Travelogue 33 Chile: Hanging Hippie in Panamavida

I’ve been counting my days of late by the number of cold showers I’ve left to endure. Only two remaining! Since last I wrote, I’ve gone from a life of luxury at a Chilean country home to a meager existence in an abandoned agricultural trade school. The place is like a haunted house—broken windows, cracked plaster, sagging roof, creaking wood floors and it’s all grown up with weeds and shit, too. You’d never know it’s here unless you were looking for it. Two nights ago they did a “cleansing” of the whole place with sage smoke and reiki symbols trying to spook the lingering spirits away that were keeping people awake at night. No lie.

Buenmundo

Round back

Fire in the courtyard

I’m on day eight of hanging with hippies in a commune. They are trying to refurbish this place into a wellness, healing, New Age community. So far I haven’t seen any pot or free-love in the fields, but upon getting the gist of my preferences, one Jesus-looking guy identified himself as polyamorous (kind of like polygamous minus marriage).  While he didn’t come right out and invite me to the party, I got what he was hinting at. I passed on the offer, first of all, because I’m not interested in what he brings to the encounter and, thus would ignore him totally, which would hurt his feelings, and that won’t do, because we are all about love here. That fact, however, is of secondary importance. The main reason is I declined was the guy has got funkacious B.O..  I’m talking some serious, hefty, hippie stench. It’s so bad I had to come up with an excuse at lunch to move to the other side of the table. The only cure I see is tie him to the spit and give him a three hour rotisserie sage smoking and then soak him in a barrel of patchouli.
My mother would have a T-Total fit if she knew I was here. Besides the woo-wooness of it all, the conditions of the eating area alone would be enough to make her come for me. I’m all about water conservation, but after washing twenty-five dishes in a small washtub with soap made from lemon rinds and oats, it’s time to let that H2o go. But no, they will wash another twenty-five until the plates are dirtier when they come out than when they went in. It reminds me of white paper plate kindergarden art: flecks of lettuce for the grass, oregano sprinkles for rain, wavy lines of orange tomato sauce grease for the horizon and stubborn crusty dried cheese for a 3-D mountain range effect.

Pop would be happy that I have returned to the simple country life of growing your own food and letting heaps of  useful junk pile up until it blocks the view of the house. Unlike Mom, he could care less about the cleanliness issues. He would not be happy, however, about men with hair past their shoulders, pagan rituals, saying “Ah-ho” instead of “amen” , replacing prayer with mediation and the fact that there ain’t no meat on the table. As a matter of fact, meat is strictly prohibited on the premises. Pop would pull up the totem pole in the patio, too, and replace it with a Cross bearing the crucified Jesus.
Change of subjects:
There is only one member of the animal kingdom endemic of Chile that can kill you and I’ve been showering with it. The other night I was in the commons area working on my laptop when Lampu, who looks someone with the name Lampu would look, (use your imagination) all of a sudden jumps up and starts dancing a jig. I was both startled and baffled, and thought, “Like, Dude, yeah, we could use some rain, but keep your drawers on.”
“It’s a Rincon!!!,” he yells and that gets everybody else up out of their seats and dancing around. I remain sprawled out on the couch in a stupor  until one of the youngsters amongst us raises up a notebook and is about to crash it down on something with eight legs running across the floor. Well, that got Mr. Smelly Polylove Pants all riled up, because he is an animal rights activist. I think he shows his support by smelling like one. Instead of fasting like Ghandi,  he gives up bathing. Anyway, he tells everybody to back off; he will take care of it. “Is he going to expose his armpits and fumigate?” I wondered. No. Barefoot except for his sandals, he starts dribbling the deadly arachnid like a soccer ball toward the door. He paused before herding it out the exit to give us all a lesson on how to distinguish a Rincon (which means “corner” in Spanish)  from nice spiders.
Well, wouldn’t you know, the next day I’m enduring my nightly cold shower when a clearly marked Rincon drops out from between the shower curtain and liner and lands inches from my foot. Upon hitting the water IT  balled up into the same posture I sustain for most of my shower, a fetal position. I turned off the water and about tore down the curtain getting out of the 2 ft x 2ft square tray that constitutes the shower basin.  As soon as the water went down the drain, Corner uncurled itself and lifted each leg, one at a time, as if warming up for a sprint.
“Don’t panic!!!” I tell myself, “Remember what they said. If you apply ice (note: the commune doesn’t even have a fridge) and get to a hospital quickly, you won’t die; they will just cut huge hunks of flesh out of your body where you were bitten.”
Most would assume I grabbed the nearest shoe and squashed the bloody hell out of IT. Not so. I take Smelly’s side on this one. I can’t kill spiders. It’s not in me, no matter how notoriously dangerous they are. I wrote the following poem several years ago and never did anything with it. I’ll share it here, so you will know where I am coming from .
Moving Spiders
Shrink yourself down,
grow 8 legs,
spin a million miles of silk,
hang fearlessly by a thread,
wait 5 days hungry to eat
then mummy your food in 10,000 twirls.
Rebuild your home after broom or storm,
powder yourself with morning dew,
risk a trip across the room,
brood a nest and feel them go,
though no one thinks you a mother.
Weigh in under an ounce and
scare the screaming shit out of billions.
Do all this, and then,
ask me again your question
as to why I moved that spider.

So, I found a piece of newspaper rolled it up into a funnel and spooked Corner into the darkness. Then I threw out the whole thing out the window, as if it were a hornet’s nest on fire and slammed the window shut.

The end. Anticlimactic, I know. The story would be a lot more fun to write and read had I been bitten and the hippies tried to heal me with the weeds and seeds they keep in jars in the kitchen and I had some kind of loopy reaction and stared imagining things and then they had to pedal me on their 1980s recycled bike to the nearest hospital 20 miles a way on a gravel road with no lights and then I almost died except for Nurse Wratched and Dr. Hyde saving me by making a nice spider that carries the antivenom bite me. Sorry, that’s not what happened. The truth is I just went to bed and woke up every hour running my hands all over my body to get off whatever it was that I was sure was crawling on me.

The reason I have stayed so long despite the conditions is I got wrapped up in a radical bioconstruction/sustainibilty/recycling project. We (a super-cool carpenter, a groovy young Spanaird and I) are converting an abandoned pig pen into living quarters for the volunteers who come to work here.  No lie. Thank goodness I arrived after they had already removed most evidence of pig habitation and I’m leaving before they open for business.

 

Lunch time at the Piggly Wiggly Diner with Gabriel and Miguel

 



The experience brought back so many memories of my growing up on a farm and especially of building things with Pop. From the time I was big enough lift a board I helped him put up fences, build corncribs, barns and cow shuts and stuff like that.
In order for us to get out to the pig pens we had to hike twenty minutes through field and forest and that triggered lots of memories of dove hunting, picking blackberries and wading creeks with him.

park the car

 



 

I’m thinking that the reason I was called here to Chile was to take care of some undone mourning. The skills I offered the project and the closeness with nature I enjoyed I all owe to Pop. It was like being a kid at his side again.  Lots of tears fell on dried pig poop as I nailed and sawed my little heart out.
Next I’m off to Eco Yoga Park, which is somewhere south between here and the coast. I know little about it except it has HOT water, the serve vegetarian food, it has HOT water, one class of yoga a day is included in the price, it has HOT water and the pictures of it on the internet look pretty. It came up when I Googled, “spirituality retreats Chile.” Kind of like playing Spin the Bottle with your vacation, isn’t  it?
On the 13^th I’m off to Miami for my first solo tour to Cuba!! I’ve been emailing with my participants and it turns out 16 out of 18 belong to a Slovak dance group in Palo Alto, CA. They decided to take a vacation together. Almost all are retired doctors, political science professors, engineers and such. In other words, a little wobbly in the legs, but still sharp up top. I’m soooooo excited!
This addition has been composed under my least favorite travel conditions: in the back, beside the john, under the t.v. monitor of the low class, “solidarity”  bus. I call it the solidarity bus, because everybody is in it together from one end to the other. The main inconvenience is that the seats are so close together and recline so far back that you could give the person in front of you a dental cleaning…should they ask. If someone in the first row decides to kickback, it starts a domino effect. If you keep your seat in an upright position, your nose will be touching the head rest in front of you. If they put a movie on, which they always do on trips over two hours, since there are no headsets, everyone  “enjoys” the movie whether they want to or not. Anyway, it is what it is and my seatmate is a young, thin , bathed teenager who stays on his side of the crack, so there is that to be grateful for.
I loved hearing from those who got a kick out of the Cuban massage story.
As always many thanks for reading and much love just for being who you are in my life,
G
                   

Travelogue 32: Chile & My Cuban Massage

[Warning: Do not get a massage in Cuba]
Dearest friends and family,                                                          Santiago, Chile
I greet you from my second favorite perch on a bus, seat #4 of a double decker-- top floor, right window. My first favorite seat is at the elbow of the driver, but that only happens on short trips in less developed countries where every inch of butt space is a dollar sign. We haven’t left the station yet and down below I watch a mad house of people waiting for a bus, waiting for someone to get off a bus or waiting for someone to drop a coin in their tin cup. It’s summer vacation for all of southern South America, which makes for swarms of people trying to get from one place to another.
[Warning: Do not get a massage in Cuba]
I’m off to a smaller town, Linares, to stay  in the home of a woman I hardly know. She was my roommate at the spirituality retreat I talked about last logue. I function totally on intuition with these sorts of invitations While I’ve had some challenging companions, my good judgment has never put me in a dangerous predicament. The past three days I have stayed in a total bachelor’s pad  in Santiago complete with scum in the tub, an inch of dust covering the dining room table and so many dishes on the couch you can’t sit down. Sweetheart of a guy, though, so I’m not complaining, just describing.
[Warning: Do not get a massage in Cuba]
As for the trip to Cuba:
Sign up!! Sign up!! Sign up!! Not for my job security, but so you don’t miss out on a life changing experience. As you know, I’ve traveled all over the Spanish speaking world and Cuba is ranking amongst the top three countries on my list. To sum up why: relationships are more important than stuff. The average Cuban has so little when it comes to material possessions, but they seem to act from a baseline of joy. They are passionate about living and so warm and welcoming to visitors. Too, they are loyal to the gifts they were born with and to creative expression. We (Americans) tend to view the Cuban government in a negative light, but one thing it does that our government and education system fails to do is support the arts. Dancing, painting, singing, acting, ect are all recognized profession with a salary just like a doctor or dentist or lawyer.  It’s not a high paying salary, but neither are the others I mention. I met two doctors who run a restaurant on the side to support their families. The materials artists need, like paint, guitar strings, etc ,however, are hard to come by. Those are amongst the items we take on our trips to donate.


Our two weeks of training were intense and exhausting, but by the second day into it I knew I had found my dream job. Three years ago I took a leap of faith and quit teaching without having another source of income awaiting me. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do other than something that allowed me to use my innate gifts and acquired skills while at the same time help people. Tour operating in Cuba offers all of that—speaking Spanish, translating, organizing, facilitating, entertaining, leading, sniffing out adventure, being kind to people, and much more. In a nutshell, I am a fun provider, in both ways you could take that (a person who makes sure others have fun and/or a person who is fun while providing an experience).Never, ever have I been so excited about a job. Too, I am actually not an employee of any company, but rather a private contractor, which means I work when I want to.
There are a zillion magic moments I could share with you from my trip, but I’m going to limit it to two. Number one: We went to a coconut farm where a 91-year-old man still scales 30 ft high palm trees in under 20 seconds to harvest coconuts.



I asked him what his secret to longevity is and he answered to live in harmony with Nature, keep peaceful relations with your family and do what you love. Damn. What percentage of the population lives like that? It made me think of Pop, who as you know passed this summer at age 90. He wasn’t scaling any trees, but he did live out those three principles.
Second, we went into a community that went from being a wealthy section of town to a junked up slum in disrepair. A few years ago one man took it upon himself to turn the place around. He rallied the neighbors, gathered funds, bought an abandoned water tank from the government and turned it into an artists’ community. Now they take kids at risk off the streets and give them a place to paint, sing, dance and graffiti buildings and walls with positive messages of peace, love, hope and inspiration. Here’s the kicker: the center is made out of 100% recycled junk they collected off the streets. When they cleaned up the neighborhood they used the “trash” as building materials.

That within itself is enough to inspire the hell out of you, but what sent me over the edge was a concert a group of youngsters preformed for us on the roof of the water tank. They opened the show with such an exact cover of the 80’s song “Your Kiss Is On My List” that if you closed your eyes and just listened you would swear Hall and Oats had reincarnated on the stage. And you know how they learned that song and all the other American 80’s top 40 hits they played? Listening to a contraband frequency on a rigged up radio they made. Those songs are how they learned English! Wait…it gets even better! The lead guitar player and singer was born with only half of his right arm. Despite that, he taught himself to play the guitar using a prostisis his mom made for him out of a broken leather sandal and scrap metal! The kid had a constant smile on his face that spread through the crowd like a cold germ through a kindergarten class. Think about all the things that were against him: missing half an arm, had to learn to play left-handed, impoverished upbringing ….and he let none of that stop him from developing his talent. I left there thinking I have got absolutely NO EXUSE for not becoming whatever I want to be.
Well, this travelogue is approaching 2,000 words, so I’m going to leave you with this edition’s amusing anecdote:
Why You Should Not Get a Massage in Cuba
My nomad lifestyle is killing my back. Two overloaded backpacks and several nine-hour flights have wadded my shoulder and neck muscles into knots big as a baseball. I haven’t mentioned yet that I have gone from living in a tent to sleeping in 5 Star accommodations (the participants on my trips are mostly wealthy retired professionals).  The hotels we stay in all have a spa, so one night I got desperate for pain relief and made an appointment for a massage. The receptionist sent me up to one of the rooms on the third floor, which I thought strange since they have a sauna area, but it was late, so I figured they had to move the location. When I get there, the door was locked and no one answered my knock. Finally a harried woman scrawnier than me shows up wearing a WW II nurse’s dress and apologizes profusely for being late. She is carrying a plate of food in one hand and a key in the other. When the door swings open I see a t.v., a single bed, a hospital gurney and cabinets full of medicine.
“Is this the massage room?,” I asked.
“No, it’s the hotel clinic, but it doesn’t matter. We can do it here.”
Well, it mattered to me because I wanted ambiance, but I didn’t say anything. She walks in, turns on the t.v. and tells me to get undressed and lay face down on the gurney. I follow her instructions and try my best to get comfortable on a mattress  about as thick as a Depends. In the meantime, she dials her boyfriend and goes off to have a few bits of her dinner. I work on positioning the hand towel she has left in lieu of a sheet so it covers the essentials to prove my momma raised me with at least the minimal amount of modesty a girl should have.
For the next twenty minutes I endured what I would call a “spit bath” massage.  It’s not that she actually spat on me, but her “strokes” reminded me of how my mother used to wet a Kleenex with her saliva and then dab-rub dried chocolate ice cream off my face. I didn’t like it when Mom didn’t it and I liked it even less coming from Nurse Wratched. When I told her the poking technique wasn’t helping, she balled her hand up into a fist and began frothing her knuckles across my back until she exfoliated my skin down to the capillaries. Then she started grabbing hunks of muscle as if they were the edges of a dough ball she was kneading into a loaf of bread. Every time she yanked up the hospital gurney creaked like a set of stairs in a haunted house. Great, I thought, this thing is going to collapse and give me whiplash on top of what already hurts me. Of course, her pinch-hitter techniques were doing nothing to loosen up the knots, so then she busts out some sort of gel that smelled like gasoline and started working that into the areas she had just rubbed raw. That pushed me over the edge. I told her not having a hole in the bed for my face was crooking up my neck worse (which was true) and we’d better stop.
For the next several days the pain worsened, so when we got to Habana and checked into the nicest hotel  yet, I thought I’d give a massage another try. Bad decision. It’s clear to me now that there are no massage therapy schools in Cuba. My therapist this time, Wonder Wanda, at least dressed like a masseuse, kinda. And the room she took me to had a kinda massage table, minus a face cradle. All of these signs were misleading, though. She was brutal. She started by clasping one of her hands over the other and performing Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation  on my spine from my neck to my coccxis. Then she walked around the table yanking all of my extremities to their extreme and trying to flap a wave down them as if they were a wet noodle. Arms and legs done, she went for my head. She lifted it up off the table and tossed it between her hands like a hot potato. In response to my obvious resistance she says, “Relax, Baby.”
Yeah, Right.
Halfway through she asks me to sit up straight, schooch to the back of the table and put my hands on top of my head as if I’m being arrested. Then she comes up behind me, weaves her arms up through the triangles mine have made and laces her fingers around the back of my neck. I am buck naked, mind you, so when she pulls my bare back up against her robust belly and breasts, I get distracted from my treatment.  The free shot we were both getting of my intimates in the mirror in front of us had my attention as well. The purpose of this posture I realized was to rip my hamstrings in half. That’s what it felt like when she doubled me forward at the waist like a plastic straw and let all of her volumpsousness rest on my back.
“This hurts,” I said.
“If it don’t hurt, Honey, it ain’t helping” she responds. “Take a deep breath.”
Without warning she jerks my whole body up off the table while we are still in this cuff-n-stuff, Sumo wrestler position. I swear I felt like a plucked turkey under arrest and hung by its wings to dangle vertically over the Thanksgiving table. I needed someone to say grace.
------
I am now at my new friend’s house and it is an absolute paradise—pool, luscious gardens, bird calls all around, sweet pair of German Sheppards, incredible house (she is an architect and designed it) and a feeling of welcome that bursts my heart with love. My openness to flow with the whims of the Universe does it again! I’ve 18 more days of these lovely surprises.
Upcoming: Feb 13 I leave Chile for Miami to take my first group to Cuba. I’m going to brag a moment and say of the 13 trainees on our trip I am the only one who isn’t doing a ride-along before going solo. That’s what happens when you do what you love!
Speaking of love…much from me to you,
G

Travelogue 31 Brazil: Brazil?

“Brazil? What are you doing in Brazil? Last I heard you were going to Cuba.”
I was. I am. It’s just that Sandy scrambled the schedule. She ripped the island a new one less than a week before our departure, so we had to postpone.  Our training trip is now Jan 10-22. May as well go ahead and get the rest of the schedule communicated, because that's what I'm most often asked about:
Jan 23-Feb 12—Chile (nonwork)
Feb 13-26 Cuba
Feb 26-Mar 5 --- Uruguay? (if the opportunity to go somewhere really exciting arises, Uruguay can wait)
Mar 6- 19 Cuba
That’s as far out as they have scheduled me.
The deal is, the company I work for will fly me anywhere I want for my two week layover between trips as long as it costs less than a ticket to my home airport, which is Montevideo. I’d be a fool not to take advantage of this given that I have nothing tying me down to any one place.
That's how I ended up in Brazil….it’s like this: My beloved cabaña was to be rented out for the tourist season starting Dec. 20^th, which meant I had to find new living arrangements. Option one:  go back to the tent from whence I came. The owner of the bush I was staying in last year said I was welcome to camp there again, but I think I’m through the tent stage of this journey. It served its purpose. I confronted my fear of being without all the securities we are taught to put before living with passion (a steady job, health insurance, a house, a 401K, a vehicle, etc). I have proven to myself that I can detach from the safety of the material and be just fine. So, I’m graduating myself from tent school and moving on to higher education, which is option two: life on the road.
Via the miracle of Face Book, a former kayak student of mine has kept in touch for several years. She moved to Brazil about the time I came to Uruguay and has been inviting me to visit since she settled in. Given the circumstances, it seemed like a fine time to take her up on it, so I packed all I need to be on the road for the next three months.
As for Chile, I’m not sure why I chose it for my layover other than a very strong, intuitive voice came out of nowhere and said, "Go to Chile!" Some grand experience or maybe even the love of my life (wouldn't that be something!) is waiting for me there. I'm certain my time in Chile will be something more than dressing for a naked hotdog.
It's been months since I sent out an update, so I'm not even sure where to begin. I started a travelogue after Thanksgiving entitled, “I Will Give Thanks Again, I Swear” that narrated a long drawn out story about my first trip to a Uruguay hospital. About thirty minutes into it I thought, "Whaa, whaa, whaa....who cares.? I ain't dead." Truth is, I tire easily of hearing others ramble on about their ailments. It's a downer. I have friends I dread calling because I know the conversation will turn to  a ten minute recap of the last medical report I got followed by a thirty minute pain by pain replay of how shitty they have felt since last time we talked. So, I erased that travelogue.
The four days of feeling poopy were fated though, I think. They were a prelude to appreciation for feeling fabulous. Shortly after the yucks, I attended a weeklong retreat at a spirituality center in Costa Azul (three hours from my town).  Seven days of vegetarian food, no alcohol, only a tad of caffeine, frisbee on the beach and lots of interaction with cool people of the same mindset balanced me in a way I've never felt before.  The program covered it all: the physical, the emotional, the mental and the spiritual. I really have noticed a shift in my perception of life and spend most of my time conscious of the present moment from a grateful and joyful place in my heart.
So that I can get this thing sent out and head off any more of the "Brazil??What are you doing in Brazil" bafflement, I'll end by reporting that at present I am having my first couchsurfing experience in Foz de Iguacu. Supercool! I am staying with two Brazilian guys in a very poor neighborhood rich with simple living. They live in a rented house in front of an evangelical church. As I write, the preacher is squalling out a message of salvation at the top of his lungs. This will be followed by a very off key gospel rock song and then more preaching. This blessing takes place every night 8-10pm.
I came to Foz de Iguacu to see one of the seven wonders of the world and it is amazing:



I plan to stay with these guys two more nights and then cross the border into Argentina to see the Falls from the other side. I'll depart from that airport to start my new Cuba job. Sooooo psyched!
While I was at a bird park, I thought I would take a stab at getting over my fear of snakes.

As you can see the boa was as afraid of me as I was of it. The ranger guy had to remove it from me the first time, tell me to relax and then try again. Can't say as I enjoyed it, but I feel good about facing a fear that keeps me from exploring beautiful places sometimes.
That's it--church service is over, so I can get some sleep. Happy New Year to all!
Much love, G

Travelogue 30, Uruguay: Catching up CA, UY and Cuba

I'm just back from the enlightenment on the rocks ritual I've become so attached to. Summer is nearly out of the birth canal here, so I no longer have to bundle up like an Eskimo to go down for sunrise, which makes an already sacred activity even more appealing. Energy teems all around my self-proclaimed throne--in the constant ebb and flow of sea water filling and emptying stair-stepped pools etched in barnacle crusted rocks, in the organically stunning algae carpets washed a brighter green with every rush and recede of the tide. All of this incessant, effortless mingling of the elements mesmorizes me. I'd stay until the cows come home, if my bladder didn't urge us back to the cabin.
Some mornings a pair of porpoises cruise the waters in front of me. Almost always a flock of birds swoops by on their way to find the next feeding ground. My favorite companion is what I call the lone surfer duck. She, always unaccompanied, bobs on the surface in anticipation of the next cresting wave, which she dives head first into, then pops up in the calm waters of the other side. I see the surfers imitate this behavior with their boards to avoid getting knocked back to shore as the work their way through the breakers and think what a fine teacher Nature is for those who pay attention.
The past few mornings I've seen Pop, pant legs rolled up, knee-deep in surf, holding his fishing rod high and squinting into the sun. He is a pillar of patience and peace on a desolate beach. That's what fishing will do for a person, I suppose, if one can get past gaffing an innocent minnow or drowning a defenseless earthworm. I hold that image of him like he holds his rod. The first time I saw him there, I cried, but he came over to sit with me, providing his usual wordless comfort,  and to ask what the hell I was drinking out of a hollow gourd with a metal straw.

"It's mate ("MAH-tay"), Pop. Try some. It's good."
"Naw," he said and turned up his nose, "You drink it. I'll stick to my coffee."
So, there you have a glimpse into how I start my days. This afternoon, swinging in the hammock that hangs on the deck of the beach house I don't pay a dime to live in, I said to myself, "Damn, I'm blessed!"
After a short pause, I said it again, "Hells bells, I blessed! Besides this awesome set up, not a single drop of my coffee has sloshed out. The sea breeze is so gentle with its pushes."
Blessings snowball, if you acknowledge them one by one.
Elsewhere, the book project has turned halty, if that is a word and means stop and start. I don't feel like looking it up in the dictionary and I'm in an emotionally stable enough place to be wrong should one of you uptight types feel the need to correct me...and it does happen.
At the writing retreat in Carmel, CA that I forgot to tell you about in the last update
the facilitator suggested, and I agreed, that a collection of essays would be the easiest route for me, since I already have many near finished. Then I got the wild hair idea to send five of them off to a big time editor, most likely because I am still sickly incredulous that I am capable of publishing beyond the safety of these travelogues. She responded that I am a talented writer, who would best serve herself and others by writing a memoir while trying to place essays in magazines. Then we had this long discussion about truth, THE TRUTH, and my tendency to exaggerate for the sake of entertaining. Fiction or non-Fiction, you can't straddle the line. This commentary has provoked an existential crisis for me and my writing. A memoir? First of all, that implies that I think my silly little life has had some significance beyond my pandering through  it. (another word usage doubt I don't feel like looking up--if it doesn't mean pondering while wandering, it does now).Second of all, write about your life and you start touching the touchy, namely privacy issues of those you have to include in the story if you are really going to tell it like it was.
"Just write it for yourself," so many have said. That brings up the REAL issue: Audience--without one beyond myself, I'm not motivated to write; with one I'm afraid to write for fear it will be deemed mediocre. I've a 50lbs trunk of diaries I've already written for myself. Anyway, I've these things to ponder as I pander.
Cuba! Sandy postponed that trip for us until Jan 10. We did complete the first part of the training as scheduled in Miami and it got me all fired up about leading these "cultural exchanges." We have been emphatically told not to use the words, "vacation, tourist or donation." I am leading participants on an exchange program and the extra bags of toiletries, clothes, baseballs, candy, etc are gifts for our relatives in Cuba. If it all started with Adam and Eve....well, we're not telling a lie.
Until then, I'm hanging in Punta del Diablo with my dear friend, Yolanda, who owns the cabin I stay in. We are working in the garden, cooking, sunning on the beach and talking life. She is one of the people I most hold dear in my heart and our meeting reinforces my belief in reincarnation. We are definitely picking up where we left off in some other life time. How is it that you can work side by side with someone 40 hours a week for ten years and never really get to know them and then you meet someone haphazardly in a yoga class, go for a walk on the beach and realize you know this person as if you were born in the same family 13 months apart? Soul magic over milliniums.
I'm bummed about not spending my favorite holiday with my cousins in VA, but to ward off the blues, I'm organizing a Thanksgiving dinner with my "family" here.  A couple of chickens might have to stand in for the turkey...feathers, lay eggs, pecks the ground, close enough.
I've only taken a short bus ride to the border town to shop since returning, so no funny seatmate story this time.

All the best, and always love, G

Travelogue 29, Uruguay: I'm Going to Cuba!

Ah-ight, ya’ll, the fourth person has asked me, “Where are you now?” which brought to my attention that I haven’t sent out an update in months. The good news is I’ve been so wrapped up in my book that I haven’t had any writing juice left in me by the end of the day. There’s supposed to be bad news when there is good news, isn’t there? The only thing I can think of is on Friday I start the first real job I’ve had since May of 2010, which in and of itself isn’t bad news at all. It’s very exciting actually.  It’s all the “have to’s” that come with a real job that is bad news. In other words, I’ve got to clean up, and stop acting and looking like my permanent residence is a tent.  I’ve got to give a rat’s ass about my personal appearance. I’ve got to look in the mirror before I walk out the door, and not just to pop zits. I’ve got to start showing up, and on time!  I’ve gotten sooooo lax living in Latin America. “I’ll be there,” means wait until ten minutes after you were supposed to be there and then drag ass to the event, if and when you feel like it. Ya’ll ain’t even believing I could live like that, are you? Ms. Stressed Out, Uptight, Perfectionist, Punctuality Pants herself. The whole reason I started this self-induced life douche which has landed me here in a fishing village in Uruguay is I had a nervous breakdown from taking things too damn seriously.
Anyway, as first steps toward a return to professionalism, I bought a travel hairdryer, a new dress shirt (not from the Thrift!) and some eyeliner. I know you want to know about the new job: One of the many positive things Obama has done while in office is open relations with Cuba, and it is now possible for Americans to enter the country directly, instead of having to sneak in through a backdoor, i.e. another country. It’s got some stipulations. Not just any American in white tennis shoes, dark socks, Bermudas and a Hawaiian shirt carrying a camera around his neck can get in. If your reason for going to sit on the beach and drink Pina Coladas, forget it. The visit must be in a group, authorized by permit, and have the intention of participating in an educational/cultural exchange with the Cuban people. My particular program is called “People to People” (http://www.grandcirclefoundation.org/cuba/12day-itinerary-cuba-a-bridge-between-cultures.aspx) and my job is as an adventure travel tour operator leading groups that leave from Miami. The bestest part of all is that we are assigned a Cuba tour guide who provides the facts, dates, history, blhaa, blhaa, bhlaa commentary on the sites we see.  My job is to sniff out ADVENTURE, to find opportunities for us to interact with the people off the beaten path.
If you’ve been following these travelogues you know thatsort of thing is my specialty. In the interview I had to talk about a time when I stirred up my own adventure. Of course, I had a plethora to choose from, but I told the story about getting the 75 year-old bank guard in the Dominican Republic to escort me up to the waterfalls in Limon. Remember we started out in the back of a truck with a bunch of yahoos just dragging out of the bars? Then we went to his house (more of a tin roof shack) and his wife made me a big breakfast? Then I refused to ride a horse up to the falls, like everybody else in their right mind does, and he had to carry me on his shoulders to ford the rivers? My retelling of that one was a ringer—bam, hired. (If I had told the one about visiting the cocaine lab in the Colombian jungle, I would have ruined my career.) As I said, the training starts this Friday, so I’ll fill you in on details next time, assuming my alarm goes off and I make it to Miami….haven’t had to use it for so long.
It’s a great day to catch you up. It’s so foggy that if the mist molecules were to have a group hug, we’d be in a downpour, which is what might happen if this pattern plays out. Last weekend we had two gorgeous days (like yesterday) followed by fog, followed by a blow-the-hide-right-off-your-hair- red- alert tropical storm. I swear I thought I was going to end up in Kansas, when I took off to the store on my bike.
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As always, I started writing a travelogue way back when and I hate to waste it, so:
October 2, 2012
Once again I bring you old news narrated in present tense, but hopefully with this one I’ll get you caught up all the way to the moment at hand, which is a bus ride back to my little village on the coast of Uruguay. Time should be no excuse for not finishing given it’s a four and a half hour trudge. {ha! that didn’t happen} It rains outside the window;  I’m quickly moving through a pack of oatmeal, chocolate chip cookies to cope with the wet and grey. Even without them, though, I’m mostly sunny on my inside.
September 9-29, 2012
After reluctantly leaving the Texas ranch that became so dear to me, I landed in a most comfortable situation in the Oakland, CA penthouse of my dear friend of 20+ years, Roxanne. We met way back in 1995 in Ecuador, lost contact for over a decade, reconnected and picked up where we left off as if we’d just had lunch yesterday. I hope you are fortunate enough to have friendships like that.
If you’ve been following my travels since the first trip to Spain in 2010, you will remember my flatmate and charge, Kitty Conan the Barbarian, whose claw marks I still bare today and on whose throw up I slipped and busted my ass, but good. Again I am sharing space with furballs, but Roxanne’s four cats are of a delightfully docile temperament and mostly ignore me. There is one little, teeny tiny….what do I call it?.... hindrance to a metaphorically clawless cohabitation: Patches… or Sprouts… or Mr. Tabbs… or maybe it’s Scratchy, anyway, one of them, suffers from Meow Mix reflux disease. After a squashy step on a few sick spots, I’ve trained myself to cross the living room on tiptoes, as if navigating a minefield in the shadowy morning light. It’s a good idea to scan the cushions, too, before taking a seat, but that’s as automatic to me as buckling up in a car. During the stay on the ranch,  I learned to always look down and back for rattlesnakes before plopping my hindparts on a rock.
While we are on the topic of snakes, a highlight of this trip to California has been to meet some first cousins I’d only heard about and seen in photos. In general, we are colossally different in how we turned out, that’s to say in our lifestyles. One similarity, though, is how we welcome strangers into our homes. If you had come to our house when I was a kid, we would have plucked from the rafters the teenage bobcat we raised in the basement and handed her to you so as to make you feel at home. Truth is, if she didn’t warm up to you, she would think you a rabbit, stalk you through the house and then sneak attack your ass with a pounce from behind. My cousins got that beat, though. They bust out a 6ft red tail boa constrictor to give you a warm  hug (actually, it’s cold.  “Demon,” as he/she/it is called, is hoping you provide the warmth). Once I emerged from my 30 min, get-your-shit-together pep talk with myself in the bathroom, it was a very bonding experience for all of us, especially Demon.
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It’s not a g-logue without a “seatmate story”:
The seat in front of me creeks loudly with every move of the 250lb, restless rugby player trying, unsuccessfully, to get comfortable. A news flash comes to mind I had heard the day before about a row of seats on an aircraft that came unbolted in turbulence. The seats did a jig across the aisle and the plane made an emergency landing. Of more note to me than the incident itself was the insight of an expert aeronautical engineer they brought in. He commented, “ Seatbelts are of no use in a case like this when the seats aren’t attached to the plane itself. The passengers will just go wherever the seats go, if they aren’t bolted in." Hmmmm….never would have imagined that!
Forget that preflight speech about oxygen masks and floatation devices. We’ve all heard that so many times we know it by heart. I want some new instructions on what to do when my seatmates slam the top of their heads into the overhead compartment and get a concussion. I’m usually the shortest one on the row, so they are going to take the brunt of the blow and I’ll be left to deal with the injuries.
If the row I’m on ever comes unbolted, I’m going to pray for some religious fanatic types  to be seated around me, the kind that believe in the laying on of hands and speaking in toungues. They will keep us grounded, and so confused we won't even notice we are about to have a neck reduction. I’d be much more worried about whether or not they were putting in a good word for me than hobbling around the cabin in a three-legged race toward first class.
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On a final note, I’m over this book nagging at me to be birthed. Talk about a difficult labor. I’m not messing around anymore, so when people ask, “Are you a writer?”, as they so often do because I’m forever scrawling in my diary in public places and bumming pen, paper or a crumpled napkin off someone so as to not lose an inspiration, I’m going to stop answering, “Well, kinda, I like to write stuff” and affirm, “Yes, I am.”
I bought in the airport bookstore a memoir and a collection of humorous essays. Before leaving I returned to the shelf where I got them, laid my hand on an open spot and said to myself and the Universe, “This is where mine goes.” Then Maya Angelou came to mind. I heard her deliver a speech at Radford University in 1990 that she opened by singing a line from a poem she wrote: “I shall not be moved.” It applies to my conviction to overcome the barriers that keep my voice unheard. The rest of me is movin' on....to Cuba!!!!!!! And then VA for Thanksgiving!!!! And then back here to Punta del Diablo for sun and beach!!!! And then…..wherever the winds blowing toward fun take me.
Happy Halloween and love, G

Travelogue 28, Glen Rose, Texas: Back on the Ranch and Beyond

(As usual, I'm behind on getting this out, so you are reading old news)
High Hope Ranch, Glen Rose, TX, Aug 31-Sept 6, 2012
Well, I'm back at the ranch, with a hairbrush in hand and a renewed attitude toward life. I may not have mentioned when we last left off that I'd be taking a ranch break for five days to puppysit in the Big D. That’s what the natives fondly call the host town of the modern day Cowboys—the ones who have ditched their horses, chaps and lassos to run up and down a rectangular corral in pads and helmets, while millions look on, chasing an oversized  lemon covered in pigskin. My, how times have changed! Anyway, I enjoyed the stay with the puppies. They were much more cooperative than the goats, and smell better too. A dip in the asphalt done me a world of good, being as the contrast raised my appreciate of the slow-down and quiet of country life.
That last travelogue brought people out of the woodwork. Kin and friends alike I hadn’t heard from in ages sent confessions of the similar suffering along with messages of encouragement. I must have sounded in worse shape than I really was. It is my habit to err on the side of exaggeration in these logues, being as it makes for better stories and all. No doubt I was in a funk dunk, but I am as prone to those as I am exaggerating. This last dive just happened to coincide with a missive. I've bobbed back up and am glad to be back for round two on the ranch. Now that I think about it, I do write my life like it is in real time on this blog when it comes to my internal state of affairs. That sort of transparency seems to be appreciated by most, given that it is the part people can relate to.  I'm told it's admirable as well, given that a butt-naked soul is as vulnerable as the skin that covers it when unclothed. Anyway, brutal honesty is what keeps the memoir readers turning the page, that's for sure.
There’s been a fortunate glitch upon return, depending on which side of it you are on. Remember that bath with my underwear? Well, when I let the water out of the tub, the commode started coughing and threatening to overflow, which sent me scrambling, naked and dripping, out of the tub toward the toilet tank to prevent a flood. Pop left his plumping lessons with me at half-mast. I knew that to stop the rising waters I had to lift up that black balloon on a skewer thingy that floats in the tank, but then what? Every time I let go, the cistern quickly returned to filling. What to do? Abandon the bowl on the brink of overflow and run back to the tub to stop the water from draining? Stand there hoisting the buoy in my birthday suit and yell for help? Deciding the goats were the only ones within earshot and the ranch hands and I hadn’t taken that promised skinny dip in the watering hole YET, I went for the tub option. Excellent selection! Pop would be proud. Slowly the waters began to recede and I plunged the stubborn last 3 inches back down to where they belonged…the throat of the commode.
Excitement over, I got dressed and went to report the incident.  Long story short, tree roots had grown into the water pipes, which means ripping up the floor, ripping out the plumbing and starting all over (and by the way, remember the copperhead under the porch? The contractor exterminated him and his live-in girlfriend when they showed up to defend their territory.)  So, what all this means to me is I've had to move from a really nice house to a really, really, really nice house down the dirt road a piece. I mean a super cool, two-story, balcony, indoor fountain, "crow’s nest" bedroom with a circular window over the bed, vacation rental. Last night full moon beams haloed my head ‘til the light of dawn relieved my lunar lover of her duties.

The living area

the crow's nest sleeping quarters

The evening vistors

I dreamed I had a snake in my bed, though, quite explicably. In addition to the copperheads, we saw two two-foot long rattlers on our blue moon night hike. The dream snake turned out to be my necklace that had slithered off my neck in a toss or a turn, and crawled up under the pillow. Still, when my hand met its kinky splay, don’t you know I came up out of that bed with a start. Out of loving kindness for my nerves, I drank a half-caf coffee that next morning rather than the usual high test.
I finished out my final days on the ranch clearing hiking trails in what most call a brutal heat—105F. Swelters don’t faze me much. I prefer any temp over a hundred to anything below 60. Pop would attribute that to my mostly vegetarian diet: “If you’d eat some protein and put some meat on your bones you wouldn’t be complaining that it's colder that a widow's tit all the time.”
“If I ate like you wanted me to, Pop,  you’d be calling me Tubby instead of Runt,” is my answer back to him.

clearing trails

I shall be returning to High Hope ranch in May for what I think will be one of the most exciting adventures of all my travels:  a Vision Quest. You’ve probably heard of this rite of passage in Native American traditions. Basically, you go out in the wilderness for 2-5 days  fast in the elements with only water, a tarp a symbol to represent the focus of your quest. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but for the hardcore spiritual seeker it can connect you to your inner most wisdom like nothing else. More than anything I think it is a fear busting confidence booster. My snake-o-phobia will have to be reckoned with before I go sprawling out beneath the stars in rattlesnake heaven. Maybe it will be to my benefit for once to be skin and bones…the cold-blooded won’t pay me no mind if I don’t put off enough body heat to make it worth a snuggle.
In the mean time, I’m off to California for 3 weeks. Two will be spent in Oakland with a dear friend and the last at a writing retreat in Carmel. Scheduled departure for Uruguay: Oct 3.
The next update will feature a trip to Alcatraz, where my maternal grandfather spent some time for a crime he didn’t commit, and a visit with a first cousin I’ve never met. Until now...
Much love,
G

Travelogue 27, Glen Rose, Texas: Self-Induced Life Douche

I sit cross-legged in front of a bunch of kids, the bhaaa-ing kind. They are recently separated from their mommies and are emotionally needy. Me too. A page wire electric fence separates them from my caresses and me from their noses conducting a full body search for clues of food. I don’t take it personally, their interest in me  being devoid of sentiment, despite my delicate emotional state. So often our interest in others is just as primal, only we mask it as sincere concern.

Their number equals that of my assigned herds while teaching in DISD, around 30. Their serenade reminds me of a game of Marco Polo. One of them bellows out in the back right corner. Another answers on the front row, then a cry comes from the  middle of the crowd.
I feel a bit like an important politician (if there is such a thing) in a press conference. I point to the one with the lopsided ears, “Yes, what’s your question?”
“Bhaaaaaa…”
“Well, I don’t know…,” I respond, wiggling my numb legs to jumpstart the circulation.  “Yes, you with the crooked horn.”
“Bhaaaa…”
“I’m not really sure. I wish I could tell you… You, with your tail sticking straight up.”
“Bhaaaa…”
“Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were….I thought you had a question. Yes, you with the obnoxiously high-pitched squall.
“Bhhaaaaaaaa…….”
“Hmmmm……Can’t say as I really know….”
They start to riot at my ignorance in a clamoring of bhhaaa’s that makes me feel like shit. I have no answers. They have every right to be upset with me. They appointed me as the wise one with dominion over the lot and I don’t know jack about anything…their problems or mine. The ruckus they are raising gets so loud I get up to leave, downtrodden. When I turn around, I see a young woman with a chop bucket swinging from her hand coming toward us.
There’s a smacker of a lesson. It's not about me. They are looking over my shoulder in anticipation of dinner. You see, that’s what happens when we look for evidence to support our assumptions. It’s easy to blame the holder of the mirror for what’s making us feel bad. Satisfied with that explanation, because it supports our misery, we have no need to explore other, possibly innocuous reasons outside of what’s in front of our noses. It’s a silly little story, but reminded me of some wisdom I had let slip from my awareness.
I’m in a reflective mood, and thus, in this edition of the travelogues, I invite you to share my ponderings on the journey thus far.
In May of 2010 when I declined my contract renewal with DISD, I initiated what I refer to as a self-induced life douche.  In the fall of that year these travelogues morphed from anecdotes of summer vacation travels abroad into updates on my quest for purpose and fulfillment. My new job description: Wake up every day exclaiming, “Wow! I am excited to be alive and know I am fulfilling my highest purpose while helping others.”
With the exception of a few months, I’ve been collecting unemployment checks from the Universe for two years now.
To recap, here’s the recipe for the cleansing solution I have used to flush out the vaginal cavity of my life:

1. Dumped the job that drained more energy than it gave me. Bye-bye to an eleven year career with Dallas Independent School District that provided retirement, health insurance, job security and an adequate salary to support my lifestyle. In other words, I had achieved the life of security my parents and society defines as success in exchange for my soul.
2. Heeded the call to live abroad and do what I am good at. So, I went Spain to write; I didn’t do much of it, fell in love and brought back a woman instead of a book.
3. For the first time, chose a relationship over work. I got a job as a tour guide in South America, lost the job as a tour guide in South America, took the risk of my lifetime and followed love back to Spain.
4. Pursued my other passion as a possible career. I got my tour directors certification from the International Tour Management Institute in San Francisco. As a start, took a job in a hostel in Uruguay making $2.50 hr.
5. Put my all into making a relationship work. I sold everything I owned, rented my house, went back to Spain to keep the love stoked and plan our life together.
6. Honored my soul’s yearning to live and work in South America. I worked at the hostel and slept in a tent, nestled in a bush 100 yards from the beach. I quit the job at the hostel and started my own business in tourism and language instruction. For two months I experienced the happiest existence I have ever known.
7. Survived a break up. The flame couldn’t jump the Atlantic. The relationship petered out and I moved through a fear of abandonment that has kept me a bachelorette for most of my life.
8. Faced family shit.  Pop got really sick, I came home, forty-two years of family dysfunction came to a head and I walked away with my dignity and a great sense of freedom. Pop got better and I went back to the happiest I have ever been in my little fishing village in Uruguay.
9. Faced round two of family shit. Pop died, I returned to the States, the family united long enough for the dirt to settle on his grave and the promise to never return to discord was broken.

10. Listened to my biological needs. I HATE cold weather. Summer in the U.S. is winter in   Uruguay. I decided to linger in my homeland until it gets hot down south again. This lingering has provided many blessings.
11. Haven’t given up on a lifelong dream. I prayed for a quiet, inspiring place in Nature to read my diaries and write the book that has begged birthing since I was a teenager.

31 years worth of diaries

As I write, I reside at a ranch called High Hope, 2 hours from Dallas, where I have arranged a work/stay.

I weed the gardens, water the trees and clear hiking trails in exchange for living in a cool as shit vacation rental ranch home. Aside from the copperhead under the porch, I couldn’t ask for nicer accommodations.

"Habari"

So how’s the writing coming?
It ain’t happening.
I am bhaaaaa with an “L” stuck between the “b” and “h.”  I feel irreparably uninspired, directionless, unfulfilled and hobo-ish. Why? I got exactly what I asked for and then some. Here I sit on a back porch overlooking prairie and pond watching the dear and ducks play. Where never is heard a discouraging word and I listen to moos in the breeze all day.

On the porch

So, what the hell is the hold up?
Would a new pair of underwear do it?—bring me back to life, that is. I asked myself that question while bathing with a holey pair of my panties this afternoon. It’s become the custom that we share the tub now that I’m down to five pair. If I get slack and miss a few days, next thing you know, I’m going commando, which isn’t my most private part’s preference.
It’s not that I don’t have the money for a new set of Hanes-Her-Way. It’s my attachment to suffering. I could get new everything. I will have to soon as the few things that remain in the wake of the douche is wearing out fast. My soul said “upheave!” and I did so. I’ve done 1-10 on the list, but it hasn’t been enough. 11- infinity won’t be enough either. It won’t matter where I go, what I own or don’t, who I’m with or not…I wouldn’t know what to do with persistent happiness if it climbed up on my lap like a kid scaling Santa to reach his ear.
I’m always glad for happiness to visit, but it doesn’t take long until it wears out its welcome and I start hinting that it’s time to get along little doggies.  I mean, let’s get down to it, REALLY….what explanation is there for me to not feel a deep contentment? The reason du’jour is loneliness. If I just had someone to share this with...  Instead of writing, I fantasize about someone to make dinner with, someone to share a soak in the tub with, someone to sit here in a comfortable silence on this porch with, someone to put their arms around me while I sleep. I’ve had all that at times before….and craved this that I have at this moment…solitude.  It’s not that I am in the absence of company. It’s that all I have is my own company in the absence of distraction from the state of mild suffering I recently admitted permeates my psyche like a morning fog.
Back on the porch, the light of day fades, the family of white tails has come out to graze and a prelude to the frogs’ symphony settles us all in. I will sit here with this, my attachment to suffering, with three candles and a howling coyote, without resistance, until I can walk through darkness as calmly as Pop taught me to walk a trout stream, so as not to spook the fish.
Then, I simply must do something about a very practical dilemma! I left all grooming utensils in Dallas, so my hair is a wild, matted mess. I’m scaring the kids. Maybe that’s the real reason they are doing all that bhaaa-ing. I suppose I could go over to the horse barn and borrow the colt’s curry comb. The other option is more convenient, the toilet bowl brush, but I just had my hair highlighted and I'm not ready to go back to brunette yet.
Would love to hear from you!
As always, with much love and many thanks for taking the time to read and being a part of my life, G