“The person susceptible to ‘wanderlust’ is not so much addicted to movement as committed to transformation.”
I couldn’t have said it better (or in as few words).
Monthly Archives: July 2009
And the Rockets’ Red Glare…
I am not even remotely supposed to be blogging right now, but my stomach is currently on day three of mulching every.single.thing I put in it, so I’m taking a moment’s break from sitting upright at a table to lie down on my bed, and write a little. I’m supposed to be at the District Forest Office right now, picking up management plans and negotiating field support, as my fieldwork starts tomorrow, and I will get there – because where there’s a will, there’s a way. Right now, however, proximity to a bathroom is of utmost importance, so blogging is how I’ll wait out the stomach pain.
I just checked in on the Facebook crew (really, on Mike, to make sure he’s still doing okay) and was cheered and perhaps a little envious to see all the wishes of “Happy 4th of July!” and fireworks displays photographed all over our great, big country. The 4th of July is one of my favorite American holidays, and one which I have “missed” for what I count as six out of the last eight summers, a bit to my chagrin. I love the 4th because I like all the ingredients it includes: the family, the friends, the beer, the barbecue (especially when people use different spatulas for the meat and the non-meat!), the watermelon, the lazy warmth and the knee-length dresses, the ice cream, and the fireworks. I love the parades, even though I don’t go – but just knowing that they are out there, that they still exist as they did when I was a child, is reassurance enough. I picture old men veterans of my hometown stepping deliberately and thoughtfully along the parade route, high school students drumming the cadence in their uncomfortable tin-soldier-style red uniforms, Uncle Sam tripping along benevolently on stilts, little neighborhood floats like those we made when I was a kid, candy thrown from clowns, and finally a bunch of slightly overweight middle-aged Jaycees guys sweating and smiling widely as they job behind their lawnmowers (and as to that last – Hullo, Suburbia! However did that tradition start?) The 4th of July at home is where it’s at.
Even though I continuously miss the 4ths of July of home, I can easily count my years and life experiences backwards through recollecting where I was on the 4th of the last decade.
For example:
• Last year, 2008, I was in Costa Rica, somewhere around Puerto Jimenez doing a backpacking trip into the Parque Nacional Corcovado, a gorgeous park and hike that involved hours of walking along the beach, a trek through the rainforest, seeing a large cat on the way out, and more monkeys, anteaters, and little rodent-like creatures than I can count. I was traveling somewhat solo so as to explore the country before meeting up with my best-friend, Greg, to help him kickstart his graduate school research, which turned out to be a blast (and the best part of the trip, to tell the truth).
• In 2007 I was in South Africa, sent there by the National Geographic Society on what can only be described as a lucky fluke, when I was invited to accompany an older scientist to the Society for Conservation Biology’s annual meeting in Port Elizabeth, and took the opportunity to talk to people in Stellenbosch and Praetoria, as well, about our programs and funding channels. It was a short, two week trip, but it provided a strong reminder of the allure of field research, and my desire to return to it.
• In 2006, I had one of my more traditional 4th of July, watching the “bombs burst in air” from the rooftop of an apartment in the Shaw neighborhood in Washington DC. It was my first summer in the city, and as I turned 360 degrees I could see a myriad of small fireworks displays for as long as I could turn in circles – they just didn’t end. It was magical, and perhaps the best fireworks I have ever seen, although only so because of the accompaniment of neighborhood fireworks propping up the big national ones.
• In 2005, I was in Alaska, where it snowed on the 4th of July, and we made a small parade and dressed up in silly costumes (bugshirts and carharts, as I recall), upending garbage cans so that I could teach everyone a drum cadence, which we played while marching around the field station’s small staging area, before drinking ourselves silly under the Midnight Sun.
• 2004 found me in California, living at 7,000 ft of elevation at a Forest Service site, in a tent, although I traveled with a co-worker to see the San Francisco Bay fireworks for the 4th. The Bay fireworks ended up involving a lot of red, white, and blue cloud matter, instead of fireworks, but we befriended a group of extremely intelligent homeless men, one of whom had read every anarchist philosophical text I had, and had a robust conversation about politics and social organization over the jars of pickles and roasted red peppers they had picked up from the food donation office at their shelter. It proved to be a strange and wonderful afternoon, and permanently changed the way I see and related to the homeless, even all these years later.
• In 2003 I had a taste of Minnesota nice (and Minnesota fun) when during my first summer as a field researcher we all accompanied a friend and Minnesotan to the little town of Eveleth, MN, where we partied (illegally – I think I was twenty at the time) at all the bars on the closed down streets, and then headed up to Alex’s family’s lodge in the North Woods, a gorgeous place where the water of the lakes ran deep and beautiful and pure. My chief memory of Eveleth (or I should say late at night on the 4th) was of worshipping the porcelain god in his bathroom, so to speak, but it was a fun night nonetheless.
• And finally, to take it as far back as memory goes, in 2002 I returned from my first-year of college to spend it in NJ, disturbed as I had been by the World Trade Center attacks hitting so close to home in the second week of my first year of college. I just wanted to be home, that summer, and so worked as a camp counselor (the “Nature Lady”) by day and spent the 4th watching the fireworks on my Aunt Joan’s lawn, in the next town. Even this 4th had an international flavor, though, as I invited all the international students working as counselors at the camp to join my family and I at our home, and then took them to the town parade, to my home for a barbecue, and then to my aunt’s pool for swimming, after which we all splayed out on the front lawn with my family, watching the fireworks and celebrating the 4th. This was probably the last time I saw my hometown parade, a long six years of travel and life experience ago…
And so being away for the 4th yesterday was more typical than atypical, but I missed the celebration just the same. I slept through the morning in an effort to kill my stomach bug, and then decided to accompany my friend Deepak to Lakeside for the afternoon, after he got excited about all things Americana (myself included) and suggested emphatically that we should do something appropriate to celebrate my nation’s birthday. I made myself a little blue emphasizing how fun and amazing the holiday was as I explained it to him, so decided I would treat Deepak to a series of quasi-American things (a cup of real coffee; something red, white, and blue to eat?, a picnic near the lake, I would wear red, white and blue clothing, etc).
Being the pasty-skinned, dirt worshipping American I am, however, I don’t own any red or white clothing, and so had to make do with a myriad of blues, donning my Yale Forestry hat (which looks terrible on me) mostly because it was dark blue with white letters, and made the claim to my homeland for me. On a whim Deepak took us not to Lakeside but to Begnas Tal, another, smaller lake, which was a stroke of pure brilliance on his part. The ride (on the motorcycle) was fantastic – the sky was blue and clear, the clouds a puffy white, the air warm – it felt like an American July 4th. We arrived at Begnas to the pleasing discovery that it is incredibly undeveloped, forested lakeshore intact, local people quietly fishing from boats and the shoreline, only two cafes perched high on the hillside above, at which we stopped for a few hours and drank some beer, American-style (it was Carlsberg, but hey at least it was beer!), eating snacks and enjoying the view, and the shade.
Towards the end of the afternoon Deepak was a “little” buzzed, and decided he would help me to expand my social circle by going over to the only other white people in the place, a couple, who he excitedly whispered to me “are Americans!” In fact, they turned out to be Brits, very nice Brits, but I was put in the position of having to explain to them that Deepak thought they were Americans and was excited for them to share in our national holiday with me, even though in fact the holiday I was quietly celebrating was the Declaration of Independence from their country, our colonizers. Now that was different. To my surprise the couple knew that it was the 4th of July, and as such an American holiday, and turned out to be quite nice. The man out is a Gurkha soldier stationed in Nepal for a year (he’s about halfway through) and speaks Nepali, which is a quick and easy way to earn my respect here (and that of most Nepalis, as well).
When we all went down to the Lakeshore after eating to check out the fishermen, who were in the process of pulling in a massive lakefish twice the size of anything already in their nets, the other woman, who was about my age, cute, little, and blonde, with a huuuuge rock on her ring finger turned to me and said, “What’s your name, by the way? Mine is Merydeth.” I was so surprised to share our name (I’ve rarely had to introduce myself so redundantly before) that I stammered in giving my own name, which is spelled differently. We both stood there a few minutes giggling in surprise and the unlikeliness of it (Merydeth had never met another Meredith before), and then politely parted ways, as the bideshi in Nepal generally do.
So that was my July 4th, as different as all of the rest of them have been, and yet one which I will remember as well as the others, for sure. I admit that I hope next year to have a knock-down, all-out American summer (beach, beer, wine, bicycles, ice cream, hiking, swimming, forests, and fireworks on the 4th), but since life changes so much and so fast, I know I could be anywhere – including right back here in Nepal.
-M-
Perspective
The title of this post was supposed to be “PUSH,” or else “The Only Way To It Is Through It,” two phrases (okay, one word and one phrase) which run through my head whenever I am frustrated that something is not turning out as I would like it to, and am reminding myself not to give up. Sometimes it takes a reminder (even if it’s from oneself) that when you push past the point of logic and through aggravation, the obstacle in your path eventually gives. I was going to tell you how frustrating my week has been, how behind I feel, and what exactly I should have been doing this week, as opposed to what I have been able to do.
And I was going to say that two days ago I was reminded to maintain my humility, compassion, and patience when a young friend here, whose best-friend won the “American citizenship” lottery and just headed off to the good ol’ US of A, bugged me all morning long by phone (seriously, five missed calls!) to come meet him in the shopping district called Mahendrapul with his friend on that person’s last day. I eventually did, mentally grumbling, face in a bit of a pout, annoyed at myself that I had committed to going there, little black cartoon cloud amassing above my head. “I should be doing work,” I kept thinking, even though that wasn’t going well at all, and I probably really needed the break.
Well, I got there and the boys – and they really are boys – both 22, very close friends, cute and sweet and full of optimism about the world and getting a leg up on the competition by going to the US to work, had two plates, one inverted on top of the other, that they wanted me to smell. Something was sealed inside, and grumpy though I was, I tried to smell but couldn’t, so didn’t wager a guess at what the mystery plates held. I should premise this by saying that I’ve been giving Bishwa’s friend (whose name right now escapes me) pretty regular advice on the US, New York City, where to fly into, who to fly with, where to go, etc, and that the night before he and Bishwa had peppered me with questions about American girls and bars, and whether I would help them get an American girlfriend. I told Bishwa’s friend that if he walked into a New York City bar and announced that he is 23 and has never kissed a girl…things would take care of themselves. Like I said. Cute. Kids.
One of the things I told the friend about was food, especially since I always miss it when I travel, and so of course if you know me at all, you know I told him about pizza. I told him where to get it, how big it is, how cheap it is (in rupees), and that it’s like, “the momo of America,” momos being a dumpling-like snack that is incredibly popular here. We had in fact already ordered momos when the mystery plate was displayed before me, the two boys grinning with pride and maybe a modicum of sheepish excitement. And so what had they ordered and were excitedly waiting on me for was, of course, a pizza.
A little, round, less-good-than-Elios-which-isn’t-actually-pizza-anyway Nepali take on the pizza pie, as a sign of thanks, perhaps, and affection for me and my crazy American talk, surely. When I realized that was the source of the excitement, and the five missed phone calls, and the great big grin on this kid’s face who is about to head off into the great and intimidating west to kiss girls and make his first million (rupees, most likely)…I was humbled. And it put a lot of things in perspective, including why the way you treat people matters, and why you should come through on what you’ve promised to do, and why you can’t afford to be the cranky bideshi just because you’re overtired, or overstressed, or both. It was a nice moment.
The situation I was facing with my research refused to resolve itself, or to let me do the resolving, however, and once again I found myself incredibly aggravated over the last three days, as I attempted to make sense of a morass of information in both Nepali and English that absolutely had to be factored into the decisions I’m making about how to do my research. And I felt like a failure, and like a procrastinator (although I actually don’t think this was a factor, this time), and like I was going to disappoint a lot of people who think I can do these crazy things I stride off to do, like sampling in Nepal’s forests. I wondered a lot this week whether I am doomed to failure at creating change in the world, or at moving ahead in my career, and worried that my failure rate had increased dramatically this year (between the whole GMAT, School of Management rejection thing, et al). Suffice to say, I was miring in it.
Things turned around a little bit today, though, and I am feeling mildly optimistic. The internet even came back, after a three day outage, and so as I sat here, procrastinating the blog post, a little fried from the heat, I signed onto le Facebook and promptly found out that my good friend Mike from Yale literally fell off of the face of a mountain in Colorado this week. At 12,500 feet, smacking a large rock outcropping on the way down…possibly in front of his brother. Nine hours later he was pulled off the mountain by a rescue crew, with “only” a shattered vertebra, broken ankle, second sprained ankle, and hypothermia.
There sort of aren’t words for when you get this kind of news. The one thing I can easily say without letting the tears fall is that this is the kind of news that is a frequent traveler’s worst nightmare – to not be there when something really, really bad happens, and not be able to help when someone you really care about might need you. Luckily, the news of his fall came from Mike himself (trusty Facebook comes through again), and he is relatively okay, according to what he has posted. He will need rehabilitation and a bunch of other care, but most importantly, he’s alive, and there was no brain trauma. You can see the YouTube recovery video yourself – I can’t get the sucker to load for the life of me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nGTTzSHMak.
I don’t really know what to say next. Mike is my closest friend at Yale, the one I spend the most time with, and the first person with whom the connection was pretty much immediate. We think the same way, we like the same kinds of things, and the same stupid shit associated with an Ivy League school pisses us off. I’m a little more optimistic and “glass half full,” he’s a little more pretty freakin’ smart, and 100% totally bad ass, while also being super-duper kind and considerate. Mike is in a different program and doing a PhD instead of a Master’s, but we met on a fluke in November and have been comparing notes on the world ever since. Even though I know he’s not in Connecticut right now and am sure he is in good hands, I have an overwhelming and embarrassingly maternalistic urge to be at least on the same continent right now, and to show up and just – I don’t know – dote. My perspective on the moment is permanently changed, and more than anything, I am just so, so, SO glad he is okay!
What I thought was the last time I would see him before Nepal we got a big, warm pizza pie to go (since I was was rice-averse, anticipating the rest of the summer and the alternative was Indian food), a bottle of wine and some beers, and two delicious little cups of gelato and sat out on his front stoop across from the big park near the Farmer’s Market at twilight, eating pizza, watching people go by, and talking about life, and how much he was looking forward to this trip that he was on when he fell. I cannot even fathom the state I would have been in right now had that really awesome farewell dinner been one of the last times I saw him. I would be in pieces.
I ended up seeing Mike two more times, though, both on the last day I was in New Haven. I saw him first when he came to get me to take me to the train station at around noon, and I was not even remotely ready to go, so we ate lunch (my leftovers) instead. I then saw him once again, when he came back from his lab once more to take my laggard ass to the train, good-naturedly putting my and Julie’s stuff and selves into his car while we ran around like a bunch of crazy ladies. On that attempt we rushed to the train station, Mike pulling all kinds of crazy moves to get through a traffic light (which I found secretly exhilarating), and then shortly thereafter offered to take even more time from his priorities to go have a beer with me somewhere nearby after we watched the train pull out of the station from the car, and realized we had another hour to wait. Julie and I decided to err on the side of caution and wait on the train platform, but that last day and week was riddled with Mike’s kindnesses, and I remember distinctly turning to Julie when we were at long last waiting on the train platform, and saying something to the effect of how blessed I feel to have such amazing people in my life, and so many good friends.
This isn’t a eulogy (and thank you god for that), but I wanted to take a moment to share how truly awesome this person is, and how lucky I am to have him in my life. I’m so, so glad that he will be okay, and that I know there will be more nights of gelato and pizza to come.
Get well soon, Mike. My thoughts are with you.
-M-
