The Kindness of Strangers

Started 06/07/09, Finished 10/08/09

By the time I found my seat on the plane I was already worn out and blinking from bewilderment. Not that the 8 hours endured of the 28 in store had been particularly fraught or challenging, but a crumb of my state of mind gets left on evey plane I travel on, and as this is number 3 for the day, my thoughts are... very slow and... mostly in small words, spoken softly, as if preserving air.

Sure enough, I slept through takeoff, sitting up beside a man who I do not look at, merely smell. He has a strong smell. Not bad, just... strong. And as my eyes drift closed I imagine that the seat next to me is empty, his entire being contained in that one sense.

When I wake up a flight attendent is reaching over me, his arm almost brushing my nose, passing my neighbour (who apparently does exist) a mineral water. Someone has covered me with a blanket, and I know it was he, as his blanket is nowhere to be seen. I am tired, and cannot get comfortable, and I curl up further beneath the gray-green cloth, hoping sleep will return to me. Sadly, the pilot's voice --far too chipper for 1 AM-- keeps cutting in, detailing the weather "In Farenheit and for the rest of the world..." for a city where I will not be leaving the airport. In 24 hours I have not been outside!

In the airport I kept going to the bathroom, all of them, slapping water on my face as if that dash of an element will wash away that dirty airport haze; I have never understood people who manage to look good at the airport, when merely breathing the bottled air makes me feel like a drone.

Why didn't I thank that man? Perhaps because i am groggy and out of sorts, or more likely because of the desert camaflouge suit and "Mission Iraqui Freedom" badge so prominent on the arm sitting on the painful plastic plank between us. I don't want to speak to him because I am afraid what i will say. Where to begin? For example, one Christmas when I was in elementary school we were instructed to write cards to "the forces overseas". I thoughts about this for a while, and finally wrote "I hate war, but that's not your fault. Hope next Christmas you are home!" I've always wondered if this card was censored somewhere along the line?

Still, as the plane lurches and soldier man wakes from a dream in which I watch his hand move as if he were writing a letter, I pull out a wet wipe, breathing in that long-folded, preciously fresh scent, holding it to my nose and wishing it's clean could penetrate my bones, I finally feel guilty. It is not in my nature to write people off, even, and soldier man's skin looks as dry and itchy as my own.

Me: Do you want a wet wipe?
He: Oh yes, please!

With the wet-wipe as a jumping off point, we begin to talk. He has been in transit for 3 full days --get that!-- beginning in Bagdad and ending in Lima, where he is being picked up by a rather tenuous inlaw and driving 6 hours to see his wife, who is Peruvian. He has my attention now, as this is without a doubt the worst journey I have ever heard of, and I have encourted --dare I say, even partaken in-- some pretty greuling jaunts. Not to mention, how an American military man ends up with family in rural Peru. But I am most grateful for the mention of Bagdad, sparing me either faux ambivilance or an inavoidably awkard "So... how's Iraq???"

We barely had time to touch on all these subjects, plus his own queary as to what I was doing, and why, and what exactly overland travel and writing had to do with children's hospitals and graduate school, when the plane began to descend. How I wish I'd spoken up sooner, granting me a few more moments of precious limbo, talking with a man who for 2 years has been working on power plants in the desert in Iraq and whose eyes shimmer when dreaming of his allotted 2 1/2 days in the home of his wife's family.

"2 1/2?" I cannot hide my amazement, "You came all this way for 2 1/2 days?" I do not say, "Is it worth it?", but I guess i do not need to. "Yes," he says, very slowly chewing the inside of his lip. "Yes. That's all I've got." And the plane lands. And we continue walking together through immigrations, and I wave as he stumbles off towards arrivals wher ehopefully someone wait for him, and I go on to catch another plane, where I have a row to myself.

That's all I've got. These few moments, fleeting encounters and (literally) transitory friendships, as much everything as nothing, and I am grateful for my aisle seat beside a man who gave me his blanket and changed my perspective. There is no great shame in ignorance, provided you strive always to enlighten it; and for the record, I am speaking purely of my own. Then why was I so touched by his parting, "I wish you could talk to some of my friends, they don't have the sense to pick up and go! But you... you'd get 'em traveling!"

Well, kind jet-lagged almost homeless man, go well, and I hope it was worth it!

N.

Finally

I am feeling better today. I just wanted the universe to know.

Thank you, dear universe!

N.

Iguassu Day 2

Today has been one of the most memorable days on record. And I am too worn out to record. Suffice it to say that Iguassu Falls is incredible, from both Brazil and Argentina. Who would have thought water could look so different from so many angles? But then, it is a lot of water!

My day today went something like this: got up at 7, broke a plate, crossed Brazilian/Argentian border, walked round Iguassau Falls, got bitten by a leaf cutter ant, saw a rainbow, took 150 pictures, lost half her group because of a broken boat, waited, got mobbed by scary racoon-like mammals, bought stamps, had a massive asthma attack, lost her WHOLE group, had another asthma attack. took the wrong train, crossed Argentian/Brazilian border, bought Coke Light, booked hostel.

Hi ho the glamourous life!

Oh, and the rainbow lighting cue... I mean, that effect is stunning, how are they doing that... oh wait, it´s a real rainbow. Over Iguassu Falls.

One of the most beautiful sights of my life. And believe me, the competition is steep! Blessed I am. And exhausted. With 24 hours of straight road travel, beginning tomorrow afternoon.

All for now.

N.

A Riddle *UPDATED*

...What do you call a beach town without a beach? Bonito, apparently!

I am in Brazil now, in a town named pretty (in Portugese of course), which is a bit of an exaggeration; nothing against the place, but with a title like that you´re setting the sights pretty high!

Every 45 seconds or so I am checking the time to see if it is 5:30 yet (nope!), as another night bus is awaiting me and I would much rather get started, so that it would be over quicker. But time does not work this way. Actually, I am simplifying it somewhat to say "a night bus" when in fact it is 3 buses, one at 5:30, one at 11 and another at 7. We should arrive at our next stop about 9 AM tomorrow. I don´t mind. Movement is movement. Though I am in the minority who would prefer such journeys take place during the daytime, to improve the view (night, it seems, looks the same on every continent).

What can I say about Brazil, in brief? Perhaps nothing. You shall have to wait for the long(er) version, as there is much to say. It is much warmer than where I wrote from last. And that´s not even getting into the way things are "heating up" with this group! The human drama never ends, but at least it is mostly the good kind. I guess the change of temperature is doing us all good.

Expect actual stories to follow! Hope the day treats you well.

N.

Update! I am bored so checking in again. In the two and a half days I have been in Bonito I have been to this net cafe 7 times. The owner is very pleased to see me, but does not give me a discount, as has happened in some of my cyber/travel hideouts.

Actually, I first thought of updating this because I have had songs by Queen in my head all day, mostly alternating between Killer Queen and Bohemian Raphsody. Can anyone tell me WHY Queen? Here? What am I doing here?

The haze of today is punctuated --inside as well as out-- by a peculiar bursting wind, strong enough to knock over racks of t-shirts and inflatable rafts (again: beach town without a beach!) lining the "strip". A very old white VW bug has been driving in circles (figure eights? spiderwebs?) around the town all day; I relate to it on some psychic level.

My favourite thing about Brazil thusfar is the pay phones. Rather than booths or the standard South American land lines on every billable surface Brazil transforms the unit into a giant animal. Thusfar I have seen stands shaped like leapords, fish, parrots and alligators. I do not know how to explain this bertter. Just imagine going to make a phone call and having to step between a pouncing leapords paws to reach the receiver. These phones remind me very much of my mother. I have been photographing as my variations as I can find.

What else can I say about this gusty lazy day? Most of the group is hungover, after a rather lopsided party in which the Brighton girls did all in their power to turn the hotel´s breakfast room into a nightclub. This involved a lot of Michael Jackson, picture taking, appeasing the desk clerk for whom I felt very sorry, and a valiant fight to mix up Brazil´s national cocktail which ended up all over the floor. This may have something to do with today´s general lethargy: a lot of lying by the pool, and not much else. I sit in a very uncomfortable hammock (I have fallen in love with hammocks) for as long as patience will allow, then go back to wandering up and down the street, where every person I pass seems just as drowsy as the ones I´ve just left.

I find an incredible jewelery shop. I retrace my steps 3 times. I lead several of the other girls to the incredible jewlery shop and now they have incredible jewelery and no money, for which I am blamed. I buy the magnificent necklace, but not the magnificent ring. Isn´t it odd that even here, in Brazil, living out of a backpack with 4 tshirts, that one of my greatest joys in life is these shiney distinctive trifles?

I am ready for the nightbus(es).

N.

Sunday in Sucre With Nel

...OR A Response to My Own Griping

As taken from my journal, July 12th, 2009.

I am out today before the town is stirring, in part because I have no alarm clock and had not the sense to go back to sleep in the cool thin bed, in the frigid room I am sharing with the assistant tour guide who is so furious with her "trainer" she has hopped a bus with 8 of our group and skipped a stop on our itinerary.

I walk most of the morning. Where have I gone? What have I seen? I definitely climbed a hill. And I definitely slid down again. There was the market, full of vegetables so bright they cut through the dim-lit hall like Christmas lights, fruit juice stands, Play Boy track suits and sheep´s intestine. There are a lot of stone streets, many of which smell of rotting garbage or worse. There are families, and taxis, and an improbable number of farmacies and chocolate shops. A street of hospitals, and coffin shops. A funeral. Polluted white stone and signs I cannot read.

I am still in shock at finding myself in a city so pleasing to the eye, though eerily reminiscent of Cuzco (Peru), a place I'd prefer to never seen again. It is all the quasi-European buildings, I think, and the excess of dread-locked been-there-done-that backpackers. And of course those massive, vendor-laden central squares I equate with the Americas. These gems of order and imposed security (at least, that's the idea) are guarded as much by omnipotent municipal building and stoic cathedrals as the bored soldiers with their pointy guns. In the plaza (all of them) the game is indifference: you walk, you watch without seeming to, and feel yourself watched by those you cannot see; perhaps by locals hawking wares or enjoying the sun, or by tourists taking pictures and paying too much for drinks at rooftop bars.

Tired of all this aimless wandering, I settle onto a bench in Sucre's main square (imagine, you can actually sit on such benches! I've always thought them purely decorative). I sit and I watch and am watched. And I think. I cannot decide which sensation is stronger: frustration with my group, or frustration with myself for letting the group frustrate me. I think the second one. What right have I to complain? I am in Bolivia. Again. Even on the worst of days, no way am I anything but lucky.

So in response to my previous griping, I should know by now it is such trivial trials that make the journey my own. This first occurred to me last year (Warning: WE'RE GOING BACK IN TIME HERE!), while riding a camel to our camp in the Sahara. Pretty no? The very stuff of travel ads and glossy brochures. I've been dreaming of visiting the desert my entire life (from birth I mean, not simply my traveling life) and my enthusiasm was unquenchable (speaking of quenching, the keening voice of last year's guide just popped into my head, "Seriously Nel, drink some water! Diet Coke doesn't cut it in the Sahara!").

So there we were, the chain of us arranged by who could stand each other with least difficulty, red sun beginning to set and clouds of sand traipsing 'neath the feet of our swaggering steeds. Again, this is vacation promo waiting to happen, and oh was I happy... and then out loudest and most obnoxious of the girl's (by which I mean her mental age, in body years she was nearly 40) began to sing. Not a song, even, but rather the three-note theme song she and her set had made up to celebrate their special "ethnic garb", makeup and --get this!-- superpowers made up to distance them from the rest of us, and to pass the time on endless bus rides (*Insert Strangled Scream Here*). Though I'm loathe to even re post this, the words to their jingle, repeated ad nausem, were, "We're the Turbinators!"

I found this refrain downright painful and sure enough, the woman in question (who was a teacher, of all things) continued her off-key melody the entire way to the camp where we were staying. By the time we arrived I was on the verge of tears --or homicide-- but that night as I lay awake, staring up at the stars, smiling at the whistling breeze and checking my mat for scorpions, this is what struck me: this is my trip. My experience. And without she-who-shall-not-be-named's refrain it would not be mine... better? Worse? Not mine.

Odd as it sounds, it was my annoyance and my politically/morally/racially incorrect companions who separated this story from some generic blurb into the life and times of miss-adventure. And so I must own it. And the next day, when she went back to singing (by which time even her friends seemed bored) I smiled like Mona Lisa, and thanked the cosmos for bringing me, finally, to this wonderful place.

I hear this phrase all the time from friends, when talking of my travelogues: you "live vicariously" through these stories, substituting paragraphs for places, tiny words for endless distances. If this is indeed the case than readers too must learn to take the rough with the smooth, the everyday good with the everyday bad. And comfort yourself with the fact that if you don't like it, all you need do is click that X or press delete and the experience is gone. Here and now, in the jeep, on the road, huddled round an explosive heater in 3 pairs of flannels, trying to wash the grit out of my shoes with pink toilet paper --the same shoes which the next day a 6 year old in the plaza will ask to polish-- listening to music considered trite in any language, at once lost in and loving this furious, lonely, listlessness...

This is where I am. The place is basically irrelevant. For it will never be as I describe it; I cannot tell you Bolivia, or China, or even Canada. All I have to offer is one pen, one pair of eyes and the thousand heartfelt details that give lift to the whole world.

Details like the amplified voice chanting from the far side of the plaza, where the sun is beginning to warm the bench where I am sitting, "Alo? Uno, does, tres.." as it has been the whole time I've been lingering in this spot. And of course the couple across from me, tangled awkwardly round each other's necks, ardent lover lost in his lady's bosom while she shrugs, looks over at me, and rolls her eyes.

Who is the 13 year old with the 6 balloons, sitting on the edge of the flower bed? And the well-groomed, heavily oiled boy of around the same age sitting on a bench by the fountain trying to look as if he's not waiting for a girl. Perhaps they are waiting for each other? Where are all these dogs coming from? Who is lighting off fireworks, at the height of the afternoon, and for what purpose? There are children climbing on the lion statues which look ripped straight from the House of Lords, while a band begins to play and no one is listening.

I get up and walk some more. I pass an impromptu (or that's how it looks) carnival where the rides/equipment looks so akin to torture it gives me the shivers. Remember how somewhere around adolescence the jungle gyms and playground slides we used as children were torn out and replaced by static plastic "kid safe" versions? Well the rides here... they were probably out of date when my grandparents were small. Yet the kids merely laugh and hit each other with balloon swords and eat ice cream in tiny cones. I shudder in particular at the creaking ferris wheel consisting of dog cages painted to look cheerful. And the merry-go-round which is nothing but ancient Fisher Price cars (I had one of these, I'm quite sure!) on a rusty track.

What is this all for? Does this happen every Sunday? I cross a bridge over an empty pond and am face to face with a climb-on model of the Eiffel Tower. Now that looks like fun!

An ageless woman with two long braids, an embroidered shawl, bowler hat and two children cloistered in her skirt leans against a brick wall, by the quickee pizza parlour, across from El Hostal Colonial. Her eyes see through me, stranger, and I hurry on my Sunday way.

Essential Paradox

I must begin with an apology for this necessary paradox: complaining about complainers. These is nothing that makes group travel quite so tiresome as people who simply refused to be satisified. Honestly, if what you want is home, stay home*!

Alright, I think that's out of my system now. If you haven't yet guessed, I am traveling with a (not without exception, but pretty darn close) very very whiney spoiled group of people, and one can only sit silent and cheerful for so many days before that throttling energy goes somewhere... and this seems the best place!

With that wee burst of annoyance out of the way, finally, I may actually be ready for some proper story-telling. And there is much to tell!

We shall see what the day (and internet connection) shall bring!

N.

* Just for the record, when I have repeated this phrase in my head, as I have done an infinite number of times over the past few days, it also contained a rather strong explative, which I have omitted for general enjoyment.

Precious Words

I have precious little time now, and time is precious (perhaps that is where this expression comes from?) but I felt the need to post today, to send out a few little words into the cyber void, for the sheer joy of saying something to somebody. I am very lonely today. An odd thing to say, I guess, while traveling with 17 people. Not that the observation that being alone and being lonely are very different things is a new one, but it does seem pressing at the current moment. I hold no grudges against the people I am with, I get along with almost all of them, like a number of them, and even a little more with one or two... but as I sat on the bus (from Uyuni to Potosi) today, rounding mountain corners which make one very aware of their own mortality, driving straight through half-frozen rivers, it struck me this feeling stems not so much from being with others or on your own. What's hard --the sting of it-- is being away from people who know you, and to whom you matter. I have never been good at keeping things or people present when they are not, and all I can do here is flip through my Friends/Family photo album, page by page, and think ¨These are my people. And they are still out there.¨ I guess when one is not lonely this does not seem as important. But I am lonely. Thankfully, tomorrow is laundry day, and few things cheer up a traveler like clean clothes...

Must run. Bus to Sucre in 20 minutes!

¨Good night, dear void!¨

N.