take care of it. My dad said he would do it. They said this was unacceptable for liability reasons. My dad said he wouldn't pay for someone else to do it. Finally, they said he could do it as long as he didn't set foot on their property, which proved impossible. He did end up standing on their property to remove the limb, a situation complicated by Maude's insistence on standing beside him for the entire process. They remind me of the ancient lady on the street where I grew up whose only pleasure in life was yelling at me when I ran around without shoes in the summertime.

My mom's arguments for Lurlene were strong. Lurlene is very picky about her yard, and keeps her grass trimmed within an inch of its life. She has just planted vegetables right next to our yard on her side of the fence, and she's probably mad that they're shaded by our vegetation. And she doesn't speak to us anymore. My mom says she'll say "Hi, Lurlene," and receive no response. I was not so convinced--John and Maude seemed just as strong contenders at least in the having-nothing-better-to-do department. They had a yard sale recently in which they had many items for sale for hundreds of dollars: camera lenses, darkroom equipment, a spotless guitar, computer hard drives. They came over and encouraged us to come to their yard sale. We went, but unfortunately I had neither the $700 nor the space to construct my own darkroom, so I contented myself with buying two Beach Boys records for $1 each. Before completing the sale they asked if we were sure we didn't want a camera or a hard drive. When the yard sale was over, they asked if we wanted to buy any more of their records (most of which were German Christmas music).

Within my family, we all tended to agree that the only way to know for sure was to confront them, but no one wanted to be the one to do it. Lurlene was considered the more likely candidate, and my dad refuses to talk to her. My mom decided it was surely her and set about hacking away all the vegetation on that side of the yard that could in any way offend. It took two days. She did some basic pruning of the other side as well, and two weeks later an inspector appeared at our doorstep, saying he was here to mow our grass. By this time, our grass had died. "We don't have any grass," my mother said. He admitted that this appeared to be the case. "In that case, I'm here to trim your border weeds," he offered. My mom said she had done that. He agreed, and they were in the yard trying to decide of there were any left that were complaint-worthy, when John, from his side of the fence, asked why we hadn't cleared the side for which we had received the citation (which, for the record, made no mention of sides).

The mystery was solved. At least, now, we could find out which weeds had been cause for complaint. In a striking instance of deja-vu, there were some that could not be cleared from our side of the property, but Maude initially insisted that we couldn't set foot on hers. She did offer a half-apology: regarding the citation, "I'm sorry we had to do that to you." My dad asked her why she didn't just ask us. She didn't have much of an answer.

A couple of days ago, a for-sale sign appeared in the yard of John and Maude. Despite initial celebration, my family's reactions were mixed. "They're giving us their collapsible carport," my mom pointed out. "And Maude asked if we all made it safely home from the trips we took this month." My sister and I bemoaned the loss of their wireless internet. My dad had the most forboding: what if the next neighbors are worse? What if they play loud music, or have yappy dogs, or gang-member adolescent sons? What if they tear down John and Maude's little house and build a big one (the trend in our neighborhood) and we have to deal with the noise and ugliness of its construction for the next year? What if they're, as my sister is fond of saying, Republicans for Voldemort? It's becoming apparent that there could be evils worse than the evils we know. Only time will tell.

Anniversary

Two years ago today
we went tubing down a river near Woodstock,
New England and Canada suffered the famous Blackout,
we ate Cheerios for dinner,
and I told Jodi that I loved her.

My life has never been the same.

And I'm so, so glad.

closer i am to fine

When my mother was pregnant with me, she was walking through Piedmont Park in Atlanta when she found a balloon that had lost its way. It was pink, and read “It’s a girl!” She had not found out the sex of the baby from the doctors—I suppose she wanted it to be a surprise, or maybe it was just that she knew How It Should Happen. Not in a white room while dressed in a paper smock from the mouth of a doctor for whom it isn’t magical. Not like that, but with signs, intuitions as subtle as a kick against uterine walls. Like a balloon blown across your path as you and your unborn unsexed baby walk through the park in the waning summer sunlight.

Fast forward 24 years and my mother’s two daughters are going to Piedmont Park together, for Atlanta Pride. Their mission: to see the Indigo Girls, Doria Roberts, and Michelle Malone for free. We’re not on the lookout for prophecies; there are no pink balloons proclaiming “It’s a girl!” But there are girls. Hundreds of them. Old ones, young ones, butch ones, femme ones, girls with funky T-shirts spouting left-wing axioms and girls without T-shirts, wearing nothing but bikini tops or, in one case, stickers in strategic places proclaiming she had donated to Keep Pride Free. Girls who are parents and brought their children, and girls who didn’t tell their parents where they were going when they left the house that afternoon. And they all love each other.

I stand there watching, wondering what it meant to my mother when she knew I was going to be a girl. What were her expectations? Did she dream of the dresses I would wear, the dolls I would cherish, the heart-to-hearts we would have as I got older? Did she imagine the people I would love in my life? Did she dream of my wedding? Did she have any idea how many ways there are to be a girl, and what kind I would be?

I’m standing in the place where I was first proclaimed female, and now, on the cusp of adulthood, I’m finally able to be proud of it. I’m here mostly for the music, but I’m also here to celebrate my molting: my juvenile feathers, which showed my insecurity and fear, which wished for my body or face or mind to be different than they are naturally, which valued other people’s approval over my own, have flown away. I started crying as they sang Galileo, because it’s been so long, and my soul has finally gotten at least some of it right.

My Newest Crush

Howl from Howl's Moving Castle--Disney has delved into Anime and produced a specimen who's a lovely combination of Justin, Captain Jack Sparrow, and Catwoman. Or Storm. The movie was really pretty (kind of like Moulin Rouge) but also pretty hard to follow (kind of like Ulysses). So if anybody wants to go see it and explain it to me, please do.

Rock of Ages

We've had a sub in Psychology of Diverse Learners all week, while our normal instructor is at the beach with his in-laws. This being a summer course, however, that means this "sub" is teaching us for 25% of the entire course, so I wonder if one can really call her a sub.

She meant well, of course. She led us through guided imagery exercises to get us in touch with our empathic listening abilities, had us role-play student-teacher and parent-teacher conferencing, and told us one too many stories about her own children. And today (her last day) she gave us each a rock.

She passed a basket of rocks around--they were nice rocks, polished, some of them quartzy even, of the type you might find to weigh down a decorative glass vase. We each chose one (later we would find out that actually the rock had "chosen us"). Mine is small, sort of bland peachy-pink, and I don't know why it chose me. Our teacher told us that we were not very different from these rocks--we are each unique. We have our own patterns and textures. We would look very nice at the bottom of a glass vase. Just kidding. We got to keep our rock, to remind us of our own uniqueness.

Now, I love Mr. Rogers. I really, really do. But this gesture seemed to me some strange, twisted spin on "you're the only person in the whole world like you." Mostly because, what am I supposed to do with it? I don't want it; I'm trying not to accrue Stuff. It's a pretty ordinary rock, not a beautiful amethyst geode or anything that you'd want to put on your mantelpiece to remind you of the beauty of the natural world. It would get in the way anywhere I might display it, weigh down my purse, which is already heavy enough, and I figure creating a rock-labyrinth is too sacred a thing to waste on rented property. But this teacher (she's really not a teacher--she's a psychologist, and it shows) endowed this rock with a sense of importance. She made us hold them in our hands, close our eyes, and feel their presence. She equated their rockdom to our humanity. So how can I just throw my rock away?

I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it. I could leave it in the classroom, and maybe someone else will think it's their rock and take it with them. I could suck up the weight and keep it in one of my bags, as a talisman of my own uniqueness. I could take it with me to the park I've found where I walk Susan's dog and let her run free, off the leash, as she trots around devouring more smells than you or I will ever be able to imagine. I might do that. Take it there, throw it in the creek, and let it, through time, burrow into the sand and be washed even smoother by the water. And some small extension of myself will be there too, a tiny weight anchored to the world.

Quotation of the Day (I know, how bourgeois)

from The Once and Future King by T. H. White

"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil hordes, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then--to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting."

(jdk6, since our Book Conversation I have made it my mission to read as many of the books on your bookpile that I've not yet read as possible. So far I've done The World According to Garp and am 1/4 through The Once and Future King.)

In Memoriam for the Bug

Yesterday my dad sold his 1967 Volkswagen Beetle, which he has had for all 38 of its years. He bought it new for $2,000, and sold it, 38 years used, for $2,000. And to think most cars depreciate in value.

He was pretty torn up about it. The reason he sold it is because he bought a truck, and there was room in neither the driveway nor the bank account to keep all of our cars. But can you imagine? Saying goodbye to something that has seen you through 2/3 of your life? Something that represents your entire youth? I'm sure some of you can, actually, with much more poignant examples than a car. But, so far in my innocent and lucky life, I can't.

In the dimming light of the last night the Bug would spend with us, we took family photos around the car. "You were almost born in this car, you know," my dad said. I did know, but had forgotten (those days of before-birth are but distant memories). On the coldest October night on record in Georgia, they drove in the Bug from Athens to Douglasville, several hours, where there was a hospital that offered midwives instead of doctors. They stopped at regular intervals for my mom to throw up. When I finally did come (I managed to wait for the hospital), the first thing I did was poo in my mom's hand. I came into the world with shit and bile, but also with love. And, as my dad points out, "If it wasn't for this car, you wouldn't be here."

He says that about a lot of things. If it weren't for his choosing my mother over the Most Beautiful Girl in All of France who picked him up while hitchhiking on his last days in Europe before grad school, if it weren't for his choosing not to visit the mainland while he was stationed at Pearl Harbor, on a routine courier flight that exploded over the Pacific, if it weren't for World War II, even, which brought my grandparents together, I wouldn't be here. Is it worth it, I wonder? Am I really so necessary to the world that WWII should have happened to bring about my existence? It's a scary burden to hang on unsure shoulders.

It's much easier just to think about the Bug, and how if it weren't for that, even if we were here we might be in totally different places. My dad, for instance, would have paid a lot more for mufflers over the years, having bought a lifetime-warranty Midas muffler for as long as he owned the car. All of us might have aged faster without that tie to younger, more carefree times. I've only felt sorrier for my dad when his mother died, and when various pets have died over the years. The Bug is far from dead, and will continue to please some other die-hard VW enthusiast, but that's part of what is so sad: to have to say goodbye, move on from something, to cut the cord yourself when what you are letting go is something you could be holding onto. Letting go of something before its time, and ending the era of your youth in doing it.

Corrections and Caveats

I got an email recently from a dear friend who just graduated from Duke--so therefore, for the purposes of argument, we'll say that his brain is a lot more used to thinking deeper about things, analyzing things to the core, as it were. Mine has gotten used to being excited 'cause I'm gonna have pizza tonight, or thinking it's a sweet deal when I get paid $7 an hour to babysit.

So when he wrote to me with a concern about one of my posts (Back in the Land of the Free), gentle readers, I listened. He pointed out that it's not viable to compare Latin American governments to the US government because, in so many cases, they got to be as weak/corrupt/inefficient/poor as they are because of our interventions--free trade agreements, drug wars, military actions undermining their fledgling governments, etc.

And although it's not really what I meant to say, he's totally right and there is that implication in what I wrote, looking back. I don't want to change the post because I really was looking forward to coming home and was thinking those thoughts about missing certain things about the US of A. But I had not considered the implication that it was Their Fault and Their Problem to Fix, when, in most cases, it is so much more complicated.

I remembered another story I heard on NPR: about a US drug-fighting campaign that involves spraying herbicides on coca plantations in Colombia. Not only has it proved inefficient, because people just replant (and should we be surprised, if we destroyed their only livelihood without providing a viable replacement?), but the runoff has entered the Amazon basin and we don't even know the extent of that damage, although both people and the environment have appeared to suffer the consequences.

What I meant to say was that, while there, I was looking forward to the luxuries we have here--the luxury to not always be on your guard, to not pay attention to the war in Iraq, because it's not happening in our own backyard even though we ought to be painfully involved, the luxury to not think about how we got the freedoms we have--the luxury to Take For Granted. And I don't think it reflects particularly well on me to have been missing those luxuries.

Uplifting, no? So thanks, P, for holding me accountable. I'll be back with more depressing riffs soon.

On the World's Most Dangerous Road Without a Seat Belt

We got some advice on Bolivia and bathing suits from a drunk Australian in the Galapagos. "You have to bike on the world's most dangerous road," he said. "You have to go to ____ Bar where they have really good coke." And we were complaining about how you can't buy a bathing suit with a butt in it in South America--even if they've got full frontal coverage, they diminish away to thonglike proportions in the back. "It's the way of the future, ladies," he told us. "Get used to it. My girlfriend designs swimwear in Melbourne. Accentuate the positive."

I wasn't really keen to take any of his advice, but when we got to La Paz we were surrounded by tour agencies and friends that wanted us to bike down the world's most dangerous road. Jodi had run into a friend she hadn't seen for six years, and he had a cohort of travelers he knew in La Paz, and they were all doing it, and didn't it look like so much fun? I allowed myself to be coerced. I mean, people do it every day. How bad could it be?

The World's Most Dangerous Road is a 60 km. stretch between La Paz and Coroico, which Lonely Planet describes as "a little Bolivian Eden." Which it may be, most of the time, but not on Good Friday (it is, after Copacabana, the Bolivians' spot-o'-choice for Easter Weekend). Good Friday has always seemed to be something of a misnomer to me anyway. Case in point: we are biking on the same road as two-way traffic, on a one-lane dirt road carved out of curving mountainsides, on the busiest travel day of the year. At first it wasn't so bad--it was paved, mostly downhill, and you could go thrillingly fast with no work at all. Then, the pavement ends. We were supposed to take a 5-minute trial run and then convene with the guide again. In this five minutes you were supposed to determine how fast you were comfortable going, and if you wanted to be in the fast group, middle group, or slow group. And in that five minutes, everyone I knew on the tour disappeared in the distance while I was riding the brakes, sure that every rock I hit was going to plummet me over the edge (you had to ride on the un-guardrailed left side), keeping my lips pressed shut so my teeth didn't rattle out onto the ground. When the group convened in five minutes, I got off the bike. "What group do you want to be in?" they asked. "The car group," I said.

They have a bus and two Jeeps following the group in case you want to access your stuff or ride in the vehicles at any point. I consigned my bike to the roof-rack and rode shotgun beside Hector, one of the maniac Jeep drivers. I reach for my seat belt. There isn't one. I suppose it wouldn't help much in the event of plummeting hundreds of feet to one's death, anyway, but still I felt a bit insecure. Hector drove like a madman, but like a madman who has done this every day for years. Contrary to instinct, I felt much safer in that car than I did on the bike. And then there was the traffic jam. There had been some kind of accident, and traffic in both directions was stopped. The cars might have to wait there all day, but bikes could pass. It appeared God was not going to let me off so easy. Perhaps I had not empathised enough with Jesus' suffering for his liking. So, when the slow group passed, I reluctantly left my vehicular safe haven and tagged onto the end.

I suppose it's always useful to learn that something is not your calling in life, because that narrows down the options. It is now official that mountain biking is off my list of potential destinies. Surprising, no? I stuck it out on the bike for the greater part of the journey, much to my chagrin, and I have to admit to almost total misery the entire time, except for about two minutes as we approached and passed under a small waterfall. The air became a prism and misty rainbows surrounded me. If I hadn't feared for my life, it would have been perfect.

At some point the traffic jam had dispersed, and Hector caught up with us again in time to hand out surgical masks to everyone as they passed a certain curve, after which you had to continue the rest of the way in clouds of dust. I used this as the golden opportunity it was to get back in the car. Soon, we were at the endpoint, a hacienda-esque restaurant and petting zoo with excellent showers, food, and pet monkeys and llamas. It turned out that I and one other American girl had hated it--besides us, the general consensus was that it was SO AWESOME.


If only the day could have ended on that note--but we had to push our luck. We wanted to see what Coroico was like, and had planned to stay there overnight and join in the festivities. Unfortunately, it was the one time that it would have behooved us to have a reservation, and we couldn't find anywhere to stay in the whole town. The bus with our fellow bikers had long since departed, so we had to pay for a public colectivo (van with jumpseats in every conceivable inch of space) that was embarking on the road we had just ridden down in the dark. It did not bode well.

Somehow, though, I lived to tell the tale. But I'm glad I had the wherewithal to stay away from the rest of that drunken Australian's advice.

Speak of the Devil

The best thing about Copacabana, Bolivia, is the Virgin. The Virgin of Copacabana is almost as great a miracle-worker as the Virgin of the Holy Water in Ecuador. People bring miniatures of their houses and cars, bus drivers bring miniature buses, and have them blessed before the statue of the Virgin to protect them. Apparently this is more effective than insurance.

It’s a good thing there is this omnipresence of Virgins in Latin America, because, as Jodi pointed out to me one day, by the time we left we had almost seen the Devil. They have this habit of naming features of the landscape after parts of the Devil’s body (never after God’s. But of course, that would be sacrilegious). So we saw the Devil’s Nose (the switchback-ridden train trek down a steep mountainside in Ecuador), the Devil’s Tooth (a mountain overlooking La Paz), the Devil’s Penis (a plant in the jungle said to impregnate young maidens), and the Devil’s Pailon (a roiling waterfall near Baños). We’re not sure what a pailon is, but I guess that if we’ve already seen the Devil’s Penis it can’t be anything worse than that. Right? Guys??

We climbed the Devil’s Tooth on Easter after visiting the Valley of the Moon. Wouldn’t that be a great first sentence for a sci-fi/fantasy trilogy? It’s hereby up for grabs, as I won’t be writing one anytime soon. And don’t worry, we didn’t attempt to scale the fangs of Satan alone—we rounded up reinforcements, in the form of Reto and Claudia, the wry and apple-cheeked Swiss couple from our Galapagos tour who (perhaps unfortunately for them) ran into us as we were leaving Copacabana, and allowed us to follow them around La Paz once they got there a few days later. It worked out quite well—we let them find and taste-test an excellent Italian restaurant, and then we let them invite us to it (twice!). They didn’t feel like biking the World’s Most Dangerous Road with us on Good Friday (what could they have been thinking?), so we made an Easter date instead, and what an adventure it was. The Valley of the Moon was a hot, dry canyon filled with what look more like drip-sandcastles than anything else. It was sort of interesting, but on a scale of one to moonlike it was probably only about halfway. The best part were the rules and regulations, which were helpfully translated into English: Poner basura en los basureros disponibles became Place garbage in the willing trash cans.

From the Valley of the Moon you were supposed to be able to get to the Devil’s Tooth. You could see it, anyway, looming over the horizon ominously—although if I were in charge of naming it, but had to choose a Devil’s-body-part name, I think it bears far greater resemblance to the Devil’s Middle Finger. We got directions from one of the moon-men: they involved two buses, getting off at the end of the latter, and walking Up.

Suffice it to say that directions are never that simple. The first thing we were supposed to come to was a cemetery, and from there the hike was about an hour and a half. It took us that long to find the cemetery, after asking every local we met including children and cats, wandering through what was either the town garbage dump or a messy person’s backyard, and probably arousing quite a bit of amusement or suspicion: 4 gringos, wandering through the dump and politely asking where they can find the cemetery.

We eventually did make it up to the Devil’s Tooth, after huffing and puffing for some amount of time far greater than an hour and a half. And it was totally worth it. After hours of hot sun and garbage dumps and slums and cemeteries, we ended up in a tiny settlement on top of the mountain, removed as though by miles and decades from the urban sprawl below. Children ran around playing soccer and asking us for candy, women tended gardens and other children tended animals, trying to get an obstinate burro to continue down the path or a herd of sheep to hurry up. At this town, the dusty road turned into a grassy path, and we headed up through fields of wildflowers, heady with altitude and dehydration and the determination that the view would all be worth it. And would you believe it? It was. On one side, La Paz, spread over the immense valley like a large birthmark—one that is not ugly, but so noticeable as to become a defining feature of the person whose birth it marks. On the other side, a wilderness of mountains and valleys, some snowcapped in the distance, and just below us, the Valley of the Moon. The name made sense after all—it was truly as though something had bitten through the earth at the point where city became country, valley became escarpment, earthscape became moonscape. But for me, on top of the world, there was nothing devilish about it.

Nickeled, Dimed, and Duped, Heaven on Earth, and the Canyon of the Condors

We had rushed to meet our bus, had bought our tickets at the window, and the woman indicated that behind her and to the left was where the bus was waiting. To get there, we had to go through the next archway, where we found a formidable-looking revolving door (a la New York City subway turnstiles), and a small passthrough for baggage. Unburdening ourselves of our backpacks, we pushed on the door. “Oh no,” said one of the ubiquitous uniformed men who had helped us off with our backpacks. “That’ll be 20 cents to use the door.”

I just stared at him. “What?” Jodi asked. “He says it’s 20 cents to use the door.” “What? WHY?” she asked the man. He shrugged, and reminded us that it was 20 cents to use the door. “Do we have another option?” I asked. “No,” she said, and pointed to our bags, now on the other side of the Plexiglass. It appeared we had no choice.

The man didn’t have change, so we had to go to a booth in the terminal that exists for that purpose. On the other side of the door, the world was no different, except that our wallets felt slightly, unfairly, lighter. And that I suddenly had to pee. At the bathroom, I was relieved of another 20 cents, which was only slightly less annoying because I had come to expect it by now. Men usually pay 5 cents, and I have tried to get a discount, perhaps to the male rate, for having my own toilet paper. This doesn’t fly. It’s 20 cents, whether you take toilet paper or not. So the only conclusion I’ve been able to draw is that I’m paying, essentially, for sitting on the seat (if there is one). I’m thinking that maybe next time I’ll ask if it’s still 20 cents if I both bring my own paper and promise to stand.

Later, in the market, we pass a stand selling fruits that look like small red and green Koosh balls. Jodi wants to try them, but they’re $1 a bag. You can’t buy half a bag. The lady gives her 4-year-old child one and tells him to pass it to Jodi, which he does, and after peeling it for 5 minutes we discover it’s sort of like a bland lychee. “Thanks,” Jodi says. “5 cents,” the lady replies. Nothing in life, it turns out, is free.

As we turn away, we nearly trample an ancient woman with no teeth, bright eyes, and bare feet like hooves. She comes up to about our waists and though we can’t understand her, we know from her tone that she’s asking for money. I find it easier not to give anybody anything, but Jodi always has a soft spot in her heart for old people, so I try to piggyback on her good karma. She gives the lady the rest of our change, and the woman’s face lights up, she kisses the coins and blesses the Santissima Virgen.

Usually, at several points throughout the day, we calculate how much money we’ve spent. We’ll think we’re doing pretty well, having counted all the food, buses, and lodging of the day, and then we remember the sitting on the toilet seat, the trying of strange new fruit, the alms to the poor and the 20 cents to use the door, and we realize we have been nickeled and dimed to above our budget. So I’m wondering if next time, the revolving door man will let me pay him in trade—if my urine is worth 20 cents, maybe I’ll just embrace my masculine side and pee right there on the door.

***

After two and a half months of travel, you begin to formulate a very clear conception of heaven. Heaven is a place where you don’t have to unpack, repack, or lift your backpack for a whole week. Heaven is a place where you don’t have to worry about stuff getting stolen, whether you carry it with you, leave it in your hotel, or leave it on the beach while you go swimming. In heaven, you never have to decide where to eat and worry about how much it costs. No one tries to overcharge you for anything, and English is spoken. And then you get off a plane and discover that Belinda was right, and heaven IS a place on earth—the Galapagos Islands.

The whole thing was like a reality show without the challenges or the vindictiveness (what’s left? you ask). 10 strangers, plunked on a small boat in a place foreign to all of them—how will they interact? Will the two single people share a room in harmony? Who looks best in her bikini? Who’s got the coolest accent? Hence, I include the superlatives from Survivor: Galapagos.

Most enviable talent and profession:
Reto, the Swiss photographer with approximately one ton of camera equipment who took photos that looked better than real life. We all wanted a CD of photos at the end, but he has to sell them to magazines. Life is tough.

Most positive attitude:
Lisa, the American girl traveling on her own who kept smiling even when the airline didn’t let her on the plane and she almost missed the tour, and when several of the crew persistently begged her to elope with them.

Best quote:
“It is such a dangerous country, America—so many wet floors.”
--Stefan from Switzerland, relating his most memorable impression of a visit to America.

Biggest mystery:
Where the British couple, Carly and Paul, got their money—when asked how long everyone was traveling for, the usual response was somewhere between 3 weeks and 6 months. They, in contrast, are traveling for 16 months, after which they are getting married in Spain and then traveling Spain for 6 months to decide where they would like to live. No, we’re not jealous at all.

Closest call to near-hospitalization:
Jodi, when she stepped on a sea urchin and suffered multiple impalements to her heel. The captain said if she hadn’t been wearing her fins, she would have had to go to the hospital, as he gleefully sprinkled vinegar onto her foot, joking that he was “making ceviche,” a native dish featuring raw fish, vinegar, onions, and lemon. The spines haven’t come out yet.

Most imitatable habit of speech:
A tie between Jan, the Dutch retired headmaster who, whenever he agreed with you, which was often, would say, “Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh” very quickly, a la the “Yip yip yip” Sesame Street Martians—or Alfonso, our guide, who was constantly pointing out all the possibilities for things: “This iguana is starving because there is too much competition. He is going to die—maybe not today, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week—nobody knows.” Or, “Tomorrow we will go hiking for one hour, then snorkeling for one hour, and then stay at the beach—maybe for half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, maybe an hour—depends of you.”

Rosiest cheeks:
Claudia, the last of the Swiss and Reto’s girlfriend, and the kindest, pleasantest, and, well, Swiss-est of all. Unintentionally does a great Audrey Hepburn impression in her big black sunglasses. Also, coins some great new English words, which I hereby command everyone reading this to help introduce into the vernacular: “Dizzly” for “dizzy,” “fruitable” for “fertile,” and “Milk Street” for “Milky Way.”

Klutziest:
Magdalena, Jan’s wife, who was constantly tripping over her two left feet. We were all a bit scared when they gave her a huge cake knife on the last night to cut the celebratory cake, as the boat pitched back and forth on the waves.

I felt seasick a few times on the longer “navigations,” but sleep and seasickness pills set me right. Stefan, who works in a hospital, kept offering me his pills, saying nonchalantly that since I had bought mine in Ecuador, they were probably just placebos. When we were horseback riding on Volcano Sierra Negra on Isabela Island, Paul’s horse bit my leg as it walked by. But apart from those minor setbacks, the Galapagos were truly heavenly. I’m sure you’ve all seen videos—I had—but I still had never grasped how up close and personal of an animal experience it would be.

The animals regard you with placid, sometimes condescending, stares, and carry on with their business of expelling salt from their nostrils, if they are marine iguanas, or walking on water, if they are red Sally Lightfoot crabs, or dancing and screeching, if they are blue-footed boobies. The sea lions were often playful and curious, and Jodi had a few particularly close encounters with pups. One swam in the shallows with her, using the surf to rush for her face and veer away at the last moment, splashing her with his flippers, and treating her as I imagine it would a sibling. Another crawled on top of her as it got out of the water, sat on her for a bit, kissed her, and was starting to make me a bit jealous before it finally moved on to bigger and better (and realer) sea lions. And snorkeling added an entire new dimension to this new and wondrous world—we floated past reef sharks, and one nearly made Jodi lose her breakfast when they both rounded a corner, from opposite directions, unaware that the other was coming. The fish were amazing, but it was the larger animals that left you trembling in awe. One day we followed a giant sea turtle for about half an hour as it chomped algae from rocks in the shallows. One day we played with a colony of sea lions that swam and tumbled around us, chasing our fins as if we too were water-creatures. And on the last day we got to swim with Galapagos penguins, tiny, waddling, tuxedoed things that are so slow and awkward on land (like toddlers) but in water can swim so fast that you could blink and miss them.

The beaches were amazing, the sunsets brilliant, and every place and each new animal full of history and mystery—this is the one place out of all my travels that I fervently hope each of you gets to see someday.





After our tour, Jodi and I bade fond farewell to our fellow shipmates and headed into Puerto Ayora to spend a few more Galapagos days in the home of my friends Alan and Damalis. Although we were scabby guests who didn’t even think to ask if we could bring them any goodies from the mainland, we got to reap the benefits of their having other, more generous visitors by drinking succulent English tea all morning. It was really nice to be in a home for a couple of days—and what a home it was, too. Be prepared to writhe with jealousy as I describe a house, only reachable by boat and a footpath along the beach, past waterlilies and bowers of low-standing coastal trees (of course full of finches). When you walk in the door you are standing on a boardwalk over a pond, and the boardwalk leads to the living room, guest room, kitchen, and bathroom in different directions. Upstairs is a bedroom with a view of the sea. Skylights abound. In a hole in a post that holds up half of the living room lives a gecko guarding her tiny eggs, and the other half of the room’s post is the trunk of a tree that stood in that spot when the house was built. I could go on.

And although our few days there were nothing like being on the boat, it was really nice to be home for awhile. One night we were taken to a fancy restaurant (courtesy of National Geographic) by a group of Swiss and Dutch botanists, and on our last night we thought we would be nice and make dinner for our gracious hosts. Jodi took on the lasagna (lasaña, as they spell it in Spanish), and I embarked on what would go down in history as one of the biggest dessert disasters the world has ever seen.

Having harvested tons of free passionfruit when we went to visit a lava tunnel in some old man’s backyard that day, I set out to make a passionfruit pie from a recipe on an evaporated milk label. Now, several factors, in retrospect, were hindrances to its success. One, several ingredients were missing or available in the wrong quantities; two, I was a little drunk when I went to substitute other ingredients for them (take note, y’all: evaporated milk and sugar doth not condensed milk make). And three, the recipe was in Spanish, so I may have missed out on some of the nuances and idiomatic expressions. Anyway, what was meant to be a gelatinous pie with scrumptious passionfruity topping and golden-brown crust turned out as a lactose-y soup (albeit a passionfruit-flavored soup) on top of a half-cooked lump of dough, and when I poured on the topping it sunk straight to the bottom. It was a bit of a Holly Golightly moment—but although there are certain shades of limelight that can wreck a girl’s complexion, everyone kindly acted like it really wasn’t that bad.

That night it rained (true to form, Jodi and I brought the rainy season with us, this time at least to a place that needed it, and it didn’t stop for the next 14 hours. Everything we owned was wet, including the clothes we were wearing to fly back to Guayaquil and then board a Peru-bound bus for approximately 3 days. Somehow, the plane still took off and by nightfall we were on a bus from Guayaquil to Piura, Peru. I will spare you the details of the next three days—they basically involved about 10 buses, 3 nights on buses instead of hotels, and a dazed staggering the morning of the 4th day into the strange new light of Arequipa, Peru. I didn’t write in my diary about those days, because if I had, it would have gone something like this:

Rode bus through desert. Couldn’t fall asleep, so read Crime and Punishment (quite soporific!). Ate passionfruit. Picked scab (very satisfying!). Ate Oreos. Got on different bus. More desert. Watched same Jean Claude Van Damme movie 3x. Then The Princess Diaries dubbed into Spanish. Read some more C & P. Ate passionfruit. Ate Oreos….

So Arequipa was a welcome change from the bus, but in my opinion did not live up to its own catchphrase, “When the moon separated from the earth, it forgot Arequipa.” We definitely felt like we were back in Peru—there were none of the familiar comforts of Ecuador (toilet paper, Magnum ice creams, $1 beers)—and everyone started lying to us again—from our hotel, which lied about their rates and services, to the bank, which lied about the exchange rate. A huge sign in the bank proclaimed 3.35 soles to the dollar (about 15 Peruvian cents higher than everywhere else), so we waited out the lines patiently, discussing what we would get for our crispy Ben Franklin. At the window, we were handed 320 soles and a pre-printed receipt. We pointed at the sign. “That’s not the rate?” we asked, just in case our sign language had been unclear. “No,” said the teller, and equally helpfully pointed at the 3.20 on the receipt. We were too flabbergasted to argue, and took our money, which didn’t feel nearly as special anymore. It’s strange to have to question everything, even if it seems blatantly obvious. But I suppose, if there’s one thing I learned at Governor’s School, it was to question everything, especially if it’s blatantly obvious. That’s my optimistic point of view. The pessimistic point of view unfortunately wins out more of the time, which is that it f***ing sucks to be lied to. Ah well. Yin and yang, I guess (or whatev).

The highlight of Arequipa itself was the Monasterio de Santa Catalina, a convent as large as a city-within-a-city, which only opened to the public when, in the 1950s, they were forced by city ordinance to install electricity and plumbing, couldn’t afford it, so started charging tourists an arm and a leg to explore its nooks and crannies. In colonial times, it was like a party school for second daughters of Spanish aristocracy, each of whom had to contribute a dowry of silver and slave girls to Our Lord, and then live in a beautiful convent waited on by said slave girls, who existed in a ratio of about 3 to 1 “nun.” Later on, they cleaned up their act, “got religion,” and, by virtue of this, got to wear barbed-wire undergarments during ritual scourging. But hey, at least they were doing God’s will.

From Arequipa, the main attraction is trekking through the Colca Canyon in hopes of seeing condors and steeping oneself in the culture of a place where everything that comes in and out has to do so on the back of a mule or on foot, on crumbling, dusty trails that zigzag steeply up the canyon walls. We found a tour that was $33 for 3 days, including food, accommodation, and guide “with basic English.” When we met Rafael, it was clear that this had been an exaggeration. But still we managed, and learned to decipher his constructions, which were patched together from three sources: actual English words, English words pronounced as they would be in Spanish, and Spanish words with the last syllable lopped off. For example, he knew how to say “The local people. The sacrifice,” (actual English) in reference to how they must constantly toil up and down the canyon walls with their produce and supplies, and whenever we passed locals he would usually gesture at them and say this. He knew that “I” was the word for oneself in English, but pronounced it “ee,” as it would be if it were a Spanish word. And for words he didn’t know, he would take the Spanish word and remove the a or o from the end—it works in many instances, when “mula” becomes “mule,” “roca” becomes “rock,” and so forth, but not in others: taking the last syllable off “años” does not make “years” in English. This confused us for awhile—he would say the people settled here hundreds of “an” ago, or that he had been a guide for fifteen “an.” But once we had learned his language, we had a great time.

We saw condors at the beginning of the hike, before we had even entered the canyon. There were four of them, with their enormous wingspans apparent as they glided around us and overhead (some can reach 6 feet). We were at the rim of the canyon, and the birds flew close to it, so that they were over thousands of feet of empty space but near enough to the walls to see if there was anything worth preying upon. And even though I’ve always wished I could fly, nothing has ever made me wish it more than this. There seemed like there could be no place as peaceful, thrilling, and free in the world. No place where you could be at once so entirely isolated and utterly in communion with everything around you. It was immediately no wonder to me that the ancient cultures of this region worshiped condors as the earth’s connection to more heavenly realms.

Our tour group consisted of Jodi, myself, and a 22-year-old guy named Dustin who looked like Jesus. He was from California, had come to South America to gain independence and have spiritual experiences, was probably 6’3” and 130 pounds, with long blond hair and beard, and he loved to smoke pot and play golf. Play golf? I asked him. Everything else made sense. This did not. This guy was the most anti-golf looking guy you ever saw. But he could talk for hours about the joy of perfecting the precision required to get that ball in a hole. At night he would write in his journal and read us poems he had just written based on our conversations that day. We spent two nights in the canyon, once at a quiet pension run by a family with a little girl and a baby horse, who were hopelessly devoted to each other, and Jodi took the best photo of the entire trip of girl and horse playing in an orchard full of ripe apples. The second night we spent at The Oasis, a green place in the middle of the dusty canyon with grass and fruit trees and swimming pools, but the bliss was ended prematurely by the fact that we had to wake up at 2:40 AM to ascend the canyon wall, in order to get to the top to get to a town where a bus left at 7 AM for the return to civilization.

It was pretty miserable. 3 hours of nothing but uphill, mostly in the dark, on terrain where with each step up you seemed to slide two steps back. I was optimistic and doing fine for the first two hours, and then I made the mistake of commenting on this to Jodi. As soon as I said I was fine, I slipped into a decline and the last 45 minutes were some of the most excruciating of my existence. But even though I had had hardly any sleep and everything hurt, it was quite a beautiful sunrise, over that deep and misty canyon full of local people and sacrifice, mules and appletrees and “ans.”

And so we spent another day on a bus—7 hours back to Arequipa, and then another 6 to Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca. Puno was a little dismal, but had great pizza and vegetarian options, although thanks to a little souvenir we picked up in the canyon, they were less enjoyable to us than they might have been had we encountered them with functioning bowels. Rafael had told us not to drink the water at the Oasis, because there was sulfur in it. The other option was to buy bottles of water for 4x what you would spend in town. We asked if we could use our water-purification tablets, and he said yes. But somehow I don’t think iodine does much to sulfur. My stomach and entire digestive system were offline for about 2 weeks after that, and a haze of fumes worse than rotten eggs surrounded me wherever I went. Anyway, we soon decided that there was nothing much in Puno we wanted to see except the Floating Islands of the Uros people.

In order to avoid the culture wars between other tribes and the Incas, the Uros took to the lake hundreds of years ago. They built islands out of reed mats, layering them until they’re about 3 feet thick, and they constantly weave new mats to put on the top, while the old ones rot away from below. They build reed houses on top of the reed islands, and reed boats to navigate between islands. They eat reeds for dinner. We took a rushed and kitschy tour, but it was still lovely—grimy kids tumble all over the place and mothers absentmindedly pull them away if they get too close to the edge. Only a few of the islands are open to tourists anyway, so I’m sure what we were seeing was specially prepared for us, but even so it was like stepping back in time to when humans had to survive on their own ingenuity. And in some ways, we didn’t even have to step back in time—some of the reed huts had antennae and solar panels affixed to the roofs, and as you walked past their cavelike doorways you could see the flickering blue of the television. People, I’ve noticed, would rather anything than give up their land. Even if (especially if?) it’s land they wove themselves.



Coming next: all-too-short escapades in Bolivia and a KMT original, “If You’re Going to Mess Up Your Coccix for the Rest of Your Life, Might As Well Do It On the Inca Trail.”

Back in the Land of the Free

I love my country
by which I mean I am indebted joyfully
to all the people throughout its history
who have fought the government
to make right

--Ani Difranco, “Grand Canyon”

By the end of my travels in South America, I was really looking forward to coming home. I was feeling pretty up on America (North, that is). I had realized so much that I’ve always taken for granted—just how important quality of life is, and how what we mean when we talk about poverty is a completely different thing than what a Peruvian means when he talks about poverty. That even though our government lies, cheats, and steals just like any other, at least, in general, I could stop and ask a policeman for directions without worrying that he will try to follow me there, steal my wallet, and have an illicit affair with me along the way. At least we have the Bill of Rights. At least our government doesn’t just print more money whenever it feels like it in order to finance its leaders’ new Ferraris (well, as far as we know). The list went on.

Then we got to the Miami airport, and I gave Jodi one last hug before entering the immigration lines (separate lines, of course, for residents and aliens), where she would be interrogated, fingerprinted, and retina-scanned and I would walk through with barely a nod from the tired, uniformed officers, as though I owned the place, a princess of this free, imperfect country. Silent tears ran down my face. “See you on the other side,” she said.

And I remembered what I had been running from in leaving America, the democracy-turned-theocracy, the fear of foreigners, the fear of everything, the Focus on Family, the wars waged for peace, the need to amass wealth the way people in other countries need food and shelter. I had stayed blissfully ignorant of news and current events for the whole of my travels—I remembered isolated incidents from passing through restaurants with CNN on their televisions. Glimpses of the Terry Schiavo case, the death of the Pope (or El Papa, in Spanish, which also means “the potato.” I had a good chuckle with that one), aftershocks of tsunamis in regions of the world remote to mine. I deleted emails from MoveOn and the Environmental Defense Fund while I was traveling. “I can’t do anything about that right now,” I would rationalize. “I’m a citizen of nowhere.”

I did see Jodi on the other side. She had a relatively easy pass through immigration, since she was moving on to Australia in three days’ time. I had missed my connection and had 4 hours to wait in Miami, and the unenviable position being the one left behind when Jodi’s flight left in one hour. Over these almost-two years, I’ve answered that age-old question of “is it easier to be the leaver or the left?” Definitely the leaver. The leaver is immediately thrust into the next segment of their life; they must look forward, watch the stewardess, fasten their seat belt, watch land and water recede beneath them. The left person has time. Time to sit in a sterile airport and remember, in painful slow motion, last moments. Time to watch the plane sit on the tarmac for 45 minutes, wondering why, if it was going to sit there, did they have to take her away so soon? Time to watch it taxi into the distance, until it faded away in a glimmer of Florida heat and left me wondering if there had ever truly been a plane there at all.

It has been great to be home. It’s spring and everything is blossoming—flowers in North Carolina in April seem to have no idea that winter ever happened, that deserts even exist, that there are places in the world flowers do not grow. My animals seem to live for the moment when a person comes home from school or work or errands. They glean meaning from their leash-led walks each morning and night, and from a warm body to sleep with or the dying embers of a fire to watch (yes, my cat loves to watch fires). It’s so innocent and precious, and sometimes I wish so much that I could narrow my life down to those simple comforts, and leave the world with its factions of hate and violence to tear itself apart around me. I could probably go on for quite awhile before everything started to fall to bits and intrude upon my bubble of warmth and home. But eventually, it would intrude.

I’ve been listening to NPR, and I’ve started reading the MoveOn emails again. While I was traveling, it was easy and comforting to envision Bush as a lame duck now, because how much more damage can he really do in just three and a half more years, really? Hillary Clinton can just reverse all his nonsense anyway. Now I’m being shorn of my innocence—he can do lots of things that are irreversible. The first three news items I remember from my return home were: drilling in ANWR (in four more years, it will be too late to say “Sorry, polar bears, that was just a misunderstanding, you can have your habitat back now,”), the demise of the filibuster (if you don’t like the Constitution, just change it! That’s what I say.), and the election of a former Nazi as the Pope (but at least he’ll get things back on track, right where Jesus would’ve wanted them).

Of course, some of these depressing developments have come coupled with rays of hope. For example, one night Terry called me, distraught from a bad day at work proofreading for the Texas House of Representatives. For some of us, a bad day at work means we had cramps, a nasty customer, stingy tips, or plummeting stocks. For Terry, a bad day at work means that he had to grab his little red pen, read a bill that denies gay people the right to be foster parents, and mark it “OK, looks great!” I asked him if he felt like a Nazi collaborator. “You know, when this is all over, it will be people like you whose only defense will be ‘I was just doing my job.’” But I knew, even then, that I was being harsh. There is nothing he could have done about it, except quit. And then he would have to revert to prostitution, and they’d just get some other starving English major to fill his position. Enormous protests, petitions, and referenda all easily fail when there is someone in power who wants something pushed through. Even if Terry marked through the whole bill with his red pen, saying, “Wrong! Cut! Not only have you employed split infinitives, but you are EVIL,” it would have passed. I’ve ceased thinking of our government as a receptive, flexible instrument of the people. It’s now a mindless bulldozer that uses too much gasoline.

So where is that ray of hope you mentioned at the beginning of the last paragraph, you’re wondering. Soon after that conversation with Terry, I was driving home from babysitting and passed a city park thronged with hundreds of people. I slowed to read the signs, and couldn’t believe my eyes: “Charlotte Pride Festival.” “What??! There aren’t enough gay people in Charlotte to have a festival, and most of the ones that are here probably aren’t PROUD of it,” I was thinking. It crossed my mind that maybe it was just unfortunate word choice for something put on by the city for people that are proud of living in Charlotte. But I looked closer, and there were rainbows everywhere, girls with short hair, men with fashion sense, and—wait—was that a drag queen onstage in the distance? And then, on the fringes, I saw picketers with signs that said “YOU CAN’T MAKE A CIVIL RIGHT OUT OF A MORAL WRONG” and groups of people with matching red shirts that said “CLEANSED IN THE BLOOD OF JESUS” and I knew I was in the right place.

It took me half an hour to find a parking space (and finally I did, at the Baptist church). As I walked toward the park, I realized that the noise wasn’t just from a monster sound system; there really were hundreds and hundreds of people there, attending the festival. By contrast, the protesters were there in scant numbers. There were police officers in abundance, which I thought was a nice gesture, but wondered if they would really do anything in our defense if shit went down. It was a beautiful day, and I made my way in solitude through the throngs of people—laughing people, loving people, some people engaged with the staffers of booths in activist-conversations about what they can do to get involved with the fight for equality. As I entered the park, someone handed me a newspaper that listed queer happenings in the southeast—including the Pride Festivals in East Tennessee, Central South Carolina, and Central Alabama. I had been surprised to see a Charlotte event, but Central Alabama? That was a bomb threat waiting to happen. Still, I was filled with a silly, strange sense of hope.

Into my other hand was thrust a pamphlet that had a photo of a guy with a mullet on the front, with a speech bubble proclaiming “I WAS gay.” Inside was John’s story, how once he had succumbed to the evil forces of Satan that led him into temptation, but was able to suppress his Satanic desires through counseling and prayer. I think I actually said “thanks” to the guy who handed me the pamphlet; I didn’t even look at it until a minute later. I looked back, and saw the red-shirted people with the mullet-emblazoned pamphlets in one hand and their golden-paged Bibles in the other, stopping people on their way in and out and trying to engage them in proselytizing conversation. They seemed to attempt to speak only to couples holding hands, butch women, and men with lots of piercings—people who, to them, must have “looked gay” (I didn’t note any mullets among their victims, though). I had gotten away with just the pamphlet. How embarrassing for them, if they had lunged at me with their doctrine and I had turned out not to be gay! I could have easily been one of them! Best to stick to the obvious ones. I was glad they hadn’t spoken to me, but felt like a bit of a traitor as well. Causes are not forwarded by blending in.

I wandered through the booths, smelling falafel and funnel cakes and watching couples kissing on the grass. I signed a petition supporting the granting of same-sex-partner benefits to city workers. I wandered, and I thought of all the things I would say to those protesters, if given the chance and the guts. Why are you so scared of me? maybe. Or I feel really sorry for you. A bit harsh, perhaps. Who would Jesus love? They wouldn’t get it, probably. How many people’s minds do you really think you changed today? That might take them aback for a minute, but inevitably they would reassemble their wits and say something like “It doesn’t matter if we change anyone’s mind; what matters to God is that we are out here upholding what we believe.” I thought of Jodi’s words: See you on the other side. In a way, it was the perfect thing to say. But I knew it wouldn’t communicate either.

I sat on the grass for awhile on the fringes of the amphitheater, reading the gay newspaper and every now and then looking up at the acts onstage. They were, for the most part, unimpressive—drag lip-synchs or weak comedians who began “How many of y’all out there have been drinkin’?” But then I heard the crowd start murmuring and I realized everyone was standing up and I couldn’t see anymore. I stood up too, and saw one of the Bible-beaters marching across the stage, in front of the current drag queen, brandishing his Good Book, and yelling something that no one could hear above the music and the response from the crowd. Perhaps he was speaking in tongues. He was out there for a few minutes, ignoring the MC’s request that he please leave the stage. An effeminate Asian guy skipped up from the first row of the audience and kneeled in front of the man, stuffing a dollar bill in his waistband. The crowd went wild. I kept looking at the police milling on the edges, wondering what they were there for if not to defuse stuff like this. Finally, two of them came and interrupted the evangelist’s tirade, and walked him offstage. Everyone cheered. Through all this, the drag queen had never missed a step in her dance, and for the rest of the act I watched the police trying to reason with the evangelist, and with several of his friends who had shown up as reinforcements. I couldn’t hear their conversation but it looked like something along the lines of “It’s a free country and you’re inhibiting my rights to express my beliefs by interrupting this performance,” and the police nodding and saying “I understand that you’re angry, but we need to be respectful.” Perhaps I lend them too much eloquence in my conjectures.

When the song had finished, the MC, before introducing the next act, said, “And as for the gentleman who tried to help us with that performance….” A few boos arose from the crowd. “Now don’t boo ‘em. Don’t boo ‘em. That’s not friendly.” She was the perfect Southern belle drag queen. “Let’s all just look at ‘em and say ‘We love you!’” And she counted to three, and five hundred people all looked toward stage right, where the protesters were continuing to argue with the police, and in a booming, collective voice of benevolence (not unlike the adjectives with which we might imagine God’s voice), five hundred people shouted in unison, “WEE LOOOOVEE YOUUUUU.” Fists were raised and grimaces were formed on faces in response. But I, at that moment, felt great.

As I left the park, not long after that, I saw that I would pass groups of red shirts milling in uncertain twos and threes. I rehearsed saying “How many people’s minds do you really think you changed today?” but as I walked by them I just looked at the ground. I had just engaged in a collective expression of love; I didn’t want to ruin it with an individual expression of hostility. I also passed a group of policemen, who seemed jolly, happy to be on an assignment that had them outside on a beautiful day. I said hi, and “Thank y’all for being here.” “Oh of course, of course!” one of them responded. He seemed so sincere, like some of my friends from high school’s dads when I would thank them for having me over. “We really appreciate it,” I said, and continued walking toward my car (and the Baptist church). I didn’t look back, but I imagined them staring after me for a few seconds, taking in my long hair and Roxy T-shirt and CK jeans, surprised that I was someone saying “We” to mean “gay people.” But I didn’t look back, so I don’t know. Maybe I’m not giving them, or me, enough credit.

Yesterday I drove to Chapel Hill, then Durham, then Winston-Salem, and then back home. I listened to NPR for about 6 hours, and each news item seemed more chilling than the last. Two car bombs exploded in Iraq. Kansas (and 18 other states) want to teach Creationism in science class again. Medicaid, Social Security, and the retirement pensions of United Airlines employees are all doomed to failure. A state legislator in Alabama wants to ban all books by gay authors or with gay characters from public school libraries (“It’s not censorship,” he said, “it’s protecting our children.”). Protecting our children from Shakespeare and Michelangelo? Whatev, as certain college roommates of mine would say. A North Carolina woman was fired from her job because she lives with her boyfriend, to whom she is not married, and there is a LAW from 1806 prohibiting unmarried cohabitation. Apparently six other states have these laws, and North Dakota has motioned to repeal it 3 times, and each time the state legislature has voted to keep it! One of their reps was quoted: “Cohabitation is an unfortunate fact we have to live with in today’s society, but the government shouldn’t condone it.” And 5,000 people showed up in Raleigh today to show their support for an amendment banning same-sex marriage. I suppose it was only a matter of time.

There was also a severe thunderstorm watch in effect through the evening, and even though Susan and Amanda tried to get me to stay, it wasn’t raining at the time so I started back to Charlotte. About 20 minutes down the road, I ran into the rain. For awhile, I could see enormous, brilliant lightning bolts every few seconds directly ahead of me, but there was no thunder and no sign of rain. And then it found me. At first it wasn’t so bad, and then it was so hard I crept along at 40 mph, rocked with apocalyptic thunder and flashes of lightning that seemed like strobe lights, and buckets of rain assaulting my dad’s new-old truck, which I had never driven in the dark or the rain before. I knew that when I was growing up they used to say that the car was the safest place you could be in a storm, because the tires were rubber and would protect you from lightning, but I wondered if there were newer theories on that, the way they go back and forth on whether you’re supposed to eat dairy or not. I started to worry that Susan and Amanda had been right, and I had made the wrong decision, and I should have stayed. I had this horrible feeling that I was trapped by destiny, that there was a Right Decision to be made and I had no idea what it was—would I have avoided an accident by staying? If I turned around and went back right now, could I still avoid it or is it making that decision that would ultimately throw me in the path of danger? I know it doesn’t make sense, but I was truly scared. I’ve never really had intuition worth listening to; I’ve had much better luck analyzing situations and making rational decisions based on the data. But now I felt like that could cost me everything.

Every now and then the highway would pass under bridges, where the road was dry and there was a brief respite from the rain. It was quiet—for this leg of the trip I had abandoned NPR to wallow in its depressing tidings and put on some Paul Simon, and under those bridges, for a split second, I could actually hear it: “poor boys and pilgrims and families, and we are goin’ to Gracela—” and “angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity, hey, hallelu—” I kept going, though. I had decided to drive home, and I had to stick with it, stop second guessing myself, and drive through this storm. I saw another bridge coming up, and looking forward to that brief second of silence, I said to myself, See you on the other side.

El Condor No Pasa, and Other Just So Stories

They tell you when you sign up for the jungle that there are something like 50 mammals per hectare, and even though it smacks of legend you board the bus imagining tapir families snuffing through the undergrowth under sloth-draped trees, with barrels of monkeys chittering all around, a puma asleep on a sun-drenched branch, and a river dolphin or two peeking above the surface of the lazy river. Thirteen hours later, as you sit in a van, jostling over a pockmarked dirt road, you are still imagining this, and five hours after that, as your canoe is nearing the camp and darkness has pretty much descended, you realize that the statistics are correct, but your imagination is not. In every hectare, there are 50 mammals, but 49 are bats and the other one is hiding.

And I don't blame them one bit. I hope they continue to hide from all but those with binoculars, respect, and world enough and time, because on our trip away from the reserve, as we headed back to "civilization," a man flagged down our bus and threw a sack and a box on top--the sack with a huge live turtle, the box with a gaggle of tiny, scared monkeys. Our guide said there was nothing anyone could do unless they were a registered animal-trafficking patroller or something, which no one was of course and so a fat lot of effective that policy is, in my opinion. I couldn't look at them, but Jodi did while we were stopped, and ever since then has been prone to long, troubled silences and even bouts of tears when she thinks about how the monkeys were looking at her and begging her to set them free and let them go home. I was left to my guilt and cowardice, and to pray that in their future travels those animals find kinder, braver souls than I for their guardians.

Still, even without spying an anaconda or singlehandedly trying to stop the endangered species black market, the jungle was an adventure. We tried, in vain, to kill a lime with a dart from a 93-year-old shaman's blowpipe, caught piranhas to look at their teeth, saw more medicinal plants than you can shake a stick at, and laughed quite a bit at the pair of French stepbrothers who provided comic relief throughout. The best parts of the trip were at night, when we took walks to look for nocturnal insects and animals, and spent a few minutes with flashlights off, absorbing the peace and mystery of the forest at night. We were all disappointed not to see a tarantula, but our guide was nonplussed. He "knew a spot" back at the camp for tarantulas. And sure enough, back in the open-walled shelter that housed our mattresses and mosquito nets, the first shine of a flashlight on the underside of the thatched roof revealed a tarantula the size of my hand. Jodi and I thought it was pretty cool, but the Dutch arachnophobic and German control freak had more trouble adjusting. They rose to the occasion, though, and by the last night, after spending sunset in a giant lake surrounded by the Flooded Forest, which is mostly submerged for half the year, we all enthusiastically embraced the return home to our "pet" tarantulas after an exciting night-canoe ride spotting caimans, Amazonian alligators whose eyes glow red under flashlight beams and who literally line the riverbanks after dark.





* * *

The full moon was last night, and when I got up to pee around four AM it was reigning in unnoticed majesty over the silver sea. This meant that the full moon could not have been 3 weeks ago when we were in Quito and everything kept going horribly wrong, such that we grew desperate for something to blame and developed the habit of saying "It must be the full moon." We arrived there, straight from the jungle and wet behind the ears, on the first day of Carnaval. We were wet behind the ears because the water balloons were back again with a vengeance--probably due to the fact that everyone vacates Quito during Carnaval in favor of sunnier or more drunken climes, so those left behind were very resentful of this indeed. Everything was closed, not just on Sunday but for the 3 weekdays following, and after we walked around trying to view the Colonial churches in all their splendor but found them closed--or closing, as was the case when the woman slammed the door of the Basilica in Jodi's face--we decided we needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

Our first try was to Papallacta, purportedly the most beautiful hot springs in Ecuador. Our book described a beautiful hike through the mountains, reminiscent of the loch-country of Scotland, and all you had to do was get off the bus at the statue of the Virgin, head north-northeast toward the antennas on one mountaintop, pass a couple of stunning lakes, hope the farmers didn't mind you cutting through their pastures, and soon you'd end up at the hot springs.

The bus dropped us off at the Virgin, across from a road sign that read, and I quote, "Warning: Dangerous Curve of Death." To help matters along, we were smack dab in the middle of a dense cloud the size of, I'd say, New England, and we couldn't see more than 3 feet ahead of us. It soon became apparent that we weren't going to be able to see any of the required landmarks, that the descriptions in the book were wrong anyway, and that Jodi was wearing shorts at approximately 4,000 meters of altitude. We walked back to the highway, were some policemen were finishing up conducting a roadblock just for the fun of it. They said it was about 30 kms to the springs and of course you couldn't walk there--but they were going that way anyway, could they give us a ride? Jodi said we should wait for the bus. I said, "But they're policemen." She said, "Exactly."

Unfortunately, she turned out to be right, as usual, because no more than 2 minutes of the ride had elapsed before they were asking if we were married (No) or single (Not exactly), and they said that if one wasn't married, one was single, and did we like to go to the discotheque? If it hadn't been so invasive and irritating, it would have sounded like a practice conversation in a Spanish textbook--until they said that they had 8 "women" and we could be their 9th and 10th. Then they said they thought they would come swimming with us, and we laughed and said "But you're working!" and they said it didn't matter.

At this point we were fingering the mace contained in their belts that were slung over the seats, but before we could muster a plan of attack we were at the springs, where a bilingual sign warned that "Admission is restricted to those who have consumed alcohol." It was freezing cold, raining, cost $6, which is about 6x as much as it ought, and they let the policemen in for free.

It took an hour of pointedly ignoring them and changing pools whenever they found us before they gave up and went back to "work." It took a few more hours before the vacationing families all left for siesta and we had the pools almost to ourselves--which was nice, although, in the grand scheme of things, worth neither the money nor the ordeal of door-to-door service.

That night we ran into the Dutchies and the Deutschy from our jungle tour and found out that their days, too, had gone terribly awry, and concluded that there must be some trouble in the heavenly spheres, or that it was the full moon. The full moon followed us to the Galapagos tour agency the next day, where we found a perfect-sounding tour that was sold out for the dates we wanted, and followed us in the form of foul weather to our next destinations--first, Otavalo, with the most famous crafts market in Ecuador, where it rained every one of our 3 days until the day we were leaving, when I maintain that we were granted a karmic reprieve for pumping so much money into the local economy. We kept running into the Dutchies in Otavalo, where they were laying low until their Galapagos tour, having booked the last two spots for the dates we wanted. We could never quite tell iof the Dutchies liked us. Something probably not so much in our favor was that we kept calling them "the Dutchies" even in their presence. They liked us enough to split transportation costs with us, though, for a visit to the local attraction Laguna Cuicocha, "Lake of the Guinea Pig." This was a lovely volcanic crater lake north of Otavalo that we had wanted to visit ever since learning about it in a tour agency, where a young woman with a very cute little boy explained how to get there, intermittently handing her increasingly fussy child highlighter lids and bits of paper from her desk to play with. When this ceased to work, she asked him, exasperated, "What do you want?" and he burst into tears while pawing frantically at her breast. Jodi and I burst out laughing, wishing we were as free to blatantly express such urges in public, and just as quickly stopped when the girl whipped out her breast and started feeding him, which of course people do all the time, but the close proximity was a little discomfiting. "So," she continued, rolling her eyes as though a pesky fly had been taken care of, "you shouldn't have to pay the taxi more than $4...."

From Otavalo, our plan was to head for Mindo, a cloud-forest paradise of birds and butterflies that we had heard about from some English people from Swindon who had also ridden on the Devil's Nose train a few weeks before. And isn't it just like the English to recommend a place where it rains 24/7 as a paradise? They were impressed that I had been to their hometown (albeit just to change trains) and had heard of their famous "Magic Roundabout," Swindon's one claim to fame. There's an Asimov short story that has haunted me since I was young, about a girl on a planet where it rains constantly, except for once every 7 years when the sun comes out for an hour. She's 6 years old, has never seen the sun, and on the day it happens som bullies lock her in the broom closet and she misses it. Mindo was about as close as you could come to that planet on this planet--in the approximately 4 minutes that it wasn't raining while we were there, the birds didn't feel like flying, and we were advised by the locals to skip the butterfly garden because the rain had them all pinned down onto windshields anyway.

About a week before these shenanigans, I found out that I'm a finalist for the teaching program at Wake Forest, but that to proceed they require a videotaped interview. Now, contrary to popular belife, this is not the easiest thing to procure in a third-world country, but I had managed to find a guy with a video camera and get him to tape Jodi interviewing me, at great (relative) expense to myself. The only thing left was to mail it in, which I had to do in Quito, as Mindo, residing in an Asimovian alternate universe as it does, doesn't have a post office. We were only in Quito to change buses, pick up our Galapagos tour contract (we chose different dates, damn the Dutchies), and mail my video, but our faithful friend the full moon followed us every step of the way. Apparently padded envelopes are an advanced technology that hasn't made it here yet, so I had to spend about an hour finding packaging, only to entrust my precious future to an unreliable postal system. Then we couldn't find the Guayasamin museum and had to take a taxi. Then we learned that there was a protest against the government that had ground all public transportation through the city center to a halt, so we had to take a taxi to the bus station to once again get the hell out of Dodge, and, we hoped, away from the watchful eye of the full moon.

* * *

When we discovered that Jodi's camera had been stolen, we bought four beers and made a toast to traveling light. No sooner had we had a couple of days of not only weighing in close to our budget, but also the good fiscal karma of giving beggars our loose change, than someone had to go and sink us $800 in one pop.

Now, it was very clearly in the destiny of this camera to get stolen, and Jodi's heroic attempt at staving off fate when she punched the Peruvian theif in the face merely bought us some time. But if it was inevitably to be, why couldn't it have been after our trip to Galapagos? I still haven't reconciled that one. Since the camera was stolen about two weeks ago, our luck has improved substantially, by which I mean we have seen some of the most beautiful things of the trip to date, and not been able to take any photos. We think that someone reached into our bag that was under our seat on the bus, adding the final icing to that cake of bad luck and timing that was our last day in Quito. After filling out a police report, there was nothing to do but carry on to Saquisili, our destination because it is the starting point of a lovely loop journey through the mountains to Laguna Quilotoa, and because of their supposedly fascinating Thursday market. We arrived Wednesday night, found the only hotel in town but couldn't find any restaurants or, more importantly after the day we'd had, any cold beer. Jodi asked one guy if there was a supermarket in town and he said, "Tomorrow." Finally, we found both beer and food, the former superb and the latter dismal, and very gratefully welcomed sleep.

Laguna Quilotoa was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, with as many colors swirling as a Yellowstone hot spring, the craggy rim of volcano jutting up around it, and three more volcanoes off in the distance, the twin peaks of Las Illinizas, and Cotopaxi, a Quechua name which means "Neck of the Moon."



Being perpetually cloud-shrouded, we never actually saw the neck of the moon, but it's nice to know it's there. We chose the best day possible to go to the lake--the first warm, sunny day in a long time. From the nearest town of Chugchilan, this involved catching the only bus of the day at 6 AM and then spending the rest of the day hiking back down--partway around the rim, left at the third sandy patch, down the mountain, through the pastures, down a canyon and back up again to our home sweet home at Hostal Cloud Forest, where $5 a night included hammocks and a scrumptious meal cooked up by the innkeeper's wife. It was quite the perfect day, and one of my favorite parts was conversing with the grave 10-year-old named Angel who came up behind us as we were making tuna sandwiches at the lookout over the canyon, where the sign saying "Viewpoint" may as well have said "Gringos, eat your lunch here!" We didn't hear him approach, so Jodi nearly jumped out of her skin when he said hello, asked us where we were going and where we were from, what our names were and how old we were--just about the only thing he didn't ask us was whether he could have a sandwich, but by the ferocity with which he devoured it once it was offered, we divined that perhaps it was his principal motive in befriending us. Still, by the end of lunch, we had learned his mother's name, the names and ages of each of his 7 siblings, from Juanita who is 20 to Franklin who is 2 to Carlos who is dead--to which we awkwardly responded that we were sorry. We learned that he likes math and Dr. Seuss, that his family owns 50 guinea pigs, 5 regular pigs, 20 sheep, 18 burros, 1 dog, 1 cat, and 3 chickens, and that he would like to travel. "What country would you like to visit?" I asked him. Looking at the town across the canyon, he replied, "Chugchilan." At length, there was a lull in the conversation, and I asked him if he saw many tourists along this path. Yes. "Do the gringos always give you lunch?" "Yes," he replied, with a hint of smile, "Always." We left him with half a water bottle and our regards for his family and animals, and he left us with the memory of having offered lunch to an angel in a valley surrounded by volcanoes.

* * *

One characteristic of the people here is that they often give strangers wrong information, not out of maliciousness but because they are desperate to give you the answer you are looking for, even if they don't really know. When asking where things are, we find they are almost invariably "2 blocks down and one to the right" and end up wandering in circles. When you're on a quest for something in the market, they're always sure they have what you're looking for ("Granola...that's like mushrooms, right?"). So it was not surprising that, in asking all 50 of the residents of Chugchilan when exactly the buses left to get out of there, we received 50 different responses, all in the equally unsatisfying hours between 3 and 6 in the morning. We settled on 5:30, because that's what the lady at our hotel said and she was a good cook with a sweet, motherly face who, after clearly wanting to for quite some time, shyly asked Jodi if her lip ring gave her any...problems. "Not that I know of," says Jodi. "And it doesn't hurt? And it doesn't get in the way when you...kiss your boyfriend?" She was truly mystified. "Nope," Jodi said with a smile, "I've never had any problems with that."

Unfortunately, the sweet lady at our hotel was wrong, and we heard the only bus of the day drive away just after 5. We sat in the dark with clouds wetting our clothes, hoping we had been wrong and that another bus would come soon. "If not, we'll just hitchhike," said Jodi, which reassured me until an hour later not a single vehicle had passed. We would either have to spend another night there and have another blasphemously early wake-up-call, or go on one of the later trucks to Latacunga (site of camera-robbery and far out of our way), or hope that somebody drove by. "Hang your washing out," Jodi said, since we both had clean, wet clothes festering in our bags. "Then someone will be sure to drive by." So I did, and no sooner had I placed the last ankle sock on the line than a truck full of English people drove by (because English people can afford to hire trucks) that could take us exactly where we needed to go.

* * *

The next 24 hours were a blur of uncomfortable buses and high-decible "music" piped through blown-out speakers, and we had to keep reminding ourselves that it was what we had to endure if we wanted to get out of the godforsaken rain and see the blessed Pacific again. Now, they only play a few songs here, on repeat: "Angie," "Stairway to Heaven," one whose only lyrics are "sa-sa-sa-sasasasasasa," one about a man in love with a pubescent girl, and one whose only intelligible phrase is "dame mas gasolina" (give me more gasoline), which I've tried to make less annoying by trying to convince myself that it's a clever allegory for US foreign policy--but the comparison only lasts till the next time I hear it. Lately the bus music has been at such a deafening level that we have had to resort to stuffing toilet paper in our ears, just to lower the volume to approximately frat-party-dance-floor level. And though we all have our fears--Jodi her claustrophobia, my fear of falling off rocky cliffs, Americans their culture of fear, I can find very little respect of tolerance within myself for such a unified, cultural fear of silence. I begin to count the number of bus rides with neither music nor TV (0), the number of mornings I've slept peacefully without tamales being hawked or bread being peddled over a loudspeaker or car horns blaring or the inhabitants of the next room immediately cranking the music full blast (5), the number of days in a row I have been able to avoid the "Gasolina" song (3, in the jungle), and the number of times we enjoyed the jungle in silence, without the canoe motor or talking (2). It's a rare moment when you are afforded the chance to enjoy a beautiful landscape, or sip your coffee in silence as you give the morning a chance to unfold. At home, Dad is always turning off our music, citing "just a little peace and quiet" with a pleading, desperate tone. And now I understand, because Daddy, if you have half the loathing for our music as I have for South American pop-salsa-crap at this point, I have known not what I did, and I heartily repent. Also, I think Johnny Cash wouold turn over in his grave if he were to hear "Solitary Man" translated into Spanish, sung by a moaning woman, and pumped up with a computerized salsa beat.

As for the former part of "peace and quiet"--it's rather fitting that the Spanish phrase for "leave me alone" is "dejeme en paz"--leave me in peace. Unfortunately, this is a very useful phrase for us, particularly when you step off the bus in a strange place and are immediately accosted by about 112 people, demanding that you get in their taxi or transfer to their bus company or buy their stale bread or overpriced fruit or give them your money just because. It doesn't help matters that when you do try to glean information about their product, they immediately cut you off and answer the question they think it is likely you might ask, which is usually how much it costs. Example:

Me: When does the bus-
Bus Ticket Lady: $5! $5!! $5!!
Me: No, when does the bus leave?
BTL: $5!
Me: How long does it take?
BTL: $5!
Me: How much do I have to pay you to actually listen to what I'm saying?

You get the idea.

Another example, just after getting off the bus in Quevedo, which is not a nice place to visit, nor to live I would imagine:
Random Bus Guy: Where are you going? Manta! Guayaquil! Latacunga! Esmer-
Jodi: El baño (the bathroom).
RBG (grabbing her by the arm and pulling her): Well, to get to Baños, take my bus to Ambato, then change-
Me: Not BAÑOS. El BAÑO. Vamos al BAÑO.
RBG, a bit deflated: Inside and to the left.

And guess who was waiting for us when we emerged from the bathroom, starting afresh: Now gringas, where are you going? Guayaquil! Manta!...

* * *

So we've spent the last several days at the beach, first in Puerto Lopez and now in Montañita, where the water is Caribbean in its crystallinity and the surf is swell. Needless to say, Jodi has been happy and I have so far managed to not be bored by Paradise. It helps that we can stay in a cheap hotel but spend all day in the hammocks and shade at the expensive cabañas down by the Point, which is where the magic happens. I keep a tab at the bar, which makes me feel important, but which really just means not having to think about how overpriced the heavenly chocolate and banana pancakes are until after the fact.

The Spanish word for "surfer" is "surfista," which I think is perfect because it is much more connotative of ideology, of way-of-life, than the English. It puts me in mind of fashionistas, of Futurists, Buddhists, chauvinists, pacifists and nudists. Surfistas have a greater capacity than normal people for being satisfied with doing nothing--they can stare at the ocean all day (while they're not surfing) like it's their job, and genuinely believe that you have trespassed on something holy by asking them for directions, or the time. In surfing towns, the only jobs are giving surf lessons, working in a bar or hotel, or selling hemp-and-shell jewelry you made yourself. So while you are hemp jewelry shopping, you'll see a flyer posted outside the nearest bar for surf lessons, and it will proclaim the surfista manifesto: "The best surfista out there is the one who's having the most fun!" It's an every-man-for-himself sport, solitary and take-no-prisoners. Only one person can surf any given wave, and if you "drop in" on someone else's wave, you have committed a grave transgression, because you have shunted them off, thereby preventing their having the most fun and preventing them from being the best surfista.

I think there may be a correlation between the inability to balance on a surfboard and the inability to fully identify with this profession that chooses its winners based on fun. Apply the mantra to other things and see where you get: the best bricklayer is the one who lays the most bricks (although if he has the most fun while doing it, kudos to him). The writers having the most fun are almost certainly the worst, since the best writers all come up with witty quips about the torture and arduousness of applying yourself to the craft. They are the ones who chain themselves to their desks wearing hair shirts until they have produced the requisite x pages per day, while the writers having the most fun may have glibly jotted down some heart-seepage as they sipped their Frappuccino and then went out to have fun.

So which is better? Surfers, especially in groups, are an inane and sorry herd with one-track minds and boring conversation. But are writers much of an improvement? I recall gatherings of underage English majors shoveling down wine and cheese outside the Rare Book Room, making grandiose statements about how this visiting author was absolutely Dickensian in scope and that Chaucer was SO overrated, and we should be sure to pick up the next issue of the Archive, because their most recent opus, a culmination of a year's sleepless and lovelorn nights, and really an homage to the lyricism of Wordsworth, would occupy pages 44-62.

So I've reached two conclusions. One, that I have little patience for anyone who can't see past whatever it is that occupies most of their time and acknowledge the rest of the world. Your fun, or your thesis, may be all that's keeping you going, but that doesn't make you impressive--it makes you less able to find fun, enlightenment, or new ideas elsewhere.

Second, that I must acknowledge my jealousy. If you look past the herds of posers and the fact that the only music they seem to have heard of is Jack Johnson (what did they do before?), you find independent, passionate people who love something so much they would rather do it than anything else, and they will get sunburned, bruised, waterlogged, and exhausted in order to catch that wave, and experience "that feeling which only a surfer understands." They respect the power of the ocean and will wake up at dawn if it means getting out before the sea breeze comes in. I can't think of anything completely voluntary that I would get up early to do. Not only do they have great tans, butts, highlights, and strong arms, but they get to look cool while doing what they love. And they have an ability which I've never mastered (besides the obvious): the ability to have fun, and shitpiles of it, while doing something they may not be perfect at. As a professional perfectionista, with a specialty in self-criticism, I've never quite been able to enjoy anything I wasn't good at. Hence, I give up easily--playing the guitar, learning French, doing Calculus, lifting weights, reading Joyce, all litter the gutters of my past like misguided bowling balls, and after my trip to Australia, surfing seemed destined to become one of them--that turquoise ball that didn't quite fit, but that I tried to throw anyway. I would see other learners topple head-over-fins and come up laughing, maybe at their clumsiness or maybe in ecstasy at having almost stood up on the board for a fraction of a second. When I would take a nosedive, it was hard to hold back the tears--so much effort, so many bruises, and I had screwed it up again. It's hard to do the grunt work that results in a thrill if you never get to the thrill part.

In Montañita, Jodi's midafternoon break from surfing has been my daily lesson. The first day, I lasted an hour before I let my guard down and the Perfectionista took over, driving me from the water with achy arms and eyes salty from frustration. Yesterday started out much the same, but I forced myself to laugh at my foibles even when I didn't feel like it, and keep going back for more even though it hurt (great lessons for life, all). By the end, I had stood on the board three times, and only left the water because the tide was so high it was close to swallowing me up. And though each stint at boardriding ended it its own grand and graceless fall, there may have been times when, for a few seconds of stolen balance shooting forth between green sea and blazing sky, I was the best surfista out there.