When It’s Right, Let it Simmer: Day 172

Alice Villa and her crew kicked me out with a smile and a tear. My beloved guesthouse was overbooked, and my sorry load needed to relocate for the remainder of my mountain adventure. It was a bittersweet parting with an establishment that saved me from extreme bowel distress, gave me food and impeccable shelter, and created an inexplicable feeling of comfort and acceptance that sped up bodily recovery time and revitalized my withering appreciation for the Indian nation. The desk clerk and bellhops appeared regretful to see me toting my earthly possessions out of their gates, and I left without an idea as to where I would go next. I knew Darjeeling and I clicked. More wilderness trekking opportunities announced themselves around every corner of this town. And Sikkim, a.k.a. Shangri-La, was only a short, albeit treacherous, ride away. However, I couldn't ignore that I had finally tapped into something really rare here, in this nook of the world.

When experiencing the world in quantitative form, maximizing the number of locales and tight-wad tendencies but risking pinnacles of quality, seldom does one develop a connection with the people, the local mentality, or the offerings of the destination. My Lonely Planet runneth over with restaurant recommendations and beautiful ways to spend an afternoon. I saw few tourists, none of which represented the toxic species I hated from Varanasi, and the prospect of having another high altitude sunrise grace my retinas kept me lingering for more from the legendary hilltop station.

$15 was the new $2.50 in my spending habits for shelter. After such a satisfying three nights in a joint that merited even one star, I stuck with my new standards of living (e.g. not squalor) and searched for anything that had a personal bathroom, moments of warm water, a TV, and bedding. Hotel New Vaisali did the trick. To illustrate the ease of this search, I'll paint an experiential picture. Imagine all hotel options being within a three minute walk of each other and your favorite spots in town. Picture yourself staring at a sign for a few seconds, working on your Nepali translations, then being approached by a helpful man with a Gorkha hat atop his noggin. Pretend said helpful sir decides to inquire about your requirements and acts as translator/negotiator for each establishment you both enter. When attempt #3 is successful, you find yourself uttering, "Thank you, India. I take note of your incredible hospitality."

A comfy king size bed, a shower head, functioning cable TV and a wall length window with a view of the mountain range; these are a few of my favorite things. I broke a rule within the first five minutes and did some laundry inside my room, hanging the dripping clothes on the glass to billow in the thin, fresh breeze. Performing this act at home is a monotonous chore that requires no elbow grease. However, on the road, I was someone who wore clothes until they rotted off the body and needed to be quarantined inside a backpack; any chance to launder my wardrobe relieved numerous troubles and tripled my daily clothing choices, amounting to three options. Using my shampoo to generate lather for not only my hair and body but the clothing still hanging from my frame made shower time not so relaxing, but, boy, was I gettin' everything clean! And I'd probably round the number up to 750 for the amount of people around the world who have seen my undies flapping in the wind outside out of my various domiciles.

Only in Darjeeling… …do boys carry two different love letters in their back pockets…one in Nepali and another in English. …does the train get caught in a traffic jam. …do you walk through the town once and meet the same people ten times. …can you jump off the train, take a leak, and catch the train again. …do people sit in the fog and watch an entire soccer match, without knowing what the hell is going on on the field. …do the unemployed dress better than the employed. …do you find distances in kilometers and places in miles.

I found the following adorable list on my menu at a bakery in town. This wasn't a spot on the typical Lonely Planet trail, but it had a menu in English with humor to delight the foreign masses. I read the long list and smiled, pulling out my notebook to copy the most location-specific and oh-so true phrases. Writing them down brought flashbacks of all the hopeless romantic boys that work in Alice Villa and New Vaisali, the ridiculous train track that braids itself with the road on the route up to Darjeeling, the little boy on the observation deck that would sneak up on me multiple times a day to scare me and make the local elderly laugh at me, and the road signs in kilometers I desperately searched for when my body was in deep digestive distress on the ride up. Darjeeling and I seemed to grow more and more alike, our interests unmistakably tied with a humorous string.

Alain de Botton, in his book The Art of Travel, covers a vast array of topics not commonly discussed in guidebooks or Samantha Brown specials, topics which speak straight to the one half of my soul that is eternally nomadic. One of his chapters brings up the connections between people and their beloved destinations, those places that bring people to life even though they may be thousands of miles from their home soil. De Botton develops on the idea that there are inexplicable reasons why I love the city of Florence, why Anthony Bourdain is at times persuaded to move to Indonesia, and why the world's travelers feel compelled to hit certain places over and over again. I was born in Wabash, Indiana, and though my childhood friends are the coolest people on the planet and my other half is all about small town values, my birthplace does not satiate my soul.

I don't know if this idea falls under the jurisdiction of reincarnation or the mystical, but I think people don’t just have "soul mates" but soul cities. This relationship cannot be determined by how good of a time one has at a destination. I met some fantastic people in Delhi, but that crap hole and I are not an item. I enjoyed some fantastic wine and thermal bath sessions in Hungary, but I, for some reason, loathed that place. Florence, Italy and I have had a multi-faceted history, one filled with complete immersion and dreams becoming occurrences but also rejection and sorrowful, emotional pain. I don't know if it's the colors, the landscape, the smells, her age and past, the art, the possibilities, the wine, the gastro-pleasures, or the fact that I know her secret gems. All I know is she has a spirit that I can see, feel, taste, and sense even when my eyes are closed in sleep.

After this trip, I realized that I cannot be exclusive with the cities I court. Florence and I aren't meant to be legally bound. On this big journey, I got around, saw a few different cities, and realized my soul connected with many places for different reasons. Along with Florence, Jinja, Zanzibar, Krakow, and to some extent Srinagar, Darjeeling and I fit. It's the sense that these cities or islands WANT me to be there, and even if there are massive problems, physical hardships, or money issues, I know something is right in our close physical proximity. I knew this as I sat once again on the observation deck for Kangchenjunga, delighting in the sensory overload that coated my consciousness.

Prayer flags and drying clothes flapping on lines Palm trees and cedars intertwining their phalanges The smell of wax, trash bonfires, dirty cement, incense and body soil All mixed with sweet mountain air.

This place wasn't a bucket of fries, it was a stew. It had to simmer in the bowl of my mind and get better with each hour and each bubble of thought. I planned to satiate another sense the next day and follow the need for a hot cup of honest tea.

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The Best Part of Wakin' Up: Day 171

COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE

Smile and decline.

COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE CHAAAAAAAI

I wasn't tired. Yes, I woke up at 3:30am and ran through the echoing city of Darjeeling in the bare cold of her film noir-esque pre-dawn. Yes, I jumped in a stranger's jeep, gave him two dollars, and squashed against four other foreigners on a bumpy half hour ride. And at 8,500 feet, it is true that the wind and the chill on Tiger Hill are hard to endure without a blanket, an adequate jacket, or a warm body to lean against. However, anticipation is a more effective stimulant than anything that can be brewed or smuggled in a dirty balloon. I declined the back-to-back offers for a drink and waited, shivering. The horizon was turning blood red, and I could faintly see her lines in the distance.

At this height, we were face to face, Kangchenjunga and I. The sky was nearly opaque, but the jags marking her presence cut through the miles between. Cameras were poised at the sunrise and bodies huddled against a steel barrier looking eastward. I didn't get that. I have seen the world turn slowly towards the luminous star countless times before. It's beautiful, until the bright ball emerges and burrows into your retinas. I stood alone to the west. I was waiting for the big climax. I was waiting for nature's most incredible billboard of light and color.

On one side of Tiger Hill, a layer cake of slate blue, cream-sicle orange and crimson changed the sky, casting a subtle glow on the floating castle to the west. Below this spectacle, the foothills wore the blanket of night's darkness. Bhutan was just seeing its sunrise, and, now, so were the peaks of Nepal, the sun skipping over Darjeeling and all of the West Bengali hills until a more reasonable hour.

The mist caught the ambient light and illuminated the edges of each tea plantation and rolling bubble of land. The air below looked wet and heavy, slowly becoming the color of a glacial lake. Prayer flags flapped their silhouettes against a mystical backdrop. Suddenly, the world was pastel and wearing a tiara. I whispered.

"Wow."

It's not easy to upstage Kangchenjunga from this vista, but Everest made a stab at it. I could see her from behind the curtain of haze in the twilight's glow. I saw the Earth's crown from 107 miles away. She hid between two other 8000+ meter beasts and winked at me as if to lean around the curtain and say, "Get ready for my big entrance."

Meanwhile, the tiara alit as if the snow caught fire and burned from head to toe. It was an orange I've only witnessed on buildings during Italian sunsets in summertime. Nothing else mattered in the world, an impressive beauty that occurs every day over the grime of human existence. We gasped and held our breath until the tingles subsided, fingers poised over the shutter. The summit and its radiating edges looked jagged and razor sharp, as if the sky or the wind would suddenly snag and bleed from a cosmic gash.

Two minutes after the mountain fire, Planet Earth had its ultimate daily idea. Its principal light bulb turned on as steadily as a wave's advance. Somewhere, in the middle of Nepal, Everest grabbed sunlight an hour before her foothills would know night was over. It was a sight capable of buckling knees. I propped myself against a jeep and called home. They were all in a movie theater, enjoying a Heartland Film Festival specialty, and messaged they would call me later. What does one do after beholding their dream sight? Stare in disbelief and laugh at modern-day advances in global communication; that's what.

Still vibrating, I returned to Darjeeling and climbed the hill to Alice Villa Guesthouse. The stray dogs were sleeping across main square in any patch of light that warmed the cement. Arriving back to my room, I crawled into the bed, opened my novel, and savored the last of my Tibetan dumplings from the night before. Occasionally, I let out a "Ha!" upon every flashback to the morning's thrill. In the fall of 2007, I read my first book on these mountains and made the initial steps of my pilgrimage. Approximately one year later, I reached fulfillment.

The developed world spends so much time pitying the lifestyles of those on the other side, which makes ignoring these realities more possible. However, I will forever applaud any man, woman, or child who has enabled themselves to start every morning like this, with a sunrise so majestic it blurs the line between reality and ultimate fantasy. A view like that just doesn't seem real. Actually, it's completely ludicrous that I am from a place that appears eternally colored by the gray scale. My old concept of a great landscape was a luscious Indiana field of corn without a massive power line going through it. This is why I told my travel agent to send me to northern India. I needed to see nature exhibit her "Best in Show."

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A Dumpling with a View: Day 170

I wrote these thoughts while on the "road"..."A nervous dog pacing for a good, sunny, uncrowded spot to bathe and relax A little boy snorting and scaring girls (including me) to impress his buddy between swings on the monkey bars Old women with elephant wrinkles thumbing 109 prayer beads"

This "road" could have be anywhere. And then... "School boys and older men standing right in my sightline of the 8000m high mountains, staring hard back at me or posing with nonchalance Faces beam, evident of an eclectic mix, where the South, East, and Southeast become a passionate blend The world's chimneys billow the breath of the skies"

I was in a fascinating nook of the world, a nook I used to dream about being tucked into. And then I got there…the West Bengali Hills of India.

The Way back to Enlightening Elevations It took a sixteen hour train ride, filled with traveling bands, beggars, and more chai salesmen than one could shake a stick at, until I felt a cool breeze once more. Befriending the Germans below my sleeper bed gave me an always-appreciated price cut on the $1 rickshaw ride from New Jaipalguri station to the Siliguri bus terminal, and knowing far too well the antics of the transportation biz in India, I anticipated and enjoyed a small fight with our driver, who claimed sudden inflation by the time we reached our destination.

It was a battle fought with smiles and a constant handshake, and the Germans watched patiently. I saw the driver rack his brain quickly for a way to get more money from our pockets, and an audience began to form, though they were relatively uninterested with this common scammer occurrence. A tip to those who encounter this situation with annoyance: write the agreed price on your hand in front of the driver and proceed to strike a creepy pose towards him or her, smiling for the entire ride until he caves in hopelessness, knowing you are a rupee-pincher 'til you D.I.E.

If I feel anything towards policemen in my own country, it's fear, even when I'm not doing anything wrong. Must be a Pavlovian dog response from years of conditioning. However, in any other country, it seems police are hired to just stand on street corners and chew unknown substances along with the "every man," except the "every man" doesn't carry a big stick. I use these statuesque resources for help around town, though they are almost always the ones who cannot speak English. There's always that lingering obligation, though, that causes these civil servants to help you, and this is how I was introduced to two travelers in desperate need of a ride to Darjeeling.

All buses had stopped service, no trains could rise into the mountains, and all jeeps were seemingly hired. Down the road, we saw a sign for the last ride of the day, jumped into a Jeep after about seven seconds of thought, paid $2, and settled our minds and bags into the already packed vehicle. Enter two or three more bodies and a second driver hanging onto the spare tire rack in the rear, and we're off. The driver stopped the Jeep to place some kind of sailor hat on his head and then booked it up the switchbacks into the Himalayas. It was such flavor for a simple three hour car ride. This is how it always is in India.

With a Chinese man sitting on my left leg, an Israeli's knees pressed against mine making sweat sandwiches, a greasy head laying on my right elbow, and a backpack compacting my stomach, I could do nothing but submit to my discomfort. Not only was I in a clown car, rising in altitude, and bumping from pothole to crumbling pothole, I hadn't gone to the bathroom in 26 hours. I didn't trust anyone with my bags in the sleeper car, nor did I want to experience the sum of the food poisoning + rocking Indian train equation. My body was not amused, and it slowly began to drain me of all vivacity and life to the point of being an empty shell by the time we hit Darjeeling.

For the first time, I wasn't bombarded, or even approached, when I walked around the town. It was dark, shops were still ablaze and selling assorted wares, and I wandered nearly unconscious by my distressed bowels. I stood outside a parked taxi and stared at the relaxing driver like a beaten puppy, hoping he would give me quick and easy directions to a hotel I heard of but hadn't booked ahead. He insisted on taking me at a ridiculous price ($2.50), refused to cave because I wore my vulnerability on my sweaty sleeve, and I flopped into the vehicle in resignation.

It was as if a friend or family member from home popped out from around a corner and came running to me, embracing my weary soul in a monster hug. Alice Villa Guesthouse opened their gates to my taxi, and the head boy in a bellhop's uniform took me in with a smile to the front desk. Every employee at this establishment treated me with the utmost care and concern, showed me a luxurious room with two beds, a fireplace, a personal bathroom, and cable television, and walked me into town to make sure I knew where to get a good meal. This hotel experience surpassed virtually every other one I had on the entire journey (minus the Kashmiri houseboat), and it all ran me a total of $15 a night.

"So you are traveling alone?" "Yes." "No one is with you or meeting you?" "No." "What are you going to do here?" "Hang out." "You really are alone?" "Unless I'm being followed." "And you're American…" "Indeed."

I can imagine what it's like to be a celebrity, or notorious, or a notorious celebrity. Being a spectacle for just being oneself can be amusing or quite unsettling. Who ever heard of a typical Midwestern American girl being considered "exotic?"

After bringing a close to my bathroom record, completely unpacking my smelly bag, grabbing a noodle meal to eat in bed with my hands, and watching numerous episodes of Seinfeld and Friends, I passed out in between some clean padding and a blanket. Simple pleasures.

The following morning I emerged slowly to shiver in the new air and see what the mountains looked like. The blank canvas of sky the night before gave me no smidgeon of an idea as to how gargantuan the landscape was, and I could only get a sneak peek by viewing the photographs adorning the guesthouse walls.

The first step outdoors brought me fresh air, with a hint of trash and incense, and a view of the tea hills. They undulated like a heart beat or the bathwater from a rowdy tub session, and the green kiss of chlorophyll in my eyes made me feel natural again. I crawled up a hill to the main square and found the fork in the road that leads to the town's best observation deck. Strings of prayer flags decorated or replaced power lines. Stray dogs walked past me as if they were running errands and checking off their "to do" lists. The road was seemingly endless as it snaked around the tip of Darjeeling, until I saw some benches and a turn ahead. The Himalayas appeared.

I thought they were clouds billowing and blowing across the hills. But these clouds were too pointy and shaded to be clouds; these were rocks. There was such a gap between the feet of the range and the snowcapped beasts themselves. Just looking at the mountains from hundreds of miles away, I could hear the winds at the summits, imagine the bite in the air and the number that could be done to my lips and fingers.

The observation decks were littered with more stray dogs, all looking almost pet-able and serene, and I looked at them, looked at the mountains in the background, and wondered if they sensed any inspiration from their daily majestic sights. It certai nly seemed as though the local inhabitants appreciated these visual luxuries, kids coming straight from school to the outlooks to chat or older couples enjoying an afternoon with sun on their backs and amazement in their pupils. I tried to blend in, but a little boy pestered me every time I looked away from him, sneaking up behind me to poke my sides, making startling sounds. I would scream like Lucille Ball, laugh in awe, and look around to see that everybody around was grinning, too. Innocent harassment felt like a big community handshake. Being picked on made me feel welcome.

"Altering my geographic placement upon which to reflect The audacity of the gesture and the potential for more as the main thrill and focus Making that presence truly felt by interacting and letting my personality subtly mark someone from that place Leaving an unconscious and feather mark legacy that seems greater and more romantic than a momentary dent and an activity list It's enough to mark a pin on a map or put it at the bottom of a running list Since I'm young and think I've got abundance in the future, I take it all in as a global pupu platter But this could also be it, and I could only know the skin at most, but I do know the fuzzy, ugly, stale, comforting, brown, flat, giggling realities of a small town that feeds the material of my most frequent dreams"

These are the sorts of thoughts that flow from a mind high on the Himalayas. I was tingling at my proximity to such grandeur and slapping myself for having this desire to see them. I couldn’t tell whether such a thirst came from soul searching depths or just the need to do something laudable and not have to fight anymore for a legitimate voice. My traveling mind always conflicted, it was impossible to ever feel pure emotions. Some day, I sincerely hope I acquire that ability once more.

After peeling my eyes away from the craggy range and getting harassed again by the comedic little boy, I just started walking. I followed every snaking road lined with street markets, tea shops, and Indian-style convenience stores. The grade of the roads varied from semi-flat to 45 degree angles. Thank you, Merrell Sports Shoes, for your adequate development of sole traction. It felt so wonderful to wear a scarf and a fleece, comfortable shoes and socks, layers and jeans, and not sweat profusely or accumulate visible, tangible filth on my legs and toes.

At the bottom of one hill, I found myself in a small neighborhood and amongst tens of school girls playing games like "Ring around the Rosy." My vision was cut slim by the surrounding buildings to only see an extreme vertical image of children under towering homes clinging to a hillside. I almost ran through their human tunnel, clapping and giggling all the way, but the sight was too perfect to disturb. It took me back to the days when the idea of "playing" gave me the six-cups-of-coffee jitters and my partners-in-crime were all I needed to be happy, back when I wasn't ruled by insatiable desires and nonsensical world missions. They looked at me once, I smiled, and then we all continued on with our days, I ascending the hill again and they sending the next girl through the tunnel of hands.

Branching off the main square at the top of Darjeeling was a road designated for foot traffic and booth browsing. Shops selling winter accessories, Kashmiri goods, and anything tourists or locals could ever need were abundant. A puppy the size of a lemon slept without bother next to 90 year-old saleswomen and her wares. The universal mission in this community to be content was palpable. After six months on the road, the only take-home items I purchased were a Masai bracelet and a few clothing items. It seemed as perfect a time as any to do a little shopping. Withholding until India gave me thrilling backpack space to work with, so I walked into the only shop that appeared remotely unique and just stood still inside.

The owners smiled and stared in anticipation of a big sale, but I remained rather motionless, my eyes scanning the big paintings of mountainous landscapes around the room. The "fixed price" sign drained a little fun out of the moment, but instead I let the right piece yodel down to me, asking me to take it home. As a Californian hippie in Brazil, a.k.a. the "Vege-Nazi," once told me, "If something calls to you, just buy it. If it doesn't, move on." One large painting worked its magic on me, and I walked away smiling, envisioning the blank wall in my future abode the painting just filled.

One very early and quite frigid morning in China, I experienced the delight of real Tibetan dumplings, the chewy yet crisp sensations almost as comforting as the salty, homemade quality of the flavors. It was one of the best meals I can ever remember having, and the ambiance of sitting on a deck overlooking an historically preserved Southern China town with my best friend pumped the moment up to perfection. This lingering memory of great veggie-filled dough balls led my nose to a place with "Tibet" on the window and one woman by a stove.

Steam from a vegetable broth condensating on my face. Perfect noodles splashing trickles on top of my nose and around my cheeks. Hand-crafted lumps soaking up soy sauce and spices, layering the dumplings' flavors with extreme contrasts. I scanned my Lonely Planet for the next best thing to do, but all I wanted was to have this meal again and again. Soul food for the feeble and relaxed.

Darjeeling, in one day, had become a place where I could talk to no one and feel I was amongst friends. I still felt completely independent, but I was lifted up by a community that wanted me to be there. With a pair of fingerless gloves and a notepad, this is the perfect town to be a writer.

I stayed for a week.

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Breaking News: Polos Invade Top Mughal Tomb: Day 165

On a trip dripping with solitude, I surprisingly felt very little in terms of personal, all-encompassing, heavy-hearted loneliness. Although, those rare times [when I did feel the weight] were compressed into quick moments that were scattered at key points on the trip. New beginning moments. Big change moments. To strap on my backpack and walk out of that Delhi apartment was sad; it was a lonely moment. After being in India for two weeks, I was finally without friends and headed towards the obligatory stops, those which I dreaded but found necessary for sanity's and discussion's sake down the road. I could have stayed in Delhi and done the city right. I hadn't yet seen one monument. I had no idea what the inside of their museums looked like. But I had met some great people, some of which hung over the balcony to watch and wave as I took my first steps from the complex stairwell into the 'turd minefields' known as streets.

Starting to clomp like a Clydesdale in my normal backpacking fashion, I began blazing the trail towards the main chowk before I gazed upwards at Mudi looking down on me. A man of my age with his own business, living in one of the harshest cities in the world, having experienced the mercurial stability of his home state Kashmir during its worst times…what this guy must already know. My knowledge paled in comparison, and though I was walking away to no one and nothing I cared about, I set out to, once again, live another day searching for sustainability, enlightenment, and a good time. I jumped on a train, stared at a blank journal page, and waited for Agra to roll up.

Being immersed in an environment where English is the language minority has its many obvious downfalls for we, the Western travelers. However, because of this acceptance [that I cannot and will never be able to understand those around me], I have learned how to ignore people…really well. I mean if I were to exhibit my skills for casting directors, I'd give it 48 hours before I received a film role as a woman who had eternity's most annoying ghost following her with persistent questions around the clock. I showcased my best work while disembarking the train in Agra. A man spotted my silhouette from a mile away, massive backpack towering over my head on the back, little backpack attached like a pregnant belly in the front, and tried to lead me towards his taxi. Since I knew exactly where I needed to go to find the honest answers, I paid no attention, never made eye contact, and plastered a permanent, unwavering half smile on my face (so he didn't find me completely unfriendly). As it turns out, my best options was to ride with this man, only after, of course, he knew I was aware of the resident scams. His tour offers were friendly but not in touch with the nature of my day…I wanted to get into the Taj and get out...fast.

I had him drop me at the mouth of the crap hole they call the Taj Ganj area, which holds cheap hostels, eateries, and souvenir shops surrounding the Taj gates. Every old man with red, rotting teeth and a cycle rickshaw surrounded me and tried to give me a ride to a café I was searching for. After walking for five minutes with a persistent little boy at my side, trying to sell me a hotel room for $2, I gave into one of the cyclists because, as Neil Young would put it, the heat was hot. The winning cyclist who won my business offered a ride for 2 rupees. I laughed at his audacity to sell me a ride for virtually 5/6th of a cent but gave him the chance to be honest and not take me to the hundreds of stores where he would receive a commission. I warned him with a smile to be honest. "Be honest, please. I'm surprised you would take me for so little when I refuse to go shopping." Since many Indian entrepreneurs don't hesitate to scam and most have big hearts (an odd combination to our way of thinking), it's easy to see through their schemes by reading their turned faces and diverted eyes. I crawled out the back of his rickshaw in pounding traffic, and he pedaled away, calculating his potentially lucrative loss.

And you thought this post would be about the Taj. Well let me tell you...Agra is the pits, and going it alone and on a dirt cheap budget takes a bit of the magic out of going to that most magnificent of human shrines to love. I truly wanted to see the palace but dreaded going there because I knew exactly what was going to happen. This crap. Slimy sales pitches, the grit of scammer India, and the ridicule for being a white woman alone and without the desire to obliviously spend my funds. But this is no gripe session. I had the money to pay for a personal tour around the Taj and the Taj Ganj area. I could have paid one person to tell me the shrine's story, take numerous pictures of me with the domes beyond, and cover both of our elaborate 4 star meals…all for about $25 or less. India is a completely different world where necessity, logic, reason, assumptions, common courtesies...everything is turned around. Not only was I trying to compensate for spending a foot thick wad for my Kashmir trek, but I could see millions living in squalor around me. I could feel a potential pit of sickness in me, based on the knowledge that I was spending thousands to see the world while over 98% of the world could never be granted the privilege. The world doesn't make sense. The world is unfair. At times I acted in ways I knew were completely unnecessary…such as putting myself through unnecessary crap. This is your mind. This is your mind in India.

After finding a place to store my bags and something fizzy to guzzle, I went to the Taj Mahal. I walked in and smiled at the tour groups and visiting Indian families. I graciously said "no" to offers for tours and photographs. I clicked my camera and ignored the glares from surrounding people at my long shorts (I neglected to opt for a costume change that would have made me more common in these parts). The Taj was white and marble; its detail immaculate and mind-boggling for the time period. I could whirl up a big stink about its awe and grandeur, but it wouldn't be an different than the things you've heard before. Pull open your history book or a Frommer's guide for a wordy description. If this stop were one of my firsts on this entire trip, I'm sure I could have said a lot more. But at this point, it seemed to me that the Taj is what it is. It didn't transcend the air of a tourist trap. You know what I say? I want to see it covered in snow. Let's warm the Earth up a little more, whack India's climate around a smidge, and then revisit the big ol' mausoleum. Now THAT would truly be a beautiful vista.

With many hours to spare before my night train to Varanasi, I went out to dinner on a rooftop overlooking the timeless onion domes. I ordered my usual club soda with lime refresher and laughed internally at chance, nostalgia, and fate. A half hour before, I was leaving the Taj when I heard English…and saw polos…and caught in the corner of my eye a handmade paper sign that said "Mom," "Dad," or "Giving"…whichever word was allotted to the India port of call. Yes. I saw SASers. The Fall 2008 voyage of Semester at Sea had docked in Chennai the day before, and the entire country was crawling with American college girls and boys aimed at taking rad pictures of themselves with the historic, the strange, and the desolate with signs that say "Thank you, Mom and Dad, for giving me the World." Darling. Wearing my MV Explorer shirt on that day by chance, I got many lingering stares from kids begging their friends to use their cameras for sunset shots of the Taj and their perfect chicklets. "Is she on the ship?" No, my babies. Don't mind me. I am the ghost of travel future. Carry on, and come find me in a year when the bug sends you back to find your successors. Sitting aloft a rooftop in Agra, I felt like I had done the unthinkable. I was traveling around the world by myself. The two girls sitting near me at the restaurant identified me as a SASer and further affirmed this growing feeling in me. True, I was becoming ungrateful and jaded by this point (damn you, over-stimulated mind!), but talking to budding travel enthusiasts about the accessibility of the world was fulfilling. I felt like I was opening some minds. I was probably just grossing them out by my pizza face and stanky apparel. One of the two…

My on-going ticket to Varanasi left from a non-Agra station. I had to find a way to some city that started with a 'T' about 20km away. Hmm…what would Emily Post do? Put on her white gloves and ask the doorman to hail her a cab, which would whisk her off to the station's entrance where a previously informed, first-class railroad attendant would wheel her hat boxes into a silk carpet lined cargo space and her into a stylish dining car with Kenny G on sax? Ok.

What would a cheap-o do? I'll tell you.

A cheap-o would hail an auto rickshaw, intertwine their arms around both backpacks to avoid drive-by muggings, inquire poker playing bus officials at the station about the next bus out, sit, waiting, next to 80 year old nearly naked, sleeping men, board a bus for $0.20 and proceed to be squeezed into the back corner by a family of women and sleeping children, brace themselves on a 40 minute ride in an awkward position dangerously near a women's airing armpit, crawl over said sleeping children with failing muscles almost dropping 40 lb. bags on their faces, throw themselves out of the bus towards another auto rickshaw already packed with six bodies, and somehow end up at the back entrance of the train station where the scheduled train isn't ready to leave for hours. Man…what a cheap-o will do to save about $5.

Once again…this is your mind…in India.

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Three Cups of Chai: Day 164

It was out of obligation that I boarded the planes and trains south again after Kashmir. Having already experienced the world of sticky, smelly, trash-ridden India last year in Chennai, I intended this trip to the Subcontinent to be dedicated to the mountains. And having already satiated that new dream to see monster peaks and smell thin, pure air, I left Srinagar to return to Delhi, which had miraculously become a habitable environment since my last visit. If you recall, upon my first day or two in the country, I jumped from restaurant to rooftop eatery for AC and air flow needs, avoiding the unbearable temperatures in conjunction with sky high humidity. This time, not just dusk brought peaceful climates, though the city still remained a feces-heaped jungle gym. After running from my taxi driver to avoid his supposed scams, I went immediately to revisit my Kashmir boys, all of whom by this time of evening had already abandoned their daily work duties to pursue the enjoyment that keeps them gleeful in a city that would rape even Barney of his pleasant demeanor. They all began to congregate at the travel agency of Ashika, ready to spend their daily earnings on drinks at the swanky bar across the street. When I rolled up, the boys and I spent a quick moment talking about my recent adventure and what my plans were from that moment on. They offered to help me find a better hostel than I was aiming towards, with my mind clenched on pinching pennies and staying in a $2 roach infestation, and eventually this help led to yet another invitation to stay at their abode for a few nights. I was grateful and prepared for more untainted Indian fun. I dropped my bags at the agency, and we took off on the main backpacker drag to get some chai and see Mudi, my friend-by-chance from the bread stand. Delhi and the Pahar Ganj area suddenly seemed unthreatening and downright welcoming. It felt like a home base where I had friends to come back to, all whom understood my humor and wanted me to feel comfortable. Sitting over chais, Mudi demanded that I visit his shop and purchase something special from his selection of top quality Kashmiri crafts. I had no intention of spending money post-wallet gouging trek through the mountains, but I humored him as, I guess, a thank you for all his help with my previous two weeks of travel.

Ashika sat in the corner texting until boredom sent him a-wandering, I leaned back on a pile of wall hangings, and Mudi employed himself and a friend to display the many works of woven art that stacked his walls with color. As if chai not only wakes you up and creates a friendly, social atmosphere, I suppose they believe it also lubricates the wheels of commerce, since he called in for two more rounds of the milky tea as I scratched my chin saying, "I don't need rugs, and I have NO ROOM in my darned backpack." A young boy arrived both times at the door with cone shaped cups filled with the muddy stimulant suspended in a wire contraption for doorstep delivery. Mudi refused to let this potential sale slip past him and was determined to send me away with something gorgeous and score himself a few rupees as well. As the floor quickly layered with piece after piece of handmade tapestries, I imagined all the numerous carpets and rugs that adorned the floors of my Indianapolis home, all bound for the Clark children when our parents downsized. Since I've come to enjoy bringing home bigger items than small, I said "nay" to the small trinkets and focused on the prize of an area rug for my future domicile. Realizing there were a few I liked, even one that "called to me," I began the timeless art of flexing my hidden haggling muscles.

After numerous markets in Europe, relentless salesmen in Africa, and the insistent beggars, poachers, hustlers, businessmen, and little children in India, I was, at this point, a champion negotiator. One of the many cultural differences between most of the world and America is this sport of haggling, where vendors take advantage of the language barrier or their sometimes cheaply-made yet memorable souvenirs to gouge tourists in an evasive attack of the stamina. Upon first coming to a foreign land, one can only assume they are completely ignorant to the mindset, customs, yadda yadda yadda…of that country; therefore, they don't engage in the verbal struggle for goods and money in efforts to not upset or be insensitive to whatever of that which they are unaware. Once said traveler becomes aware of the local scams, the daily rituals of the inhabitants, and the ways of commerce in those parts, it becomes a test of the travel skills, a "Do you have what it takes" challenge to prove your competence and adaptability as a global nomad.

By this time in my trip, I had said "no" to possibly hundreds of salespeople on most continents, and knowing how people respond to your rejection gives you the knowledge of how to get what you want for the bottom price. Yes, these people make their living on marginal profits every day, and the occasional traveler's first price cave-in can mean the world to a struggling vendor…but if I made the act of acquiescing to every dishonest sales attempt my charitable deed for the entire trip…I wouldn't have made it out of Europe with a positive debit balance. And yes, these people do this every day, especially those that line the tourist districts, and their expertise on price-gouging is often unmatched; but there's a level of respect that can be gained by these vendors toward tourists who have the resolve to be a part of the game.

"Mudi, I don't need rugs! I only want maybe one…that silk one is really nice." "Do you like the geometric designs better than the floral ones?," he said as he and his partner held up different motifs, making a pile of the rugs I didn't hate for a possible purchase. "But, guys, I don't need that huge size…I just- - -I like the darker florals, I guess." "What about this one…I know you like this…Ok, I'll put it to the side. How about this 6 x 9 foot one. This is the best price you can get anywhere in the world. My Dad made these rugs…no middle man here…you can even sell this when you get home…make a big profit! Maybe you should be an importer!" "Ha, I don’t know if that's my niche. How much for all these together?" "Three rugs and the wall hanging?," he taps on his chin and then the calculator. "No, not the wall hanging…I already have one." "You want this one, I know you do. It's too beautiful. You have to take it."

A round of "yes's" and "no's" resonate around the room. I prevail.

"Alright, this is the final price…for all three rugs, and if you get all three, including the big one, I'll take care of the shipping myself." "What if I don't want the big one?" "Then it will be much more expensive per item and shipping won't be included."

Some chatty minutes passed. Some silent minutes loomed. We struck a deal, and I crawled on my hands and knees on top of my new rugs, all piled on top of the tens of rugs I rejected. Mudi took care of the payment with my withered MasterCard at his friend's machine, as I enjoyed top quality fibers under my dirty body. Sitting there with a chai in stocking feet, I envisioned the room this rug would next occupy. I was making plans for a bedroom I had yet to find and a life that swirled in the abyss of time after this voyage's completion. Plans of the future were yet to be determined, and it was thrilling to know all my options hung on those that would or could encounter me abroad. Wherever those plans took me, though, I knew at the end of the night, I would end my evenings walking across the rug underneath me on the way to my future bed.

When the sale was wrapped, we reconvened with the boys at the bar, where Mudi revealed that he had lost some serious money in the deal he struck with me, unaware that shipping the personal parcel would cost a load. Part of me felt a little guilty, but I responded with an evil smile that he found amusing. After some beers and Indian appetizers, we piled our bodies and my backpacks onto a cycle rickshaw and traversed the main chowk (busy street) to reach their apartment. Time lapsed between our arrival and dinner time with the viewing of Indian game shows and what seemed like bad reality TV. It's everywhere; you can't escape it. The entire world is mesmerized by watching their fellow man embarrass themselves on TV. Ah, the global common denominator audience…it doesn’t take much to entertain us these days. Mudi presented us with a freshly prepared meal of rice, spiced chicken curry, and the additional green concoction that often appears on an Indian meal platter…ingredients or origin of the mixture unknown. Even though I chose to top my mound of rice with meatless curry sauce, the boys selected the choicest pieces of flesh and bone to throw on my plate. Hospitality was an innate sense for them that required no thought . My lips tingled from the chili and fingers were stained yellow from the rest of the florescent spices. I had a gorgeous night of sleep, finally out of tundra cold and harm's way, and after their insisted remarks, I vowed to stay one more day in Delhi before leaving on a train towards the big Taj and a, once again, lonely India.

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Trek to the Tropical Tundra: Day 162

Trekking guide and cook

No blood was shed. The curfew worked. We strapped the chickens on board and waded in fresh puddles to the jeep. Over my dynamite Kashmiri bread breakfast earlier, I felt the boat sway and new voices bounce off the water. Mohamed crawled out of the flashy water taxi, the Parisian movie director a new arrival and "victim" of the Delhi boys' persuasive tongues, and packed in for the six day trek upon landing. There was a sweeping majority of Muslim men on this mountain adventure, and I guess it says scores about their abilities to welcome and comfort me that I didn't realize I was going alone into the mountain range that borders Pakistan with six men of Allah. Fayaz always kept me in the loop and half-amused/half-annoyed me with his insistence on yelling into the cell phone. Mountain coverage is just fine. Riyaz, the well-groomed cook with a powerful face, docile and steady, seemingly unfazed by high altitudes or the two vertical mile starter trek, which could be attributed to his many years of experience…or the ten daily hashish cigarettes he rolled like a well-practiced Rasta.

The three pony men, or gypsies, were 20 something mountain men named Niyaz, Riyaz, and Umar, and I think it was their interest in my uncustomary Western female ways, in conjunction with my dependence on their optimism and humor (which usually ridiculed Fayaz' uptight guiding techniques), that made us unspoken, uncommunicative friends. These simple men appeared a little rough, evidence of their lives of living just sustainably enough in the hills of India: making their own bread, using their cows and chickens for their kitchen basics, knowing nothing but cold and substandard comfort.

Throughout the trek, Mohamed and I had to insist with red face and exhausted lung that the gypsies take a comfortable seat, use blankets and dry ground to avoid freezing mountain temperatures, eat along with us, relax after the emotional exhaust of killing a chicken…the list obviously goes on forever, because Kashmiri gypsies know no end to the hassle and necessary work involved in their lives. Understandably, the 20 year-old had the makings of crow's feet and a grumble of a 30 year smoker. It's hard to accept that these overworked men and women live very far past the age of 60, but two of the men (brothers) claimed their father was 92 and still kickin'…and smokin'.

Anyway, the trek all began with a night in Naranaj, but to those of you who learn nothing from that name, I'll paint a wordy little picture. The town appeared clinging to a single highway that cut into the lower hills of the mountains. The further we swerved around the blind, unprotected, crumbling bends, the deeper we seemed to set into a valley that resonated with running river water. The walls of this, nature's gutter (only in the functional sense), were tilted beyond 45 degrees, and the effect of turning towards the towering angle causes one to lose hold of depth and reality.

Trekking in the Himalayas

As the ponies were packed up on the periphery of the town, Mohamed surprised me with an intimate sweet talking session directed towards a dog that wandered near us. Strangled slightly by a rough rope, strips of old rice bags, and a wire suspended from the makeshift collar that poked the pup from underneath, the dog charmed us if not for his sweet nature than just the fact that an Indian dog wasn't mangy and evil. She clung to our sides and claimed guard dog duties by her sustained presence; she nearly tripped me by weaving in between my legs in order to stay close.

Past the community's permanent stronghold popped up a string of tent clumps along the river, where we saw the final gypsy grazing camps before they all retreated from the impending cold. We tracked the river's stream for a half hour and sent the encouraging clicks and hoots for the ponies' progress reverberating off the valley's bowl-like acoustics. We unstrapped the loads and claimed some river bank space for our tents to rise and ponies to mow, cuing the skies to sprinkle and spit during Camp 1 high tea. Boulders thrice as wide as my grandest hug guarded our settlement from the mountain run-off but, more importantly, set up an elaborate jungle gym for our young spirits and desires to toy with danger. From these perches, Fayaz, Mohamed, and I sent our hungry eyes and a baited line into the river pools and caught two rainbow trout to fry up in the kitchen tent.

We chomped on hot food that night, long after the sun abandoned the valley, and employed our hands to rip into the meal like only gypsies and their imitators know how. And with after dinner chais and a casual question about favorite movies, Mohamed caught a fire in his eyes, and I watched as his passion for the "talkies" lit up the air of a still night in the wilderness.

In the seclusion of my own tent with a "winter husband" hot water bottle cradled in my feet, I went to bed certain of a pleasant sleep, feeling the mass of our watch dog pressed inches from my head outside the tent. Even through ear plugs, I heard the midnight growls and even thumps of a brawl occurring on the ground where my bodyguard formerly snuggled. I think there were times that night we all reclined simultaneously wide eyed and white-knuckled.

Because of repeated delaying factors thus far, we were a bit behind schedule on our trek to the skies. Fayaz remedied the dilemma by pushing the day one hike to encompass the entirety of the trek's hurdles into seven burning hours. The burning refers not to the sun but everything else: our legs, lungs, blisters, joints, the wind and snow on our skin, and then the unsettling chill of feeling our sweaty clothes freeze the back during a water break. There's no way I would have tackled this experienced unsupervised, but I certainly prefer to set my own pace that involves frequent stops to worship the peaks that come out of hiding with every vertical step. I also set no records for high altitude hiking, so I tried to grin and bear all the moments when the men ran in front of me then stopped to wait and watch my steady struggle. Anytime I pulled the Nikon from around my shoulder to click a mountain goat's billowing hair or fresh snow on a Himalaya, I couldn't tell whether the fellas were stretching their shins or tapping their toes. We flew through clouds of pine scents and past paths that gripped the hillside in fear, trickling with mountain sweat. All I wanted to do was let the jaw-dropping sights be feet-stopping and enjoy the views I paid for. The pony men began to sympathize with me and muttered breaths to Fayaz's lunacy. I refused to let such a thing annoy me and listened only to the waterfalls as applause in my ears.

Pony trek

I liked walking with the ponies and letting them set a pace through the muddy paths. Sometimes their hooves would misjudge a stone or pile of sludge, and a ponyman shot forward to help heave the scrambling horse from tumbling downhill. One of these times, I was stuck between a struggling pony and gravity's arm. It's funny; after this big journey and all its thrilling moments, I now know I react to the instant of possible death with a blank mind and eyes the size of swimming goggles. So much for that last second survival and rescue instinct.

The entire day was a crawl through diverse terrain and gradually worsening climates. The first scene was a steady, uphill zig-zag covering a hilly face slanted at 45 degrees to the horizon. The breeze was harmonious with the warmth of the tropical sun through the canopy. Our lunch break arrived upon reaching an idyllic, tree-lined plain, large enough for pony rebellions and wide-stretching views of new snow and secluded, unmatched power. We ate previously cooked rice curry after devouring apples the size of cherry tomatoes. Pulling them out of Mohamed's backpack with chilled fingers, one went rogue and rolled down to the bottom of the clearing. Their tastes met a tired body's hunger with a natural invigoration that sent me chasing the doomed fruit to its resting place upon pony crap. I wiped it with my sweat-drenched scarf and ate it, core and all.

Fayaz' pupils were clock faces, and he refused our requests to relax and lick our yellowed fingers. The ponies and dependant humans wound around the mountain on a path that ran, thankfully, more horizontally and squeezed into the rock's armpits. From afar I'm sure the route looked like a heart monitor pulse. The air acquired a nip and force as ominous as distant thunders.

And then the constant tree covering dwindled to patches in the distance leaving green hills, the rocky earth breaking through the carpet like stars on an undisturbed night, and old gypsy settlements from the long past summer months. A fog so arresting transformed the scene into a twilight zone or a movie set for some haunted troll colony. Minute beads of snow began to slowly coat the world.

Just like the Milky Way's streak across the black dome, the land was striped with boulder gardens that crumbled down from the peaks unseen. While the ponies panted with light feet and angered whinnies and the gypsies bounded weightlessly across the rocky streams in penny loafers, I traversed the ankle graveyards with such steady footing, I could have been stepping around spitting snakes and sleeping babies. I saw the moss and the light dew and ruled out the possibility of playful bounding with images in my head of broken feet and being flung over a gypsy's shoulder down the two miles I had just climbed skywards. The mountain started whimpering from somewhere.

We had reached Tronakun and the tree line that introduces the arctic world above. Behind a gray cloud to the left was a peak, Haimuk Mountain, and an illusion of closeness and smallness that only came about because I really knew it was the biggest thing I'd ever seen so nearby. But then I turned to my right and saw the hills curve downward out of sight. A kilometer away into the air between vertical lands blew a thick snowstorm that stopped me as would an oncoming stampede or tsunami. It was stunning. Neighbor mountains pushed through the white enough for me to see the company I was surrounded by, the most beautiful and ferocious beasts. The men were already cresting the hill in front of me and insisted I not stop moving or I'd get stuck in a cold trap. Things, people, and sights can move you to cry, but this non-replicable display, this one time vista stopped my heart. I shifted my weight, wrapped my snow-crusted scarf around my entire head, and shook in disbelief of what I was now forced to abandon for the rest of the walk to the camp site.

My pants were wet, my SLR frozen and flapping at my back, and each step brought me closer to the men and a possible hip dislocation. I didn't realize it during the trek there, but our stopping point for the night was directly behind the hidden Haimuk Mountain we'd seen across the plain earlier. The thin path's hurdles grew subsequently more monstrous until I found myself balancing on the rim of an Earth bowl against sideways snow. Water gurgled in the pit below, hundreds of meters down its untouched slopes. I froze up there at 16,000 feet high in the snowy Gandarbal range, wearing only a long sleeved tee, my fleece, jeans, and a Kashmiri scarf.

Riyaz, the "ever-enlightened" cook, lingered from the group to give me a trekking companion and someone to follow without contemplating each step, path, or rocky outcropping. My body began to conserve its energies to keep me warm and coherent instead of soaking in the scenery. When I lifted my head after crossing a fallen tree bridge and another rock playground, I saw the trek was finished. We were at the edge of a small lake that kissed the feet of Haimuk. She stood over us like a 20,000 ft tall shrine or monument to the Earth's accomplishments in beauty. I let out a gasp of awe before I was crippled by weak hips, unmovable fingers, and an inability to do anything besides layer on clothes until I ran out. The process took a half hour to become impermeable, and for the only time on this trek, I had no problem that the men didn't let me help with establishing our home base.

One tent erected in the expansive valley, and the ponies ran to the nearest nibbles of frozen greens. We were a speck amidst the white blanket that swept over us. Looking past Umar in the tent flap opening, it looked like a plain backdrop for a GAP commercial. Unable and unwelcome to assist in any way, I sat watching Mohamed fade from cold and angry to relieved and chatty as his fingers regained nerve cooperation.

We both were wearing wet clothes under thick coats that didn't make us any warmer, so I suggested using the tent as a changing room and having the others evacuate while one person gets dry, warm, and situated. I ended up being the only one willing to expose bare skin to bitter cold in an attempt to get warmer, but when non of the men waiting outside told the approaching Umar about my costume change, a very shocked, shy, and embarrassed Muslim man dove away from my sight with his freshly killed chicken dangling limp in his bloody hand.

The first time I left our mountain shelter was to achieve primal relief behind a distant rock closer to the water's edge. The storm and all adjacent clouds had long passed and left a spotless sky made even more clear by the paper thin air. I had asked about possible wildlife in the area, which were improbable presences, but I kept my African tradition of drumming my hands on my thighs to scare away any animals I could sneak up on in attempt to relieve myself.

Instead, what shook me to honest fear and submission was Haimuk, hovering over me like a half pipe wave about to crest over my head. The same way I used to think ghosts chased me up the stairs or stained-glass faces in my old house haunted me in my nightly pursuits, I was sure the looming mountain would tremble, lean towards me, and terrorize just because it would be too easy. I never took my eyes off her. The lake was her mirror. The moon illuminated her deadly outline. And this was where I took my pre-bedtime pit stop…a loo with a view.

It's proved true in every occurrence of this journey that when my body needs a night of dreamless, morgue-like slumber, I cannot manage more than an hour before lying awake, eyes wide shut. I was packed in next to my frozen backpack and Mohamed's shifting frame. Umar's body, curled desperately onto the last few inches of tarp and blankets, made it impossible to fully extend my legs without using him as an ottoman. So I rolled onto my stomach and lifted everything below the knee into the air. A light breeze outside covered the utter darkness of sound, and opening my eyelids made no difference in what I could see. I had packed myself in so tightly for slumber that every shift and reposition made me feel like I was in a Chinese finger trap. My sore hips ached as they pressed into the frozen, divot-riddled ground. Starting from 4,000 ft and scaling the 12,000 ft to base camp had no effect on my breathing or dizziness, but while buried in blankets and trying to stay warm, I had breathing fits where I couldn’t get enough oxygen and lifted my head, panting like I just swam across the lake outside. And to make matters more agitating, my sleeping pill didn't let me snooze but just kept me fully aware of how tired I really was. As it frequently plays out, I realized I was finally asleep when the rest of the men stirred awake for the second day on the mountain.

By the time the sun had exposed her entire plump shape over the eastern mountain range and created a blinding landscape, the other two gypsies, Riyaz and Niyaz, returned with the ponies from Tronakun, where they had descended the night before in search of grass and warmth for their most prized living possessions.

Fishing at high altitude

Cold gypsy Kashmiri bread and cups of tea later, Fayaz sent us up the nearby ridge in search of Gandarbal lake number two, a more glorious sight and prime location for fishing. My hips wanted to refuse the twenty minute trek, but two of the gypsies promised me a memorable and pleasant time, our friendships having blossomed through shared high altitude agony. And it was a tremendous sight. The water's surface resembled more a clean glass window than a rippled lake appearance. I could count the pebbles on the shallow bed and see the details in their ridges.

Fayaz caught good sized trouts with ease and a top notch French-made fishing rod. Meanwhile, the mountain men waded knee deep into the glacial runoff and grabbed the fish in their leathery hands. On the spot, the men cracked the fish' jaws and gutted their bellies to throw into a bloody plastic bag, not before squirting orange fish eggs from the ladies into the crystal waters. Some didn't die until the process had long since commenced. With those same hands, they pulled out two glasses and a Thermos of chai for Mohamed and I, as if our breakfast a half hour before had already vaporized in our stomachs.

Clicking some pics and moving back down to our lake, Fayaz passed the line to me and let me cast the hook into the dark, cold waters at the foot of Haimuk peak. I wrangled nothing, but when he pulled out a flailing trout a minute later, I slowly wrapped my fingers around the slippery muscle for the first time in fifteen years. Until it left my hands, I smiled and exclaimed the trademark sound of Lucille Ball: UUUUEEEEWWWWWWW!

We were lucky to make it to the Gandarbal lakes when we did; many other trekking groups refused the risk and only day-tripped it to the exhausting height. Fearing our luck would soon run dry, Fayaz sent us back down the mountain, the day after we climbed its entire elevation. Not wanting me to fall behind and do my own thing again, Fayaz strapped me up to an annoyed pony and led me out of the valley. It was at this point that I decided to stop fighting the "special" treatment and demeaning demands to drop my dignity for the sake of sanity. They pushed me to accept the role of a helpless lady from the trek's conception, and I took that part when I understood it wasn't an option so much as an insistence. So, I rode a pony off the mountain.

Harmukh Mountain

From my perch, I could fully appreciate the reality of the mountain's appearances. At some point in time, the Earth's crust collided and froze at the climax of the action, creating a militant formation of protected terrain. Each ridge stood like a soldier, standing there to make it harder on human kind to reach its deepest and most remote Shangri-Las. Writers and travelers wish to be lodged in these unimaginable crevices between rocky waves, but the fact is only a few have the ability to reach them and, because of this, their virginal value remains a bit longer until time finds a way to rape them of such virtue.

My pony's hesitant tap dance across the frequent rocky streams made me nervous and imagine our shared deaths in various scenarios. Barrel rolls down the hillsides, laterally and head first, smashing bones against boulders, my all-too colorful imagination powered on.

The end of this much shorter trek brought us to what can only perfectly represent a grassy knoll. All three tents rose in the rain, and I ran to grab our ground blankets to keep them dry under a staggering tent. The boys rummaged for firewood and ended up building a fire dome made of wet bark that sent opaque clouds of smoke into the pine trees. I was in need of a cold weather exorcism and stuck my feet in the fire's blue belly, while sitting on my winter husband water bottle.

I found myself later in the kitchen tent reading my book "Three Cups of Tea" while Riyaz cooked up a fishy, chickeny, veggie-filled storm. The hero of my real life tale was working to erect school buildings in the Karakorum villages directly north of us. On this trip, I've often wondered how local people truly reflect on efforts made by foreigners of a charitable manner. Some have said its funny (though also greatly appreciated) that people spend their time and money on service projects, while others are unwelcoming to those insistent on pressing religious superiority. I decided to do further research and explain my book to the cook.

After a labored translation, he told me he found acts like that of Greg Mortenson and his schools among the top most laudable efforts one could perform in needing societies. I briefly considered whether it was my turn to follow suit for the village of Naranaj, since some boys like Niyaz fail to receive even the simplest of educations. Foreign aid, done the right way for the most honorable reasons, is truly appreciated. However, it has never been my life's intention to search for suffering people who need me because I am an angel of peace in this troubled world. Nay; I instead am open to a mission I feel will become apparent when the right year, month, and minute allow its approach. I stored that thought in the vault and resolved to stay always aware for my cause, whenever it decided to turn up and provide a purpose in my life.

Up on those mountains, I had a mess of ideas in my confused mind. Dreams of mariachi bands, the Kashmiri blue steel eyes, my future home and meaning, all inspired by the magic around me. I envisioned camping through the summer months and building my own furniture, producing artistic wares and earning only enough to support the most basic of needs, batheing and washing in bins of rain water, while also allowing myself freedom from anger at my own culture and self-righteous mind. And I wrote all these thoughts down with the expectation of laughing at myself down the road. But I was confused and growing, and this time around I'm not prepared to ridicule my bouts of idealism. I wanted to descend the mountain ready to compromise, tolerate, and approach the interpretation of my desires with Van Gogh-like self-wisdom. After five and a half months abroad, I was becoming ready to return home and follow my own clock, hoping America would give me the unpressured freedom to do so.

The next afternoon, Fayaz sent us down the mountain once more, this time because of insufficient water supplies. Half way down the backtrack, we blazed a new trail, a pin ball course on dead pine needles. I relished the opportunity they gave me to use my own legs and started running down the trail. They were impressed (finally) and especially because all their bad knees kept them at turtle speed. When the ground cover changed to a thick inch of needles laying on top of ankle-rolling pine cones, I lagged to the back once more after some falls on the derierre put some fear in my legs. The land tilted so far, my feet reached a full point in order to keep my body perpendicular to the horizon. My toes smashed into the tips of my shoes, and with the soft muddy ground making things not-so-easy, I moved like I had a baby on my back. Fayaz, probably feeling guilty for sending us off the mountain two nights early tromped ten paces ahead of me and stopped rhythmically to wait, which adequately mocked my progress. I got angry…and this is what I wrote at the bottom of the mountain:

"My inner monologue cursed in all the chameleon-life contexts possible throughout today's trek. Yesterday, I made quite an effort to hold onto that chemical imbalance that made me raving mad when I should only be humored…or at the worst, perturbed. Today, I took the last Kingfisher (purchased completely by me) and ran to the rapids for this purge and beer binge. This trek can be applauded for many things, but I will now vent those which most aggrivate me…things so colossal to my list of needs that no Haimuk Mountain can soften the unintentional blows.

"I'm not an idiot, not helpless, not incompetent, not made of money, and not a child. I could go on, but I got enough boo-hoo exclamations in that sentence. And as I sit here ready to complain about the cost of this trek, the guide, all the lack of communication with decisions made, and the commands to speed up, slow down, wait, and "just sit there with your chai and biscuits," I know I truly reason all those factors to be worth a connection to Kashmiri culture and these mountains of nature. The other night's evening pee with the stars, the half moon, the reflecting, rippling lake, and the mountain's presence, which genuinely frightened me, was one I will try to paint with any medium necessary to recapture what a photo wouldn't or couldn't do.

"What is this insistence to possess the dignity of a Queen? Is it just because this was an exhibition of my paucity of cardio strength or because I am a Western woman being treated like a subservient child while on this soul-searching, life-defining discovery tour of my own genuine opinions and trajectory? I gotta go; it's high tea time in the wilderness…"

When it comes to these moments when emotions spoil the expected thrill and good time, it placates me to remember it's not a wasted time thanks to the opinion on travel I've formulated. My mind has cycles, and they don't stop for vacation. Unfortunately, this sometimes means I have sour memories of thrilling destinations. They are "nothing fights" that part with a smile. It's hindsight appreciation for having had the opportunity to be pissed in the Himalayas. "An adventure," after all, "is an experience of discomfort, recalled later in a moment of tranquility." The snowstorms, the freezing, the sleepless nights, the pony rides, boulder jumping, chicken slaughtering, fish gutting, intra-group disagreements, chapped lips, traversing of mountain passes, scrambles up and down steep trails, blisters, bruised toes, matted hair, and staring down the slope into a cloudy abyss…yes, it was my very own Kashmir mountain adventure.

Chickens at 17,000 feet

The final two days, I read…constantly. I read sprawled on rocks surrounded by rushing water, read by torchlight with my feet squishing the hot water bottle, read curled in the kitchen tent watching Riyaz and Fayaz butcher a freshly killed hen, and the book ran out of pages even before finding society once more. As the Kashmiri men packed the ponies for the final trail blaze, Mohamed took a lounge on a massive boulder and stared at nothing but pure H2O flowing past him. I gave him his space and sat downstream under an oak tree, assuming his head was filled with relief and coulda, woulda, shouldas regarding his recently finished film.

I ripped apart every orange, crispy leaf that fell into my lap and covered my face from earth, wind, and fire with my scarf, singing to an audience of one. As my voice slowly deteriorates from wear, age, or lack of use every year, I occasionally test my former strength to see if I not only have the ability to push out good sound but also the creativity and genius to interpret my mind music audibly, following the greats I blare from my car stereo. I think the consensus in that valley was a negative to original music skill, and if I wasn't inspired in that oasis, it meant I just don't have it…or I have to put some all-consuming effort into it. I never let myself completely rule out an option for life on the big journey…so I kept professional musician on the table from that moment on.

I climbed onto my pony express for the last time, thoroughly bruising both thighs on the ascent, and arrived back into Naranaj atop the trusty steed that hated me. We passed the ancient ruins that marked our start and passed gypsy wives of 16 and 18 years old, all giggling at my interpretation of the hijab with my dirty scarf.

The red jeep that took us back to Srinagar pulled up after we collapsed on bags of tents, onions, and down jackets. The one chicken that survived the entire journey still flapped and jerked her neck around inside the wicker cage, watching us suspiciously for the approach and that knife that would signal her demise.

Once loaded, we followed the ribbon of highway back to roads clogged with flamboyant buses, rickshaws, impatient cars, and herds of goats on a death row walk to the big city. Our driver, a younger version of the chain-smoking, strong-eyed man behind the wheel last time, was nothing short of the craziest driver I've ever witnessed from the backseat. He was a bully on the road, overtaking cars even when smaller opponents were oncoming fast, and his handle on the dimensions of his vehicle were astounding. He cleared motorbikes and goats by centimeters at top speeds, leading me to believe he really didn't care what happened to his car or the unlucky matter that came in contact with it. Mohamed gripped the handle above the window like he was hanging above a cloudy abyss, and I sunk my fingers into the two front seats to steady myself so I wouldn’t dive bomb the boys sitting on either side of me. Fayaz, Riyaz, and Captain Insane-o chatted and smoked like they were at a tailgate, while Mohamed and I exchanged looks that said, "Someone 's gonna die on this drive home".

And once we thought we had seen the extent of his recklessness, we got to a city road and saw a woman, dressed in a lime green sari, crossing the street far ahead of our car's projected path. Mohamed and I both saw the woman in plenty of time to notice she was possibly in our way if the driver didn't slow down. I actually remember him speeding up. Our grips deepened to white-knuckle status, eyes widened to let our pupils swim in seas of trembling white, and two warning screams filled the backseat as we sent the woman running to the median. I kid you not and have no room to exaggerate this recollection. The woman was an inch from being struck by our car going 45mph. The driver had to swerve and blare the horn in order to not make contact with a woman so close that we could see up her flared nostrils. The driver laughed at his close call. This sent Mohamed into an awe-struck rage. I sat in shock with my hands over my mouth the rest of the way to the houseboat. We sent the driver foul looks and no gratitude as we slid out of the car, happy to be stationary, and ran to our rooms for the much-anticipated, fire-heated showers.

The trek was over, and we welcomed civilization like we'd never experienced it before. Chai? Send it my way! Clean clothes? I'll put on the fanciest ones I've got! Hot dinner and a Wesley Snipes movie? Who can I worship for this miracle? Throw that winter husband in my bed and let my toesies sizzle while I read my newest novel. A man that approached my water taxi a week before drifted by our balcony thrones at dusk, and we went into a shopping frenzy as another Mohamed presented his hand-painted paper mache wares.

Fayaz wandered into our boat and offered his cell phone for me to call my awaiting parents. I hadn't told them about my trip to Kashmir, for fear of raising their already boiling blood pressures, but I guess my lack of contact for nine days caused even more distress; Papa Bear was contemplating a flight to India to find me. I heard the organ from the sanctuary behind their relieved voices. While they were at Sunday church, I was watching house lights squiggle toward me on the lake's surface that Sunday night.

Mohamed wanted to share tea and chit-chat that evening, both of us finally comfortable enough to not worry about frostbite or the smell of rotting clothes to actually talk, but I wandered like a zombie to my room and apologized for answering the call of my comforter to join it in slumber. Before falling into my bed's embrace, I walked to the bathroom and thought back to the last bathroom journey in the woods. I hope it's normal to reminisce or even prefer the thrill of the life or death stroll to the facilities. I had it with every squat in the African continent, every adventure behind a big rock in Kashmir, and when it's no longer acceptable, I get a little nostalgic. Yes, my trek in the Himalayan mountains brought out the real lady in me, and I wait with bated breath for my next low encounter with a grassy knoll.

Thank you, Nature.

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Too Much Thinkin': Day 153

I may have made a truly horrifying decision, pushed by the approach of an immediate journey, the desire to part with the urban jungle; the work of three assuring and ambiguously generous salesmen along with the back-up by happy Western customers…my gosh, who knows why I flew to Kashmir.

It's a thrill I normally find enchanting, but I may have abandoned my survival instinct. An adventure began, and I've taken to heart the discomfort factor all too much, up-ing the ante for life-changing and life-ending. Maybe I'm hoping, at some point, Che will peek into my dreams and say, "Now that's impressive," or maybe I just want a good story for cocktail hour. The present days and previous months are times of incredible personal vulnerability, and, while I dig my nose into my guidebook, I sometimes have no power against the moments of frightening spontaneity that present themselves for the snatching. I'm drunk with Himalayan fever and prepared to cry in awe and fear for a chance to be among the magnitude.

The previous passage was written after my arrival to Nageen Lake in Srinagar. As the boys warned me against, I, again, did too much thinking, and it led me to believe the explosions I heard from my perch on the houseboat balcony were gun shots and echoes of warfare. They were wedding celebrations.

Truth be recalled, I felt safer in this conflicted land, filled to capacity with armed militia, than I did in bomb-riddled Delhi. Government officials spotted me on the tarmac and gave me a phone number to call if I felt, for one instant, I was being swindled or put in danger. Escorted by police into the growing mob outside, I found my ride without the slightest hassle.

Nature's peaks struck me on the plane, and nature's leaves gave me something I knew I desperately missed: autumn. Though I couldn't completely silence the skepticism of my trip up north, the majority of my time was spent completely relaxed. I awoke early, crazy for the Kashmir tea and special flat bread of the region. I pounded through 300 pages of Indian fiction, which took place in the Himalayas, while upon my lakeside throne. And I ate dinner in the family boat next door with my hosts and their homemade goodness. Old men rowed me across the lake as if I deserved, past stretches of lily pads, Moghul bridges, and reflected mountains, on a taxi boat that resembled more the Dalai Lama's chaise than a means of transportation.

Fayaz, my host, scheduled a trek through the Gangabal Valley, fit with a cook, ponies, and their gypsy owners (and by gypsy I mean the acceptable term for people who live in the Karakorum mountains). It was my heart's desire, but October 6th came and went, and I remained on the boat's porch writing this:

This sky seems higher than any other, even though this one can actually be touched by things that trump its celestial magnitude. Some days the sun grants those peaks the penetrating colors that reveal their nooks from miles away and make this view spectacular for my waiting eyes…even when I know and feel the anticipation of the crags that top the world. This moment should be spent in the mountains, just hours from a pristine lake that will make our base camp for three days. Instead, just as the CNN ticker announces, we are denied the rights to embark past the neighborhood gates...

Following Ramadan and Eid, the military authority of J & K (Jammu and Kashmir) province issued a curfew, for the first time in over a decade, to prevent protests or civil unrest the world's media came prepared to capture. We approached checkpoints guarded with waist-height coils of razor wire and army officers in full bullet-proof gear.

Fayaz and the driver tried to bat their Kashmiri eyes and flash the curfew slip we had obtained for passage into town, regardless of the lockdown. Fayaz and the highest police commissioner were old drinking buddies, an unlikely bond in the Muslim community, and he gave us access to the guarded streets that could usher us out of town. Overnight, the rules changed, all passes now void, and every officer had the right to shoot on sight any civilian crazy enough to wander the streets sticky with tension.

Our fully-loaded jeep maneuvered through the neighborhood labyrinth until it tried every way out, and as the neighbors sat in their doorways, sipping chai and smoking, talking to their friends and customers, they stopped to stare at our brave mission, wondering if we would succeed in breaking curfew and getting out of town. As we passed, the only sounds of the high walled lanes were rocks grinding under our tires and the disturbed gurgles of the chickens on our roof.

Fayaz turned to me, after many failed attempts and told me I was to get out of the car at the next checkpoint and convince the gun, and the man holding it, to let me fulfill my dreams of trekking in Kashmir. I think they were amused by my timid audacity but, unfortunately, unfazed. Fayaz said they respected me more than the others in the car, but they were beyond peace talks. I guess we weren't a horse, or a chicken-topped jeep, of a different color. No way; no how.

We returned to the family houseboats, wearing all-telling, disappointed smiles to communicate the misfortune and apologies. Even as the slightly pink clouds reflected their frozen blow across the rim of those beautiful beasts, my present situation failed to match the freedom their presence and natural beauty stand for. 245,000 Indian army officers told me my encounter with the living hills must wait until tomorrow. I waited a year from my desire's conception to see what the peaks could do to me, and one more day made me appreciate the flexibility allotted to Americans in America, who can trek where they want, without the threat of manslaughter.

Kashmir stood alone, resting on its sky scraping laurels for ages, and, once pressured, help was needed from the closest source. Success was met. Hands shook for friendship. And people died. Now two animals fight for beauty, putting those relatives of the land in constant turmoil. They smile and make crafts. They paddle frilly boats and hold the hands of their fellow man friends. And on days like October 6th, they can only inhabit the front yard, if they're lucky, while others fear placing an eyeball around the curtain.

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Welcome to the Himalayas: Day 152

Indiana is not a place where you need to worry about gripping the purse at your side or walking cautiously to your car at night with mase at the ready. This lack of high thrills and danger may be one reason why some say it's a boring place to live. In fact, I think it's worth the money to see a spy/martial arts/thriller movie in the theaters, just for that walk to the car at the evening's end. I know I'm not a Bond or Chan, but something makes me feel like I've got a battlefield to face when the double doors close off the movie popcorn smell behind me. The bushes could be covering a group of black-outfitted ninjas, or a sniper on the roof may point his laser between my unprotected shoulder blades. I often do a skipping walk to my car, zig-zagging in between cars, while shouting to my friends that I'll call them tomorrow. I can't go to Steak'n'Shake now; there's a hit out on me. At the sight of the hawkers and scamming taxi drivers at the international flight terminal, I got the same anxious jitters and uncapped the pen in my hand as a makeshift weapon (that is, until I could located the bottle opener in my bag), held low at my side. Upon leaving the protection of the airport, it's hard not to feel like a potential victim of every trick on the streets. Amplifying this sensation of worry would be the Lonely Planet side stories, warning naive travelers of moments when others let their guards down and lost money and lives. I forgot the feeling I left with from my last India experience and stuck my nose at my trust in a well-highlighted guide book.

After dozing off the exhaustion of two sleepless nights and a sun-scorched day in the desert, I cut through the smelly, humid air of the Pahar Ganj district, bee-lining it to one recommended restaurant after the other, not even hungry but ordering a $.05 piece of bread or drink to validate my indulgence of their AC.

And the I started to make the most shameful of travel accessories, the day-to-day itinerary. It didn't feel right, but, hey, when your own vulnerability consumes you, control is sought by any means. I booked a bus to Manali, a destination chosen because it was colder; reasoning stops there.

Equipped with an LP, an itinerary, and an unhealthy distrust in everyone around me, I patrolled those seedy streets once more before my eighteen hour bus ride into the foothills of the Himalayas. India is its own world, in appearance, in movement, in the way things work and the way they can lead to the next fantastical moment. I hate to try and use cliche phrases or vague generalizations to describe a place I want others to experience on the magic carpet of my words. So I'm not gonna say, "Um, wow, it was dirty and smelly and gross."

Instead, imagine a street lined by buildings that have no order, uniformity, or evidence of being cleaned in the last fifty years. Power lines and wires stretched above the lanes as if a massive electric spider constructed a floating civilization above the puddled and filthy ground. Humans of all ages and professions, dogs, cats, rats, cows, bikes, rickshaws, and elephants move about, to their own agendas, all while amazingly dancing in time out of oncoming, chaotically unpredictable traffic; like a Visa CheckCard commercial until someone sight-seeing or mind-boggled by their surroundings sends a cyclist off track and into a Kashmir apple vendor.

Thinking of both my health (mainly avoiding Delhi belly) and the astoundingly low cost of eats, I stopped at stood, confused, in front of an ash-covered bread stand, hoping to score some tasty goods with the nine rupees jingling in my board shorts. A stranger bailed me out of a 'Lost in Translation' moment (three rupees a chapati, three chapatis for the road) and then surprised me with his hold on the English language.

Thinking I was ordering my lunch, he, my new friend Mudi, invited me to join him for chow at his shop and inquired about my India plans. I thought this was one of those moments I was read up and prepared for, thanks to an LP warning box; he mentioned Kashmir. RING THE ALARM!!! A SCAM! Oh, the nerve of these Kashmiri poachers...why I let him in far enough to start the schpeal...wasting my last hours in Delhi. His kindness made me reflect mild interest and appreciation on the outside, but I was working on an escape route inside that would match the suave of his approach. And then he took me to a travel agent, his roommate and lifelong buddy, where the pitch continued.

The previous day, I rolled my eyes and ran from any chattering stalker who mentioned a leisurely trip to Kashmir, knowing that most of these men were involved in an old trick that sends travelers to the tip of India cheaply and corners them into paying boat loads (or, in this case, house boat loads) to do anything else.

Ashika, the agent, made his case by pointing at the numerous pictures and newspaper articles on the wall, claiming not only his company's legitimacy, but their sky-high level of satisfaction from previous travelers. And then they proceeded to call one happy customer after the other, one being an American woman of 24 traveling alone who was at the family house boat...nice hand, my friends. Each reference affirmed my hopes that these Delhi hooligans weren't crooks by any stretch of the imagination.

My LP laid open on my lap to the page quoting Bill Clinton in 2000: Kashmir is probably the most dangerous place in the World.

Comforting. The minutes disintegrated, and my bus departure time tested me to make the right decision for my safety, to cut the right wire, to choose the right pill. There was something about these guys and their effortless charisma, not to mention addictive humor; it seemed like they didn't really care which way I swayed but that I enjoy myself, though knowing Kashmir was the answer to my big travel dreams.

It's true; I didn't come for the India of urine stains and city smog. I had taken nine steps toward the mountains of my favorite books, and this major move seemed like the final, appropriate choice for the tenth step. More of their friends came and went, jokes and friendly punches thrown, and chai after chai flew down our traps while they laughed at my distressed decision making process..."If you think too much, nothing will happen." My shoulders lowered simultaneously with the rise of a grin, and the invisible NO I had hovering above me, like a Sim City player indicator, faded, leaving me bare and ready for the adventure ahead.

High fives all around. The itinerary became a bookmark in the Lonely Planet I closed for two weeks. I was refreshed and oddly more comfortable with the new plan. I watched as Ashika took care of the business of buying my unused bus ticket, booking a flight, and telling his family in Srinagar I was on my way to their house boat. This tiny room full of boys extended and invitation to stay in their apartment that night, along with their friend from Holland, Lika, who had known the rowdy bunch for years and was in town to visit them. Not that they didn't give me a good gut feeling of security, their company's reputation hanging on the positive treatment of their customers, but Lika's presence made it easier to accept and explain the choice to those who may be skeptical from afar.

Gut instincts led to belly laughs and one of the best moments in my trip. When it comes to social moments of joy on this journey, none top the ones that make me wish I had a camera embedded in my forehead. These are times I know I'll want to remember in sight, spirit, and detail, but pulling out a camera would ruin that which is most priceless of the moment at hand. Those next twelve hours included interesting conversations over coffee, games and a few beers on a rooftop over Delhi, and sitting on the floor in a small room with five other people, fingers slick with orange cooking oil and lips tingling from the spices of home-cooked meals, parted in smiles.

The boys were childhood friends and all had an air of being naturally intelligent and downright gifted; they absorbed us seamlessly into their fermented dynamic in the way only instant comrades can. They impersonated every nationality under the hot Delhi sun, told embarrassing stories of each other, gave me a 3am lesson in making Kashmiri tea, and welcomed me to the Himalayas, pointing to Mudi's colossal nose, also known as K2. We slept like pick-up sticks, scattered across the floor, each of us pretending the billowing AC was mountain air off the Karakorum range of their homes...and my new destination.

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Mid West Meets Middle East, The Staredown: Day 150

A sleep deprived, dehydrated Mid Westerner in the Middle East...too hot for complete thoughts or sentences. A far too classy condo complex cafe and Darjeeling tea sprang out, a foreshadow to something I definitely want and have to see. A tall African doorman reminiscent of the Green Mile miracle worker...in pajamas. Walking from one massive building past the rest on barren sidewalks. 8am and the sun has catapulted into the hazy sky. A manicured park and an empty playground. I lie on the grass and become a spectacle to children and men alike. There are enough Westerners around to make me think I stick out for other reasons. Fully covered from chin to toe, but maybe too clingy for ultimate modesty.

The harbor is gorgeous, and the buildings fall into the ocean; but I feel like the sun is taking my life away from me. Only makes me angrier at the hundreds of men who stare, and photograph, without shame at my passing presence. I have had no water, but I sweat like death is stalking me. Roughly ten other women out - never alone. I'm alone. I wonder what that implies in Doha.

Big water bottles are mere cents, and a cross-eyed old man finally shows me the smiles I miss. I have to wipe my visage dry, and my sleeve comes back sopping. A coffee shop is no mirage as I follow the arch's shadow across seven lanes of traffic to its air-conditioned wonders. Massive screens showing the programs I know and miss, and he cranks the volume to accompany harmoniously the wall's waterfall. I sit with my bag off to receive the mighty wind, and it chills me back to life. I cannot move for hours, and my thumbs recount the story of my heated day to all with e-mails. I can think no more.

To ask and to wander brings about what I needed and wanted to my stomach; whatever they say, so I shall have. And it sprawls the plate, a chicken on her bed, with veggies and spices to bare. I am drained and filled, and my heart beats in my stomach. I braved a new world I knew little truth about, and though all the big bros were watching, never did I feel afraid. Our movies don't show the good people in civies.

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The Pity of an Expiration Date: Day 143

Chapter Three: Leaving Dar, Looking for Livingstone The creases of my eyes remained dry. My pupils fixed on the back of our new drivers' heads in the new cab...of the new truck. I felt ashamed at the somewhat "poor little rich girl" moment, this sadness for the changes in company and wishful abandonment of the leg ahead. Young Peter, the other spry hoodlum like me on the truck, stared at me in disbelief during the first breakfast, hours after leaving our old guides in Dar, and after a long silence exclaimed, "Why the hell are you so freaking miserable?"

This trip of mine is about the people, and this trip of mine isn't about the people. I haven't made it a main mission, but I seem to acquire great companionship on every leg of this journey...which only makes the transitions more emotional, the events more enjoyable, and the introspection less important and more avoidable. It took me a while to forget the loneliness caused by the loss of those expiration friendships, and in the meantime, I fought to get back in the state of mind conducive to self-discovery...while bouncing, yet again.

Driving across the entire width of Tanzania in two 12+ hour days gave me plenty of miserable, staring-out-the-window time...and then I saw the water, again. Lake Malawi tricked me into thinking I was lounging again at the seaside and somehow connected by water to my soul's content state and my lost friends. But it didn't make sense that this massive body with waves and sand had no shells or salt. The existence of Carlsberg' Elephant beer, however, made me 7.2% less aware of the recent past and, finally, more present with my new company.

The evening's bungalow parties, isolated from the old Drago passengers and dripping with humor and contentment, made me smile. But during the day, when these seven new pax paired off to spend their heftier bank accounts on activities, I took my travel notebook, iPod, and sarong to the "beach" and submerged into a world where those around me don't exist and my mind scales, traverses, and swims great distances to the point of bodily exhaustion. I wrote all day and started sleeping a lot more.

There is a perfect spot at Kande Beach for sun-downers, where a piece of the bar's patio juts into the sand like the bow of a ship. I sat there in the afternoon one day, listening to nothing but the often neglected songs from my audio collection and putting every passing mental bite on paper. And then I stopped, balled my outlets into my clothing, and started running into the lake, feeling equal parts regret and exhilaration as more and more of my dry skin and suit became drenched.

I had to go out at least 150 feet before the chilly water was deep enough to envelop me, and at that distance, I dipped my head into the lake, only to emerge feeling as though I just realized where I was and what I was doing there.

In the movie, its the moment when the weight of the past pulls the audience in, utterly concerned for me, and the soundtrack by Hans Zimmer or John Williams crescendos as I enter a place where tears can finally fall. And here, where my head returns to air, more aware of the confusing side of life, the camera sits, half-underwater and spaced from me, as to not disturb this pivotal life moment. It was at this moment that I felt very strongly the abnormality of my path and the certain disappointment that will come when parts of my soul remain unfulfilled.

There's simply no way to do all that I feel called to do in life, and since I cannot silence these needs, my heart will never feel weightless. Sometimes, a cloud covers the sun beams in the day...and this was one of those times.

As much fun as being deep and emotional is, I didn't want to be the young, dark, sleepy girl for the next two weeks, especially when passengers from the prior leg knew how light-hearted I can be. So I went about meeting the young German girl and the new Drago crew.

Lara, a 20 year old from Dusseldorf traveling with her father, provided nice companionship, even though our dialogue struggled to transcend the language barrier at times. Though they both expressed their intentions to do their own things, Lara found trouble getting space from her father, so she spent much of her time feeling obligated and unlike herself. Made it a bit difficult to become better friends.

I tried to bond with Lucy. Every fiber of that girl's being is dedicated to the life she leads, her job and calling to be an overlander. Free time she spent performing engine checks, managing the finances, filling out meticulous paperwork, and many times doing jobs most other overlanders delegate to other people. She always refused the free bed at each camp site for her mattress atop the truck and ate last to consume all the less appetizing tidbits of the meal, avoiding the bagging for leftovers. I cannot say that she didn't make time for her passengers, as she was always around to offer me some chit-chat, but there was no distracting her from the life she loved. Her demeanor was reassuring and nice to observe in a world where many are unhappy and I struggle to find the same contentment...but I still remained without a good connection on the trip.

I shared some drinks and chatter with the co-driver, Mark, and some laughs with the cook, Vesh, but I was spoiled by my comrades from the past...and very aware of the kind of people I like to be around. I found my type; didn't know I had one.

Goodness, what depressing material. Have I mentioned how beautiful Lake Malawi was by hammock? Or the enjoyment I reaped from going grocery shopping with Vesh and Lucy? It wasn't all gloomy thoughts from start to finish, and, actually, the trip went steadily uphill, starting with the road to South Luangwa National Park.

Four hours of corrugation, dust, and potholes were broken up by a roadside meal, next to the smallest scorpion possible to exist, and a parade-like drive through the cliche idea of Africa, where we sat on the truck roof and waved at the screaming, running Zambian children...until they started asking for sweets. There was the frequent low branch that caused us to fold in half at the waist and duck for cover, getting scratched from shoulder to butt. Incidentally, the truck ended its journey to the camp site covered in unripe mangoes.

The Luangwa river is the natural border between the National Park and the human world. This strip of water is murky entirely, its surface almost motionless except for the occasional, and quite frightening, eye, ear, or tail of a human-munching killer, breaking that serene surface with a terrorizing presence. The adjacent bank is nothing but riddled with footprints of hippos and crocs. Up the bank, no more than 100 feet is Flatdogs camp site, our home for three nights.

Each tent kept its distance from each other and other obstructions by one meter, at least, the average width of an adult elephant. No food, trash bin, drying clothes, or window ajar were left in the presence of the nut case baboons, which stalked the grounds waiting for human error.

We all took our chances with the weather at night, leaving the flies in the tent bags and tying up the tent flaps, in case we arose in the wee hours to the sound of munching beyond the nylon walls and wanted an unobstructed view. This was hippo grazing ground: the ground within a inch of each tent. A half-asleep bathroom outing in the middle of chow time could and would honestly cost you your life. Nothing about dangerous toilet breaks gets old.

The paucity of upgrades made tents in high demand, so Lisa, a cast member of the Golden Girl-Drago era, and I joined forces and decided upon erecting our tent on a tree platform, which hovered just out of reach of an out-stretched elephant trunk. At this slightly improved elevation in this more inspirational location, I felt compelled to write something more typical of my mind, something searching for meaning and laced with satisfaction of my present state. I had recovered.

Three nights among the wildlife...days spent in the park, at a nearby village, and a third at stationary peace...all wonderful. Our game drives were fruitful and diverse, involving, at one climactic moment, the intense, defensive roar of a dining leopard, coming no further than five feet from our jeep's front tire. With a thinner group, we went on a village tour an hour away...and for the first time in weeks, the experience felt welcoming, interesting, and downright fun. This may have been caused in part by the chances to both visit a witch doctor and to join a village shake session...where, once more, my own capabilities fell short of African hips.

Maybe more smile-inducing than that, I finally sat up front in the cab and played DJ with my own music, appealing to the group and pleasing myself as I heard the likes of Stevie Ray Vaughan and Space Capone reverberate off mud brick huts. Those days in the bush were turning points for chapter three. I lost the loneliness of heart and spent more time laughing, laughing at the Germans who waited a half hour in the bathroom because an adult elephant with monstrous tusks munched by the doorway, trapping then in awe inside.

Canoeing down the Lower Zambezi river, which borders Zimbabwe, was the main event for many of the passengers on this leg. By the time the Drago journeys started, I had completely forgotten the expected itineraries, including the exciting highlights due ahead of us.

En route to the canoeing safari starting point, we stopped to camp at a dark, unfriendly locale run by a racist, drunk, and incredibly abrasive Dutch man. The drive day was long, and, for the first time, we arrived after the sky lost all evidence of color or light. No one was in high spirits, especially when we realized the spirits cost more than they would at a posh restaurant in the USA.

And then we heard a scream. He called her name over and over in breathless pain. I heard it in the back of my mind, and suddenly the woman I was talking to started sprinting up the hill towards her fiance's yelps. The Irish couple left for Lusaka an hour later to wait outside the best hospital in Central Africa until opening time, Chris' ankle propped up on bags and padded with ice and a homemade splint. The horrible Dutch owner was stingy with adequate lighting by his cabins, and, with that, we lost those people most excited about the canoe safari as they flew home to reset his broken bones. I started walking with sure footing immediately.

We were paddling with the current, floating at a steady clip near the trusty guides and smiling from the recent elephant sighting. Lisa was in front, and I concentrated on keeping us on course and not splashing her back with each hand switch. The green streamed by the left side of the canoe at the same time we experienced an unsettling tousle.

Surprisingly little flashed in my head at the moment I thought I was going to die. I froze and simply thought, "whoa...crocodile." To our utter relief, it was a stump streaming with weeds, one of the five biggest dangers on the canoe safari, behind hippos, crocs, elephants, and the blazing African sun.

Zambia on the left and Zimbabwe on the right, we covered 40 km in two days, avoiding wading hippos, crossing elephants, and sun-bathing reptiles in some situations that were far too close for comfort. Meals were picnics under trees on islands claimed by neither country. The dangling of flesh over the sturdy, fiberglass canoes was only o.k. if you insisted on getting that part amputated.

At designated points along the way, when safety was fairly certain, we swam in the Zambezi, whose micah content makes it shimmer like magic water. Our guides, knowledgeable on every aspect of the outing, followed in true African man fashion, flirting with every unattached woman on the trip. Completely uninterested, I used this extra attention to become informed on the Southern Hemisphere's constellations and to get added security while swimming in beast-infested waters.

This flirtatious Martin thought I would be interested in discovering some lion poo, but in the seconds we stooped to investigate the dried clumps, we heard a scream. I turned to see a flash of blue as Vesh frantically fastened her pants while fleeing from a charging mother elephant. Once again...the fun of bush toilets...makes the walk to the heated tile floors and quilted paper seem boring, eh? Lara and I had a perfect vantage point of the mammoth's advance and Vesh's all-star sprint to safety. We used each other for balance as we doubled over in belly laughter. It was still funny hours later.

Perfect orange sunsets on bubbling landscapes. Bush fire camps and good books. An almost alarmingly close connection to nature. A break from sitting on a truck. All just a few wonderful things about a canoe safari on the Zambezi river of Africa.

And, of course, just when I am finding some comfort with this group and our dynamic, the leg to Livingstone comes to an end. I became almost tear-choked thinking about the perfection of my coming Golden birthday, a day that would include a flight over the world's largest waterfall by microlight, relaxation, free drinks, and a sunset cruise alongside our ghastly friends from the canoe experience. The Germans honored the stroke of my day with a shot and a hug, sure to let me know I was around people that would make the day [that I care far too much about] special.

The microlight took off from the dirt runway without much power or effort, and the lack of ground contact sent a surge of terror from my wide eyes to my sudden death grip on the handles. It was a surreal satellite view of the interwoven borders of Africa's Z countries. The mist rose slightly, and it was almost too much when the pilot dropped us sideways, swirling down like a leaf towards the thundering water below. My helmet's visor gathered the mist that stung my exposed chin when our shadow cast over the rainbow. 15 minutes flew by...pun intended.

After continuously refusing free drinks for weeks from the friendly new passengers, I decided a birthday isn't a bad time to take advantage of such generosity without mounding guilt. The sunset cruise gave us all an excuse to shed the normally nasty and rather masculine clothes and showcase our classy sides.

Before boarding the boat, we posed with Claudia, our trusty steed, before they opened the doors to blare a zesty version of "Happy Birthday" while bringing out a melting pink and white cake. We brought it on the cruise to share with all those people not with our swingin' party. I soaked up the African birthday anthem, a smile from ear to ear, and chopped the pastry up for all the strangers that sang to me, telling them, "I hate not getting cake when it's someone else's birthday." Obviously, thoughts and words were uninspired that fine dusk.

That night, back on land, I hugged many people goodbye and retired for a last night of tent-a-licious slumber...but not before the camp site's bar band tried to pay me a tribute by playing my favorite song. Only one guy knew "Little Wing," so the attempt was spotty and lacking finesse...but I sat on the floor about a foot from the bass drum with yet another broad grin on my 23 year old facade.

I came to Africa. I saw five of her sprawling countries. I think to say conquered would be misleading, but I definitely didn't let her get the best of me. I laugh in the face of malaria...for now.

TWA...That Was Africa.

Exit DragoWoman.

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The Game: Day 128

Chapter Two: The Road to Zanzibar Once the Golden Girls cast was infiltrated by new blood, a funny thing happened to me among the group who thought they knew me. I started acting like the "tart" I'm known to be now. I joked. I smirked. I giggled. I danced around in a semi-conscious state. I dove into conversations as if I would always have some valuable comment to make. Patrick was amazed at my transformation, and so began our friendship.

I'm glad the shell cracked, because the next stop was a return to Nakuru for a wee (thought spectacular) safari and the most exciting local interaction to date. Walking from the Kembu camp site, down the dirt road to Patrick's family compound, we felt the Earth rumble and the air split by hand claps, cackles, and the harmonious singing of a massive gathering. They performed but wouldn't let any of us just be spectators to their tribal anthems. We had to not just participate but throw ourselves into the celebration like it was our own, usual crew during a regular jam session. A multi-course meal followed and left our fingers sticky, bellies full, and cheeks sore from smiles. We learned more intimate details about Patrick from his family members than most of us were comfortable knowing, but these juicy tidbits gave ample material for more jokes between those of us on Patrick's friendly side.

The next night, we invited the whole fan damily to dinner as a thank you and to showcase our sad skills in celebration. Yes, celebration. Kool and the Gang style. Then we moved onto Chumbawumba...and almost broke the floor because we got knocked down...and then got up again. I played DJ with Jase and blared the crowd pleasing favorites like Tupac and Marley. I heard my name chanted from behind my disc jockey stance and turned to see Patrick's entire tribe forming a circle and summoning a "break-down" from yours truly. I cut that rug. At first by myself, then against Patrick himself. I'm embarrassed to note he out-shook me to the point that simply coming in accidental contact with his vibrating backside gave me an instant fabric burn. African hips are hazardous. Cross-stitch that into your next throw pillow.

I shook myself silly and soon became the young, giggle-box, whom danced around while eating her jammed toast in the early morning dew, hair askew and sporting the sock/sandal combo for humor's sake. The following few days, I opted out of group activities, like walking safaris and group meals, to become more familiar with those three people I was growing to befriend: the Drago crew. We chopped veggies, avoided hippos, navigated urban Nairobi, and threw back libations while chatting about overlanding, "intense travel," breaking social norms, finding ways to be happy, and getting paid to do what you love. They were some of the most intriguing opinions I've witnessed and found them to satiate the deep questions of my wandering soul.

And then the sun rose slowly, glowing...blazing all tints of the color wheel's warm side...I sat waiting, listening for the Kiswahili chorus and the raising of Simba into the living skies. Yes, you guessed it, we thundered across the appalling dirt roads via unlucky jeeps to the world famous stretching savannahs of the Serenjeti. Good guess; that was a tough one. Rising up the walls of the Ngorongoro Crater and skimming the rim, we experienced some unfortunate coincidences involving all three jeeps that hauled our poised cameras and anxious eyes. The first had a massive diesel leak, making its passengers physically sick and "fuming" mad. The second, my loyal carrier, vibrated down the corrugated roads and lost a connection that kept a tire in alignment. We took the opportunity to frolic around the barren 360• of savannah surrounding the site of "wreckage." Some tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to squat behind some thin and mobile tumble weed while those knowledgeable with mechanics squatted to stare at the damage. I ran around like a headless chicken, looking for a rotting carcass to "munch" on and get closer to the oh-so-musical circle of life. The landscape was perfect for a TIA photo moment, modified for Tanzania as we formed our bodies into the lovable exclamation "T.I.T." The third jeep, which doubled back to aid our car struggles, solved the issue, sent us off on our way, and then crawled behind at a fragmented pace from three flat tires. Seven years of using this company, and we experienced the first three problems Drago has ever had with them. Some said "What freakin' luck." I said, "ALLLLLLRIGHT!"

Those whose company I enjoyed dealt with our mercurial road trip to the National Park with light-hearted optimism. However, the high expectations summoned by the word "Serenjeti" made others bitter and suspicious of anything that wasn't straight out of the Lion King. As if safaris are controllable, predictable or follow a schedule of perfect skies, eye-to-eye encounters, and Kodak/Nat'l Geographic moments. I dropped all expectations and grew to love those times that weren't about the game...hydroplaning for sport on the newly-wet bush roads, listening to "Hakuna Matata" from guide Henry's cell phone, flipping pork chops by torch light on a bush bbq, and screaming in terror when I thought I was staring into the reflecting eyes of a night-scavenging lion by my tent. It was just a buffalo; don't fret. Patrick's baboon-bandit experience left us short of potatoes and bread and left me in stitches. Maria's dust COVERED visage brought a tear to my eye when she took refuge from the wind above the open top jeep. When I hear Serenjeti, I'll probably forget the cheetah that crossed our path, the leopard gnawing at a carcass suspended in a tree, or the hot air balloons floating majestically over the terrain at sunrise. I'll remember the moments that broke the mold...it's the stuff of life.

The Ngorongoro Crater, conceived by a brilliant geological mishap, is the only safari experience a person needs...a wildlife utopia with views to make a shutter finger seize in exhaustion. Bloody faced cheetahs chomping on a corpse, face-to-face elephant stare downs, and wildebeest migrations made my memory card steam, but nothing made me laugh harder than a massive alpha lion doing his business in front of 15 jeeps. I took four snaps a second, making sure I got the perfect illustration to add to the helpful book Everybody Poops...I could make it a flip book.

Though my Crater experience was memorable to say the leastest, I found the best thrills the night before, camping along the rim. There was no protection or fortifications between our wee tent circle and stampeding zebras or a giant elephant knocking down tree limbs. I watched the sunset slowly silhouette the mammoth's body as he balanced on two legs like a circus act, then I took to the "kitchen" (or spot where we put the gas stove range) to comfort our heart-broken cook and tour guides, all four still writhing from the previous day's verbal massacres by unhappy group members. In exchange, they bought me some local spirits and watched my back for stalking animals...which eventually materialized in the form of a massive bush pig. Think evil pig with a skull thrice as tall as it should be. I called it an early night and walked to the abolution block, only to find myself in a face-off with a buffalo...who stopped munching to turn his head and stare my shivering frame down. Patrick came running to my calls for help and accompanied me the rest of the way in the animal kingdom. I sorta miss the possibility of death on the way to the toilet. Gives life a zing. The night was semi-sleepless as I felt the stomping of game inches from my face. That's also zing-worthy.

Exhausted and caked in sweat and dust, I collapsed on the pile of bush camping equipment and smiled as Maggie approached our group in Karatu...it felt like a homecoming. Jase and Helen had spent the previous four days taking her apart and back together...enjoying the lively ambiance of Snake Park, a camp site that borders a hefty collection of massive reptiles, full-grown crocs inclu ded. And it was there that I purged myself of all anxieties cause my the tour group atmosphere. I lounged around while others toured museums. I, again, associated more with the guides than the fellow pax, staying up late and trying my hardest to avoid imbibing the deadly Ma's Revenge at the watering hole. It seemed I was becoming intoxicated by the overland life, where acquaintances become beloved comrades, camp site bars quake with the lively recounting of travel tales, and land traversed gives you a quantitative measure of success each and every day. Once again, age pulls me back from diving towards those apps, and so I'll dilly-dally for two more years, to contemplate those dreams until Drago will put me in the pool.

I awake at sunrise. Something is uncomfortably wrong. The night before involved a decent amount of bar time but not enough to warrant a wake-up call of extreme stomach irritation and a burning throat. I crawled to my tent flap and hovered inches outside to wretch in the most painful manner. Masai watchmen walked by and pretended not to stare as I wept and purged on all fours. This is one of the things I love about Africans...they will avert eyes to help you save face and dignity...even in times like this where a woman is crying, tossing cookies, and stuck leaning out a tent that was turned in the night so the fly and tent flap were no longer aligned. Thank you, Jase, for thoroughly pegging me into my own tent at an inconvenient moment in time. A fire trapped in my throat that I couldn't extinguish with water or biscuits. Potatoes and ketchup for breakfast went down like chunky needles, and I barely moved from my seat on the truck even with the multiple pit stops. And then I exploded. All over Maggie...myself...and others nearby. One of the most embarrassing events I've experienced. Covered in my own regurgitated food, I made a sad speech to my group from the front of the truck, announcing my shame, apologies, and the priceless chance for photographs if anyone wanted to seize the moment. Jase pointed out the vomit that had wrapped around my body, making light of my impressive skills, and I waded in that exposing feeling that eventually makes you laugh in disbelief. Might as well. The shame subsided slowly when I put two and two together...I had the 24 hour stomach flu. Swell.

I was a weak, wobbly, sleepy, hungry mass for the next 24 hours. That is...until I got a glimpse of it, the ocean. All life and color returned to my face, and I couldn't stop singing "Buffalo Soldier" as I threw on my suit and bounced around, erecting my tent in the smooth, white sand. After a month of experiencing the tropics, the altitudes, and the dusty plains of Africa, I saw her sweet coast, and it filled me with all-consuming, all-curing glee. I think I was meant to be a beach baby...or, maybe more accurately, a Zanzi-baby.

Re-living moments on the island of Zanzibar cause an actual physical reaction...my body smiles, some organ crawls up to hug my heart, and something else shakes the sleeve of my mind like an impatient child, begging for a quick return. Luxury came to mind when I saw our fantastic abodes for the week in Nungwi...en suite, tiled floor, queen beds for all, the list rolls on. The beach disappears beneath a creeping tide of beautiful teal, and when it emerges, it sports an eclectic collection of Western visitors, local Bob Marley-idolizing beach boys, faux-Masai warriors, volleyball and soccer aficionados, dhow boats run aground, and miniature sand crabs scurrying from hungry felines. The sunset that met us upon arrival was a vicious display of the world's ability to astound with beauty and hide it away all too quickly. I hope my eyes will always be able to recall that image, even if I burn my retinas from such continual sun worship.

I am so sorry, because I feel bad...for both of us: you, the reader, and I, the writer. I'm sorry for not divulging into an incredible account of this paradise and my week of bliss. You won't get to know those joys that I could very easily describe but choose not to. I know what you're missing, so I'm sorry for your unknown loss. And I'm sorry I know have the knowledge of what that location can do to me, what possibilities it holds, and the satisfaction I reap from being a part of its existence. I choose to leave it to wordless memories, the silence instead representing that inexplicable smile you see on a person across the room, listening to music or eyes closed and breathing deeply. You can know I floated in a gorgeous ocean, scalded my skin in the hot sun, and covered myself with sweat and sand, trying to out-dance the local lords of the dance floor. Magic connections and visual masterpieces, the lifestyle of my soul's dreams; basically, I had a good time. I will touch that sand again. And you should, too.

Goodbye, Jase and Helen, Patrick and Maggie, my Bristolian crack pots. Enter Lucy and Mark, Vesh and Claudia, and some new blood from Ireland, Deutschland, and Aussieland.

Continue reading about this African adventure by reading the next and final chapter: The Pity of an Expiration Date.

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DragoWorld...Allow Me to Explain: Near Day 112 also

BounceLike your butt has the hiccups Like you were riding in an overland truck Matatus and jeeps Maggie and Claudia We've managed to find (and feel) every weathered divet in the path between Jinja and Livingstone.

Allow me to explain.

I was scheduled to fly back to Nairobi from Entebbe, Uganda, in order to catch my Dragotrip across the dark continent. But regardless of the fact that Africa is a massive place with billions of people, a former Drago passenger (Shvonne) arrived at my volunteer site, offered me invaluable advice, and managed to not only introduce me to my future trip mates but get me a spot on the truck to Kenya...for the low, low price of beer money for our leader, Jason.

And so began my many weeks of overland adventures. These good times naturally fall into three chapters for their routes and the different ensembles aboard. And so I shall recount my Drago trip with due accentuation on the highlights: the sights, the comforts, the characters, especially the crew.

Chapter One: Hitch-hiking to Nairobi

I came to Adrift camp site in Jinja for a big Drago dinner between Shvonne's old and my future trucks and met the self-proclaimed alcoholics and nut cases that made up my group. I hadn't turned on my wit factor for weeks and was blind sided by the six over 40-year olds who came at me with big smiles, beers in hand. Helen approached us at the bar afterwards and welcomed me to the group...so slow was I to realize this young, blonde woman was one of my leaders. She looked so clean. Get it, girl! And finally, we traced down the leader, Jason, the big kahuna whose decision it was for me to join. He only had a few questions for me upon arrival, this man of whom I've heard numerous party tales about already, and they were: will you buy me some beers? Do you like to party? And how often do you go skinny-dipping? Exciting start, huh? This former party rep lived up to his reputation with the first impression; I immediately admired his spunk. A self-proclaimed "professional bum". I began to take notes right then and there.

Hittin' the road the next day, the roads from Uganda to Kenya thankfully improved, ever so slowly. The landscape stretched exotically out my window and always held a scattering of babies on backs, shops selling phone chargers, matatus packed above capacity, staring men squatting by the road, and police checkpoints for seemingly no reason. The drivers dealt with each officer with nauseating charm, answering their sometimes oddball questions (do you have a fire extinguisher and tire pump on board?) like they were chatting over cocktails. I sat near the front, as quiet as ever, staring out over the dashboard between pages of my Michelangelo biography. Those first few days, I was painfully shy and acted more like a fly on the wall than a passenger, unsure how involved I could be on this trip I hitched onto. I instead retreated into Renaissance Florence and battled to pound out the bio that weighted my bag down to a saggy, formless low. Once I reached success, I loaned it to my first character, Julia, who finished the 750 pages in a staggering few days.

Julia has a not-so-salient, at first, defining feature that, once unearthed, tramples you with laughter: a dry and spot-on, effortless, sense of humor. A business manager from Bristol, England, she and I had little in common on paper besides an obvious wanderlust, but I grew to be magnetized to Julia in hopes osmosis would transfer some wit my way. She could make everyone laugh at the most inappropriate, paper-thin moment. In an attempt to give frame of reference, I'll explain one instance of sporadic humor that sustained giggles for weeks. On our first or second drive day after Jinja, we slowed behind traffic because there was a recently killed body lying in the road. Most of us kept our eyes aimed at the books in hand (worried that shady business had gone down), Helen turned to avert her attention from the scene, and Jase drove on, mumbling a prayer under his breath. Later, Julia recalled the moment in conversation and noted a good headline for the unfortunate incident might read "Man Killed in Yoga Accident." So morbid and inappropriate. Perfect timing and so original. A Julia joke.

Much of the time, Julia's material was fed by her fellow Bristolian partner'n'crime, a frizzy haired, smily nurse named Maria. I began seeing Maria's spark when we reached Nairobi and were about to welcome the new passengers. The approach of eight new people into our Golden Girl group was a bit threatening, also quite exciting. We all began cracking jokes and blending like the unit we weren't prior (meaning I cracked my shell and joined in). The prospect of a 22 year old male stud-muffin for me on the trip was enough to send her dirty mind spinning with hilarious anecdotes to make me unwind and be myself. That was just the beginning of our many male objectifying gab sessions. The bond was sealed when I captured the exact moment a giraffe pulled away from its kiss with her lips, leaving a double strand of antiseptic saliva, stretching like clotheslines from woman to world's tallest animal. It was what we youngsters know as a "Cruel Intentions" kiss. A classic.

I'm not sure why I wasn't myself at the beginning of this chapter. Patrick, the Kenyan cook on board, thought I was a shy little girl, as did Jase, whose presence always made my mind freeze. It may have been caused by my cyclical mood changes, which always occur after each individual phase of this journey. I had just left the home-grown, natural community that stirred up in Bujagali Falls as fast as a cup of instant coffee. And a tour was still something I was ambivalent towards for its cattle drive tendencies. And it also could have been my expectations that the Golden Girls and I would have little over which to bond. There's no doubt though I was somewhat "star struck" by the living legend I had heard tales of before I met his face. When you ask someone in the area (meaning Africa) if they are acquainted with him and they respond "ooooh yes, I know Jason," it makes one a bit timid to immediately whip out the goofball antics, for fear of clashing with another dominant personality.

I'll take this opportunity to explain the character of Jason, or Jase, as best I know how. He's a force of nature, sometimes a freak of nature (meant in the most endearing of tones, of course), for the things he does and continues to get away with at the youthful age of 37 years young. Bored of school and academic life, he graduated high school at 15 and began his own life that included the military, the police force, a move to the USA, Camp America, and working as an au pair. Considering the fact that he has charisma oozing out his dimples (and never, freakishly, gets hangovers) he became a party representative and moved from exotic beach locales to luxurious ski resorts, making holiday goers smile and amusing himself as a bar keep/manager/Jackass stuntman/etc. Looking for a new scene, he adorned his new scarf and wings and took to the skies, moving up at an incredible rate among the Virgin Air flight attendant hierarchy. There, at 30,000 feet above the Atlantic ocean, he shook up drinks and partied with Robbie Williams, attempted to charm the likes of Kylie Minogue, and dodged the verbal blows of our girl, Whitney Houston. And once he had traversed the heavens and gotten his fill, he moved on to become a DragoMan, to traverse the African plains via cement trucked turned passenger vehicle. He owns only the clothes in his bag and a snowboard somewhere in New Zealand. His home is everywhere and nowhere. A true nomad. To me that meant he was a man with answers. I listened to his words with bated breath; however, still knowing I could never be as displaced as he for decades on end. Jase still asks himself, "What on Earth am I doing with my life? What do I want to be when I grow up?" Just one more person I've met on the way who affirms that the straight shot into careerland is not always the way to go.

He will slide into his grave, rugged and saggy as a leather bag (thanks to his refusal to use and lack of need for sunscreen), thinking with no regrets, "what a ride!" While I don't necessarily think being a mechanic/police officer/Jackass stuntwoman who points vaguely to the nearest exit (which may be behind you!) is the path for me, Jase got me thinking about my youth, my attitude on life, and the art of travel. Under his Ngepi shorts' waistband, he's got 37 years, 77 countries, and 22 years of experience making his life exactly what he wants it to be. His only words of caution for this world was to be weary of the opposite sex, as love will be the only thing that can make you forfeit the path you choose. A bucket full of smarts, that one.

I think I've established to some extent the magnitude of Jase's legend, but that's not to say his current leading lady is a snore. No, Helen, his co-driver and trainee across Africa, is a character herself, the former movie biz powerhouse. Helen began from the ground up in a production house, from receptionist to production manager, and had encounter after envious encounter with everyone from the "star-studded" cast of Stardust to the famous feet of Beckham and Ronaldo. Do we envy? Yes, we do. But even after the loads of cash, the glamorous life, and meeting the potential scientist of her dreams, she needed to satiate the wanderlust and change her day-to-day scene. Enter DragoWoman.

And with Helen, in chapter one, came her mother, Jane, who wanted to see her youngest in action across Africa, getting under trucks, covered in oil, her formerly posh and privileged daughter. Jane, to me, was the British colonial version of Jen Winters, for all who can follow such a reference. She was the fulcrum of her community, had a voice that reeled in your ear, and a sharp humor to cause some gut-paining giggles. And she was a pistol with a drink in her hand, the pace car for nightly consumption. You never feel embarrassed drinking with this woman; if you come to a dry table holding a double, you'll find her already set up with a triple...and a beer for later.

We bumped, from Jinja to Nairobi, up and down, sometimes body dives to the side, and the occasional hidden speed bump sail forward with a bag to the head. We relaxed in Eldoret, sought dry shelter in Nakuru, stalked lion kills and bounded across the Mara, and came to Nairobi ready for paved roads, a glimpse of civilization, and a new flush of passengers to joke about. I'd like to thank the wild roads of Kenya for shaking me loose and making me open and happy for the road ahead. A wild road.

Continue reading about this African adventure with the next chapter: The Game.

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Feast Your Retinas On These

I hope you enjoy some of the snippets of my life in Africa. Uploads aren't the speediest around here...so this is what I could supply. The first was taken by my 10 yr old friend from Bujagali Falls, Uganda on a swimming break in the Nile rapids. His friend, Adam, is sitting next to me, playing with my friend's picture phone. The second is a stunning photograph of my friend, Maria, and her new boyfriend.."sticky lips" the Giraffe...upon our visit to the Giraffe Sanctuary in Nairobi, Kenya. The third is an ever-so attractive shot of me and a wildebeest carcass in the Serenjeti, Tanzania. We weren't really supposed to be wandering into the bush like so...but when our jeep broke down in the middle of the savannah, I just had to capture a moment with this portrait of my future (if no help came along, that is). And finally, the last was taken on the very sad last day in Nungwi, Zanzibar. The sun was scorching, so this was one of the only moments I was out of the water...sizzling. Obviously, the person next to me was enjoying at dip at the time. Directly to the left of this scene was my favorite beach bar, Cholo's, where I broke it dooown on multiple occasions...and was out-danced by the beach boys who catch mad air, flipping off tires by the sandy dance floor.

Brace yourself, I have many entries to be posted on the 6 week adventure from Uganda to Zambia. Start exercizing those optical muscles...

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The Tip Of a Perfect Iceberg: Day 112

It's hippo country, and for the next twelve hours, I must be on my tip-toes, as I wander to the long drop at night or rise for a fresh breath in the morning. Those fellas, aka the most ferocious bush creatures in Africa, aren't always phased by the electric fence and armed guards...which is why the evening breeze often wafts the stench of dead 'potamus from a carcass killed the night before.

I'm so incredibly backed up on my life chronicles thus far in Africa. I've already made so many friend and felt a warmth and acceptance among the people and places I've come into contact with. Soft Power in Uganda was a two week period of sheer, stupendous pleasure. I bonded with the "pearls" of Africa's pearl and became a local after one day in Bujagali Falls. I met Ponsiano, our on-site cook at Walukuba West, who introduced me to the new generation's mentality in a country held back by dated traditions and a complete lack of a governmental presence. He was a dream to talk to and paint beside; looking over to see his splattered face always caused explosions of laughter. And his generosity and companionship away from the work site deepened my awe of their national mentality. The fellow Soft Power muscles turned out to be hilarious and quality company. The perfect type to be up for a swim in the Nile rapids and throw children on their backs for a run around the school yard. Kayak slides, showers in the river, drinks at NRE and sun-bathing at Edon Rock...I apologize once more for using abstract and unknown references to describe an experience many people wish to understand and envision themselves. Like those visits to see friends in Northern Europe, Soft Power was a breath of red, dusty, refreshing air amidst a journey that at times leaves me speechless with trauma and numb as a piece of masticated gum.

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A Mzungu in the Midst: Day 92

I am in Africa. This is a place I fear describing inaccurately, so I'm sure to include every miniscule moment that step by step adds to the magnitude of my awe and wonder of its certain and sometimes masked beauty. I will begin with the flight, the trip from Rome to Doha...a gorgeously luxurious flight to a new world region, which is evidently the Eastern hemisphere's crossroads. I'll skip the fact that hot BO replaced AC for the first hour taxing. I fought off sleep in an effort to binge-watch movies in the English language. No dubbing? You must think I jest. However, after half of Ironman, my lack of sleep two nights running got the best of me, and I joined the Indian boy beside me in a "too close for strangers" airplane-style spooning session.

I couldn't see a thing out the window until the tires touched down to a world I've only seen in American Arab-fearing movies. Dust...and sand...and lots of it...a flatness that defies the earth's busty curves. I got cotton mouth just looking outside. At 5:30am in Doha, Qatar, it was over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Ben calls that a typical steamy day.

I was rarely conscious until I got to Nairobi, when I found out my bags didn't follow me on the trip. I can't say I was shocked, and so...after thirty minutes of being in the "dark continent," I had my first TIA moment.

The first time I flew into NYC at night, the infinite stretch of lights had a deep impact on me...seeing the development and magnitude of the world from a pilot's-eye view. A like, yet opposite, moment occurred with the descent into Entebbe, Uganda. There were minutes of time I saw not one single light in the darkness. What was below me was simply nature, no embellishments.

My Host

After immigration, I doddled around the exit, hoping my first couch surfing host would recognize me from my profile picture, since unfortunately my previously given description of "brunette girl with all the bags" was not valid at the time. Paul found me and took me away from the probing taxi drivers and towards the capital city of Kampala.

I knew I made a fantastic decision to couch surf when my drive from the airport got me closer to the real Uganda than I ever could have gotten otherwise. As our chatting and cultural exchange passed the hour-long drive, I realized the scene outside was unfolding something so eerie and intens

The dust of the streets created a fog through which car headlights revealed hundreds of wandering silhouettes. Things didn't feel so familiar anymore, as I realized the streets were littered and webbed with people, even out here in the dark of night...somewhere on a stretch of highway.

Finally came the realization, the zing I sought for months, "Wow, I'm traveling."

The Homestay

Paul lived in a village right on the edge of Kampala, one called Masajja, which was connected by dirt roads, all veined and rutted by the wet season's downpours. The first few bouncy minutes brought to mind Ace Ventura on his jungle rides through Africa, singing Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang with head bouncing from the passenger's seat across and out his driver's side window. I needed a helmet there in the back seat.

The Ssenoga family, Paul and siblings, live in a home attached to a few rooms, which they rent out for their income. My travel goal of never using a squat toilet went out the window when I got a look at the compound latrine. I was in no way discouraged though, as I knew my immersion was deeper than I could have anticipated (and that doesn't mean I fell i

Though I hadn't slept in about three days, I stayed up to chat with my host about his family, his village, and life in Uganda. Outside his window, the sun was far set, but the neighborhood was still throbbing. On the corner, a man made a stand to sell chapatis (essentially flour tortillas) for cast flow. Boda-boda drivers (guys with motorbikes) surfed the dirty waves while trying to find passengers to transport and charge. In this community, everyone was a family man and everyone an entrepreneur.

Noise was a constant, but at 2am, when I awoke to roll over, I could have heard a rooster toot in the next village over.

Old MacDonald lost control of his livestock as they all crowded around my window to oddly awaken me in the morning. Roosters were crowing every thirty seconds, goats were screaming like little children, motorbikes streaking across my sightline...and every human being on the block took to the streets to get it done, whatever "it" was, as they had been since 4am.

I drew my first breath at 8:30am and sought some relief at the long drop. One cannot wander in there half asleep without losing a leg to the earth's dirty mouth and cracking your pelvis on the ...wet cement surrounding the hole. I sure do have a delightfully poetic mind.

The Day in Kampala

The first mission of the day was to make it to the city, as the locals do, wandering up weaving lanes and jumping garbage heaps until Entebbe road appeared, in all its smoggy splendor.

On the way, I began to re-experience the wonder of being a walking spectacle, the extreme and never-before-seen minority, an Average Jean celebrity. Children ran around in circles, announcing to their kin the presence of the Mzungu in their midst. If I responded to their screams, waves, or salutations, huge smiles formed on their faces before they darted home to giggle behind their working mothers.

The taxis. You don't hail taxis...they hail you. One driver, one screamer, and a 14 passenger bus that almost always breaches the legal limit of riders. They get you from A to B, though you may be sitting on someone's lap. These services are offered at a wonderfully reasonable price. 20 minutes of bouncing around Kampala for 30 cents.

Kampala is the result of a tribal collision and explosion, a city smashed with basic homes and millions of people...breathing in a nicely concentrated formula of oxygen and diesel exhaust. Not many people own cars, so it's a bit of a mystery as to why the air is opaque. It's deceiving, but everyone is always on the move, which is why the population calls for the organized chaos of the taxi parks.

Taxis all crowd and congregate like hungry coy fish, drivers jumping for passengers and squeezing through openings not big enough for their cars. You could find a ride to anywhere and meanwhile purchase peanuts, beer, scrunchies, and hair extensions while waiting in your seat by an open window.

Of course, where there are people, there are people selling crap...the biggest taxi park bumping butts with the biggest mad house market. Massive bags of rice and spices, washing soaps and appliances, second hand clothes and dried sardine heaps, and about forty men with wedding proposals for my very eligible hand. I grasped my bag, half hidden under my shirt, and skillfully maneuvered away from the forceful arms trying to grab my attention. Weaving through the roughly covered maze of stalls, I just laughed at the exclamations people would shout at me: "Hey Mzungu!", "Marry me?", "Come come you buy something!", "Lips!". Paul loved the show as well.

It was all a pulsating whirlwind erupting around me. I had to step back and get a hold on where I was. We climbed a closed up shopping center to view the sudden wash of rain that swept the littered streets and nearby music festival in sight. The city was impressive, in a shocking way, as I couldn't believe such a tattered place existed. The essence of "shambles"...but it was mysteriously hypnotizing nonetheless.

From a cathedral on a nearby hill, the improved view gave me a sight more removed and peaceful, where I could finally see the urban rain forest at arm's length. It was a smoggy mess, a sore on the terrestrial crust, but viewing the palms and rolling lushness with raw sugar cane sweetness tossing in my mouth made me find a twang of admiration for the basic nature of Kampala's exhausted inhabitants.

I had a strong desire to stop time and paint the most complex picture of each tiny moment that were cultural time-bomb slaps in the face. This is Africa. TIA.

Meals of plantains by candlelight and chapatis by rooster crows hugged my stomach with simple fulfilling pleasures only possibly by my mental smiles, thankful I was seeing such a real experience. Authenticity, my friends; there's no substitute.

A Day at the Farm

My last day in Kampala was all about family. We strolled to Paul's aunt's home on a nearby hill where I got my first real chicken coop experience. Given it wasn't in the back of a truck after hitchhiking in the countryside, but it still satiated an odd desire to see feathers fly.

I fed little piggies palm leaves and stepped over coffee beans drying on the ground. Baby goats chased each other and dove under the full utters of the mother, only until Paul wrangled one for a quick pet of its soft cowlicked coat.

Just then, the niece of my host came running down the red dirt road from school and joined us for the jaunt back to his abode. We all ate a quick bite of potatoes and avocado before I had to skidaddle. I introduced the young eyes of Latisha to the world of photography and let her Annie Lebovitz it around the family compound. She was so quiet before, but after sharing a smashed airplane Mars bar and clicking the camera shutter, she was glittering.

As I left Masajja for Jinja town, a shower smoothed the rough appearance of Kampala and left the bright red dirt and clean green lushness vibrating in my enamored eyes. Uganda was already a glowing memory and in Kampala nonetheless.

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Join Me for a Beer, Won't You? Day 89

To my exit from this country, I have to say it's a sad moment I am welcoming and thanking for its capacity and assurance to shock my system. I love being knowledgeable enough to say "Excuse me, could I have a beer, please?" From here on out, there's no hope. I can't even use my limited Tamil. From here on out, I'm an ignorant traveler. I won't know a lick of the insults and bad mouthing aimed at my turned back, and I think I'll have to recreate the Italian streets wherever I go.

I never could decide on one universal thing to do/see/buy during SAS, a nice material or photographic common denominator. I think it all sounded too showy and untrue to me. What a chore to find something similar in each country, continent, ugh. HOWEVER, my long-term goal of opening a neighborhood watering hole (chocked full of character, of course) has given me a mission to feel no shame in spending incredible amounts of time in bars. One needn't worry about any sort of "addiction" forming or possible vulnerable situations presenting themselves...I'm here to subtly participate and observe. During the day, these establishments seem like dark holes where dirty deeds go down. At night, we flock and hop to all within 10 blocks like moths to the neon Red Bull signs. Things are a little different in each country, and it gets more specific as you chop it up into cities. Florence is for imbibing...at all hours of the day. Romans enjoy a cold beer with their afternoon read, though if I apply my own reasoning on them, they're just utilizing some free AC in this 100•F+ weather. Croatians need no excuse; they will enjoy a beer at a bar any old time they please. And I mean that. 6 AM. Beers at a cafe. Unreal. Prague was all about the casual drink with friends...only a little, one or two maybe. What an ambiance, though. Maybe we were spoiled by a one Miss Huny Buny. Munich...if you weren't clinking liters, you weren't a part of the crowd. It's always beer o'clock in Germany, but I think I realized why everything is so clean and new there...price per pint. The Ukraine...ai yai yai. As soon as the bartenders talk to you, you're aware of the countries priorities. Drinking, smoking, and not smiling...which urges on more drinking. I could deal with the anti-hospitality thanks to the non-existent beer prices, though. Europe may be the last of my authentic bar experiences as Africa may not offer such accessible alcohol [HA!]. However, the Dragoman adventure includes an almost daily visit to the camp site bar. This is all research, pleasurable research for my future business ventures. How many places can be considered both a hell hole and an oasis? And since I just decided I find great happiness and thrill in doing what I shouldn't, what better way to solidify my existence by creating a place where even the most conscientious person can make an uncharacteristic decision, hopefully not to the detriment of their integrity. Of course not.

And so goes my opinion on bars. That's all I have to say a out that.

Goodbye, Europe.

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The Anchor Doesn't Hold: Day 70

Two years ago, I met Evan Handler in this same piazza on the last night of my program. In that year of 2006, I held these locals so close to my appreciation of the city, with their bongos, drunken singing and lovable (by-night) resident homeless men. Yes, that year I watched the first World Cup matches with the Florentine public, sitting on the same dirty stones I am sitting on now. And today I was drawn here by familiarity and love; it's an unfortunate certainty that no one here will talk to me. I have no fear of making conversation with anyone besides the occasional drug dealer or Albanian posing as an Italian stallion. I see through all their games.

Much of this experience was aimed at stripping me bare of what comforts me: proximity to those I know, companions of any kind, plans, money, and expectations. The test was whether I could build something from nothing that was all my own doing, the active efforts and lucky chances accumulating into what makes a human being happy. How much of your life do you lean on nepotism, other people's earnings, easy but unfit relationships, and things you don't even like? And when you deprive yourself of everything you're used to, don't those overlooked facts of your life become surprisingly questioned. I've been confused and torn for life, unknowingly, and only aware of this fun, barely tolerable predicament for a few years now. I just saw the dog from a photograph I took in 2006. Time, you are one bag of tricks.

Via Blackberry, I know that afternoon is in full swing in the Western hemisphere, and my family is working and walking and selling cars. My dark blue sky showcases looming clouds the color of dry blood. Home, to me, seems tailored and young. Florence has deep wrinkles where plagues, prostitutes, wars, families, fanatics, and geniuses have and still leave their marks. The majority of the bulk in my little borrowed purse makes up the 750 pages of Michelangelo's biography, in which I read that his knowledgeable concept of the human form came from his illegal night dissections in the monastery dead room of Santo Spirito, the building that now lies to my left. He washed his body of the stale and caked bodily fluids and wretched innumerable times in this fountain to my right, where the previously mentioned dog is now bathing...and a Rasta is now washing his hands. Again...time...quit playing games with my mind, here!

I doubt I will ever feel more than a weathered stranger here, just as I do in my childhood town. I have abundant reserves of memories sprouting to the surface from each of the four optical images per second. But I'm still in the air, and I need blood, sweat, and tears to build a basement in this town.

Within a sniff and a face-off, two dogs unknown to each other can sense the extent of their compatibility. It would be helpful to meet a city in such fashion. One would know whether they were kidding themselves with fruitless efforts to make something in such a location or that all discomforts, mistakes, unwelcome sensations, dilemmas, and confused cries were making it possible to someday have the "cha-ching" of success. It's far more "journey-like" the way it is. Those who conquer such experiences are those who truly (and I can't help myself...) don't stop believin'.

My written monologues probably fail to have a unifying thought, start with a witty and interesting anecdote, relate to my true state of consciousness and so on, but I think, no matter what I write, I will feel so good holding onto this already tattered notebook, scribbled on and warped by my treasured reflections.

[Afterthought: After finishing this passage, I was approached by a kind local who found my journalling session charming. A half English, half Italian conversation ensued, followed by a reunion of an old friend in the panini business. It was a monumental step and a very pleasant evening.]

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A Staccato-ed Mind in Full Effect: Day 69

From all the years I spent in Wabash and all the encounters I had with a one Mrs. Diane Miller, there are three lessons she taught me that stuck. The first was the Basic Aid Training (or BAT) class she conducted to empower us to save the day if a minor cut or choking incident occurred. The second was the special math class she guest-taught in elementary school where she embedded in my mind the concept of recipricals by throwing her head between her legs, peering at the class upside-down and saying "reCIPricalsssss" in a delightful, high-pitched manner. The third was an observation by her wise mind of the wind, the leaves, and the chance of an approaching storm. When the wind blows the trees and allows you to see both sides of the leaf, exposing simultaneously the light and dark shades in a flutter, a storm's a-brewin'. It's odd what comes up after ten years of leaving, living, moving, observing. I lay on a dirty patio in the shade of the Tuscan sun, staring at two twin trees leaning to the blows of the warm wind, and I'm thinking...I guess we're not getting any rain.

I like this exercise. I think I'll roll with it.

All the wooden doors and overhangs here at Poggio al Pipi remind me of the historic shops in Lijang, China with their dark wood and jutting pillars, making me think a little dragon-like dog may scurry by.

The small, old rose, dried and alone on the patio reminds me of the elaborate collections kept in Laura Miller's closet: tissues covered in colored chalk from an art demonstration YEARS before, buttons ordered from the American Girl cash-draining catalogue, and bunches of dried roses from post-dance recital congratulatory wishes. Speaking of Laura, this woman with whom I've shared decades of friendship has been playing a reoccurring role in the ensemble of my dreams for the past two months. At such a turning point, it seems I am only an idle witness to my own transformation, since I have no idea what confusions about life my mind has. In its attempt to sort out the changes (Wabash, Indy, Travel), the paths (Italy, SAS, IU, Firenze Firenze Firenze), etc., my dreams combine all my past circles, traumas, friendships, dilemmas, worries, unfinished or unresolved disturbances and leave me utterly spellbound by morning. Renata now applauds me when I can rise before the early hour of 11, but my desires to stay in bed come from my unwavering need to finish the movies I start; I just have to see how this string of dreams unfolds.

May, I was attentive, appreciative, and waiting for the passion to take hold with each glimpse of Italy. June, I was passive, busy, in motion, entertained, and feeling a prolonged sense of impatience to return for the magic of Florence. July, I have been oversensitive, backlogged, exhausted, unaware, at times desperately sad, and self-restricted, unknowingly, from sensing and being a part of my own life dream. As I learned from Auschwitz, it's not even enough to plan your move and anticipate your emotions, but it's also mighty wise to mentally prepare and chew, via ink and paper, on the realities to come.

I am in the process of learning many massive lessons, and all must and will be realized by the end of this lifetime. Finality no longer comes with semester's end.

You wouldn't believe the view I have right now; sundrenched Tuscan hills producing the Frescobaldi wine on your dinner table. And how have I shown myself that this ambiance I long for is truly satiating the forces that seek it?

The trees around me supply the olive oil of our daily diets, pressed yearly by the Florentine family that adopted me.

In what state do I appreciate life the most? When I have time to commit to wandering, wondering and forgetting about other duties? Or maybe when I am pressed for time to fulfill my other necessities and find a short, sweet release in the comforts of longing. Maybe when it is my mission to concentrate on finding the beauty around and translating such force into visual terms, aka art. Through my diet and amount of physical exertion? The absence of maturation to the staling of my imagination? WHEN I'M ON VITAMINS?? I have dug far too deep into my own head to see at the moment.

A walk down the gravel road nearby, a 180• panorama of mountains, and the world has never been this calm. I don't know if I'm beginning to cry because this is what I want, longed for for years, or because I see how the world is supposed to be, knowing the planet's majority will never feel the peace of this moment. It's a green ocean frozen in time, bearing the fundamental diet for thousands of years of civilization.

I'm not sure if I'm a fan of time or not. Like death and taxes, it is a fact that's inevitably certain. They failed to write that in the script for Meet Joe Black.

Florentines are here because they love their city. Florence is here because it was born by man and his love for what I am seeing. And Florence gained a soul from the earth that pulses below it.

The view out my bedroom window needs to make me cry in my final abode and resting place. Cry for the weight such a vista holds willingly of my memories, relationships, and the unspoken, unspeakable forces inside that make the whole experience forever challenging.

When you lead your life by feelings, often your mind, body and spirit don't hold hands. One may skip forward a further distance from the beauty which it uses to water its growth. I could be in the process of reuniting these three parts. If so, it sounds as though I'm becoming a yogi.

We take from the most beautiful things in life in hopes our human spirits are happy at the end of the day. We've also made the ugliest realities come true because we don't trust another human to treasure the happiness we've cultivated and convinced ourselves we need.

The south wind in the Tuscan hillside smells of the dry love of crimson potpourri. Earlier, while reading my recent page-turner, Michelangelo revisited his home of Florence, after some years of internal and foreign warfare, and felt at home just by the scent of the breeze. His acute senses detected the millions of flowers that breeze had kissed, and maybe I am smelling the left-overs of such ever-blossoming sentiment.

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