Working very hard at Staying Home

April 2, 2020

I need to start writing more. I’ve been escaping into social chat rooms. And wine.
And sometimes food. It’s good. I need my friends. I need the wine. And the laughter.
We all do. I’m not taking the best care of myself but I also think this is a phase. It’s
spring break right now. 

Spring Break. 

I’m supposed to be in New Orleans. With the numbers of COVID19 cases there,
I’m sure glad I’m not. And I’m glad I didn’t go for Mardi Gras like I had wanted to. 

Spring Break. 

I’m not going anywhere. I’m not working, but that’s my job. To not go anywhere.
Maybe when I can focus for more than 15 minutes at a time, I’ll catch up on grading.
Maybe I won’t. I have a lot of thoughts about this and that’s it’s own entry. 

Spring Break. 

That began as a clusterfuck of construction right outside my door. Jackhammers, pavers,
cranes, you name it. Three different projects at the same time. Thankfully, Governor
Newsom gave orders on March 31 that beginning April 1 only essential construction may
continue. They did have to come back to complete the sidewalk for safety reasons, but
it’s as quiet as downtown Redwood City gets. And there’s a leaf blower, which I’m pretty
sure isn’t allowed, but where is the tattle number? Do we have a 3-1-1 like New Orleans? 

Which brings me to something else.I don’t like living here very much. This chapter of my
life has been all pragmatism, with some super fortunate perks of adoring my job and colleagues,
and being close to nature. But I am not in nature, and I don’t have a garden or a yard. Normally,
these things don’t bother me. I’m never home. 

I’m always home. 

Now I am ALWAYS home. 

I try to imagine myself in the house I do love. On Desire street in New Orleans. I imagine
my beautiful wood floors, and the crafstmanship of my friend Mike in several rooms. I try
to imagine my backyard, usually too hot to sit in, with the screened in porch I plan to have
built one day. I imagine the various colors of hibiscus, the smell of night blooming jasmine,
the sweet olive scents of Esplanade avenue.
I imagine my tiny bedroom tucked into the back of the house, poorly measured, terrible
closet, door to the backyard which is not very useful. I imagine my gigantic kitchen and
know that if I were there, someone would be living with me. Wishing it was Corry and whatever
dog she would have at the time.
I imagine my plentiful cupboards of food to cook for people. And Corry choosing a recipe that
takes hours for her to make, and uses every single bowl, pan and plate in the house. It would
take a lot of time to cook and clean from that.
A good filler. Because it's that time in the kitchen that is the most social for me.
I imagine my neighbor practicing her classic piano, and opening up all of my windows so I
can hear her more clearly. I imagine the Calliope with it’s annoying sing-a-long sounds, the
deep udder of the port vessels. 

Here in my tiny condo that sits on a train track in Redwood City, I try to remember that just
three miles away is some of the most beautiful forest on the planet. And slightly further, the
rugged coast is intoxicating. It’s not that far. It’s not even a day trip. I could go for an hour. But
not right now. Because my job is to stay home, and I am working.
I am working very hard at staying home.
When this initial Shelter in Place is lifted, I am going to need to go sit with the trees. I haven’t
listened to them in a while and what they say is pretty important. 

When we are all done with this important work we are doing- staying at home- I am going to take a drive
out on the curviest road I can find out to the sea. I am going to smell the salt air, and put my toes in the
water. I am going to breathe it all in. I'm going to breathe.
I need to breathe more. 

When we are all done working so hard at staying home, I’m going to cry.
I can’t do that now. I have to save that for later, because I’m busy working and I’m afraid that once
I start, I’m not going to stop. I’ve already lost two people in two vastly different places. I know there will be
more, so for now I hold onto my tears.

This is why I’m working so hard staying at home. And not crying. Yet.

Hugging the walls- 7 years late publish date

I didn't fall in love with New Orleans. No, no, this was no accident, no thing that happened to me. There was no victim in the arrangement. I jumped into my love for New ORLEANS. I walked into a fire I knew would consume me. And I have been forever changed.

Both before and since moving to New Orleans, I have traveled a lot. Though it is true, I am mesmerized by places like highland Guatemala, the Corn Islands, Luang Prabang, Hoi An, Jerusalem, and even St Louis, MO, there are very few places I arrive, feeling in some way that I've come home, that floating feeling that carries me on a wave of wonder, and childlike excitement. New Orleans was my first. San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico was second.

And then I came to Granada, Spain.

Of course it's no wonder that I again walked into this flame of desire. Granada has a temperament of its own. Modern city dominates the a portion of the city, but as the city hills wind themselves uphill towards the Alhambra, it snakes through several different centuries, cultures, and traditions before it reaches the top. On the right side of the river Darro is the Jewish quarter, called El Realjo, holding onto nothing but secrets in the walls of its ancient, albeit no longer historically relevant, buildings. To the left is the intoxicating Albaicin, its whitewashed walls snaking around cobblestone alleyways not fit for cars. Every home in the Albaicin faces the Alhambra, squarely perched high above the city, basking in the beautiful Andalusian sunlight during the day, and the glow of the moon and modern lights in the night. It is in the lower part of the Albaicin, as the cobblestone alley pours towards Plaza Nueva, that the evidence of Spain's African culture is still quite present. Morocco is closer than I thought, and at is evident in design. Moorish archways into homes and restaurants, fountains for washing all over the city, falafel and shawarma in restaurants not even hinted with Spanish wine. Shops with beautiful rugs, Moroccan leather, handicrafts, line the street. Arabic lettering.

 Even further above the Albaicin is the Sacromonte, known for its cave dwellers. These are not the kind of caves one finds at the beach, but cement homes built into the ground, with a window to let the light in. It's no wonder, as Spain is extremely hot. In all of these areas, people dance flamenco. I'm no historian, and have not studied this form of dance, but the little I know is fascinating. It

is also the part of my trip I am now weaving together the places I have been the last 15 months, the place that I am from. Flamenco is said to have begun over 3000 years ago. As people and culture moved throughout Europe, and as Islam spread from the Middle East to Africa and the Iberian peninsula, it was further influenced by the Gypsies, the Jews. It was never ever mentioned, and never ever shown on a map, but I could NOT get past how similar some of the poses were to Apsara dancers of the Hindus during the time of Angkor.

It is not coincidental that each of these places that I am enamored with- New Orleans, San Cristobal de Las Casas, Granada, is Spanish by design, a living cultural history spanning centuries. All were the sites of great wars and oppression, of different religions, languages, and customs. And all have a creative mysticism a city can only acquire through years and years of oppression and revolution.

I'm wondering now if this moment is the precise moment that invites my entire year of travel and self reflection to finally come through into something I have known all along. 

I don't fit in.

And this is not a bad thing. It is just an aspect of me I have always had to take into consideration when embarking on a journey, whether it be personal or professional. I cannot put confines around my thoughts and ideas, because they simply don't fit me. When I do, I find myself aggravated, depressed, and rebel against myself. 

Two pula and a lollipop

Since 2009, the US dollar has been the currency of Zimbabwe. Inflation is such that at one point, in order to keep up with it, they issued a $100,000,000,000,000 Zimbabwean dollar bill. This is no joke or exaggeration and an ugly scenario for a poor country.

Zimbabweans also accept South African rand and Botswana pulas, but the US dollar is the official currency. However, they don't have a lot of "things" so there is a very strong barter system in place. In the tourist center of Victoria Falls, there are craft markets where you can trade your used clothes or leftover food for crafts. And in every store or market, official or street, they don't have any loose change. If you want to buy something that's less than a dollar, they give you two of those somethings, or throw in a keychain.If you buy something in a store, change is given in trinkets. If your bill comes out to $7.35 and you hand the cashier 8 US dollars, you may get back 2 pula and a lollipop. 

Of course, prices are mostly presented in whole dollars. And in tourist centers, things are not cheap. It cost 35$ to go to Victoria Falls.

And it was worth every penny, rand, and pula we spent. Without the lollipop.

Giraffe!!! Stop!!!!

Namibia faded in the distance as we crossed the border into Botswana. This really was the part of the trip I was most looking forward to. It was everything I thought it would be, and so so much more. 

Our first adventure in this marvelous country was a scenic flight over the Okavango delta, the largest inland delta in the world. Africa seems to own the saying. "largest in the world". Since we were in small planes, we separated into three groups at the airport. Forty five minutes were spent soaring over grassland and streams and ponds full of hippos and egrets and more elephants than I've ever seen in my life! It seemed so unnatural for being so...natural. Many people fly in to the delta to stay for a few days. On a budget trip, we would be taking a four wheel vehicle and a boat. 

As we returned to the tarmac and walked into the tiny airport, our guide, Hofti, was waiting for us:

Love this sense of humor!

I upgraded to a rustic cabin that night. It was expensive but worth it. We arose quite early the following morning, and piled into a land vehicle and went forward, first on a regular highway, and then onto a bumpy dirt road. An hour later we arrived at a landing beside a river, where several women with mokoros were waiting. A mokoro is like a canoe. Traditionally, they are made out of a piece of wood, much like a pirogue in south Louisiana. But tourism and general advancement, I presume, has paved the way for fiberglass ones. Each mokoro fit two travelers, various camping equipment, and one African woman steering the boat with a long pole. These women are called polers. I love Africa. They don't mince words. 

For the next two hours, we glided up the river, trying not to tip our boats, and relaxed. It was beautiful. Tall grasses lined either side of the river, water lilies were in bloom, and the temperature hovered around 70 degrees. The polers stood at the back of the boat, using their poles to make sure we didn't tip or get stuck. Later, some of our group would try poling, and it proved much more difficult than imagined. One boat even needed to be rescued!

We spent two nights camping in the bush with our polers. Our Okavango guide took us on a walk through the delta, where we were in stones throwing distance to herds of elephants, zebras, and wildebeest. We saw a few giraffes, too. It was pretty intense being so close to the elephants. Close enough for them to lock eyes, which they did.

It was hard NOT to be scared that the animals would come into our camp, especially after the guide told us to make sure we shine a light before we go out to pee pee in the bush. If we see a reflection, go back to your tent.

As far as I know, we didn't get any visitors. It was a lovely 2 day trip relaxing by the river. And at about hour 36, all I could think about was planning when I would take a hot shower. We were all absolutely filthy. THe 8 year old playing in the mud kind of filthy. It was really fun.

That night, we stayed in a campsite called Planet Boabab. The Baobab tree is a gigantic tree that looks as if it's roots are on the outside. The trunk is thicker than any redwood I've ever seen, and holds water in the dry lowveld. For lack of any other words to describe it, it's a really unique and funny looking tree. The campsite was built around several of them, using them as focal points. There was a beautiful thatch roof bar and bonfire here, as well as artistic bathrooms, a beautiful swimming pool, and super pricey bungalows for those not camping. The location is set perfectly between the Okavango delta and Chobe national park, our next destination.

We arrived at our Chobe campsite in time to do laundry, take a swim, and buy drinks for our "boozie cruise" as Hofti called it. It really was a basic cruise up the Chobe river (which turns into the Zambezi across the nearby Zimbabwean border, and into Victoria Falls). The cruise was magnificent!!! We saw the greatest assortment of animals! Buffalo hanging out next to elephants, crocodiles and kudu basking in the sun while baboons ran in front of them. And hippos!!! So many hippos! Everywhere we turned, there were animals enjoying the water nearby. It was magical.

This was our last night camping, and though we were all happy to be going to a hotel the following night, this also meant the end of the trip and goodbyes. We stayed up late, but arose early again, for one last game drive in Chobe National Park.

We bundled up in winter clothes and blankets and hopped on the safari truck before sunrise. Once inside the park, it became clear we were not the only truck in the park, unlike Etosha. We were also not the only group in our safari vehicle. There was a group of French tourists with an interpreter, and they were not following directions. The stood and almost fell when our driver went four wheel driving into the sand, and they would not stop talking and didn't understand why the animals we spotted kept running way. My teacher self got the better of me and I shooshed them, but it only lasted a moment.

It was on this truck, in the presence of about 6 more, that I witnessed what I consider to be my nature highlight of this trip, this year, and perhaps this lifetime. The sun had just risen, and a beautiful lioness was crouching beside a fallen dead tree limb. Almost as if waiting for a signal from our driver, she ducked her head under the limb, and dragged out her cache from the night before. Once in plain site, it was obvious that it was the lower half of a giraffe. She placed it on the ground, and looked what seemed to be directly at us, fresh blood on her snout, and smiled. She stayed this way, breathing so heavily, her chest and legs were moving, for a few moments, before she leaned down, attached her jaw to the carcass, and dragged it further underneath another branch, while three or four baby cubs scampered up the hill behind her. This all happened in a matter of minutes, about thirty feet from where we were. We may have been able to hear her breathe if it weren't for the multiple camera snaps and such (really, can't people put those on silent?!), and some muffled gasps. AMAZING!!!!

We moved on after a few minutes of trying to find her cubs, and started heading slowly back towards camp. We were at the point in our animal spotting that we caught ourselves saying, "oh, it's just another zebra." We had to remember our companions maybe didn't feel this way, so we still stopped at every animal we saw, including two impalas ready to spar.

Time got away from us, and we really did need to just drive forward and get back to camp. About five minutes into our drive, we heard from our French companions, a resounding, "GIRAFFE!!!!! STOP!!!!!!" Of course we stopped. And of course, the giraffe didn't stick around for a photo opportunity. They were disappointed. We were busting a gut, trying to figure out what they weren't understanding about screaming. This was fodder for the final 12 hours we spent together.

We got back to camp at around 9:00 with a breakfast spread of everything leftover on the table, and our tents put away for us. This was really happening. We were on our last day of the trip. We climbed into the truck, and began the short journey to Zimbabwe.

Your Favorite Watering Hole

I never thought about where this saying came from, but I've definitely heard it when referring to favorite bars.

I just spent a sunset and evening at a water hole, though it was outside, and unlike a bar, the people completely silent. Every campsite in Etosha national park has a watering hole. Africa may be the only place I've ever been where the hierarchy actually makes sense. The entire campsite is behind a rock and fence wall, and the animals are free. Though some of the water holes are equipped with man made pumps, make no mistake, this is not a zoo. Not a show, no animals have been trained and that means we are living in their domain. 

We are the ones in cages. And it's fabulous. 

The campsites are quite nice, most having several types of bungalow accommodation also. Hot showers, drinkable water. The rules are strict. No driving between the hours of 6pm and 6am, unless you are in a licensed game drive vehicle (land rover), of which they only allow two each evening. The camp is gated, and there is a tall sharp rock fence separating the water hole from the viewing area. 

At night, red lights are pointed towards the water, bright enough for us to see but not to blind the animals. It was actually quite entertaining to see a hundred people sitting in silence, staring at the lake. But the true entertainment was what was happening beyond the rock wall. An ever changing assortment of animals, including rhinos, elephants, zebras, and giraffes took their turn getting their drinks. Jackals snuck up behind them at times, and guinea fowl pecked their way around the water. Springbok and wildebeest showed up eventually, and of course everyone waited for the lions, who are much more elusive. 

It's a little strange, drinking wine out of a camping cup, sitting in a bleacher seat and peering over the rocky edge. For a second it almost looks like people are watching a play. It is most definitely dramatic, and the finest of theaters, nature. 

The middle of the middle of nowhere

May 2013

I have a friend up in Humboldt county who bought a five acre parcel of forested land in a newer subdivision. He designed and built his own house, and measured carefully, so that his home would be in the exact middle of the property, unlike his neighbors who seemed to put their home up in front with a huge yard behind it. When I asked why, he said because this way he had the most possible space between him and his neighbors in every direction, the most privacy. When I visited, it did, indeed, feel like its own independent environment, quiet and serene, with no disturbance from the sound of cars or lawn mowers or children. Had it not been for the canopy of redwood trees surrounding his home, it would feel isolated. Somehow, for me at least, thick forest makes me feel insulated, not isolated.

I keep thinking about his property while driving through Namibia. The entire country seems empty, untrodden, devoid of human life and the inorganic trail of resources and trash that comes with population. We've been a lot of places, with barely visible roads, lots of sand, and heat. It feels like we are in the middle of nowhere, like someone measured carefully to make sure that at any given moment we are as far from anything as possible, meaning we are IN THE MIDDLE of the middle of nowhere.

We've spent quite a bit of time driving. Most of the day, actually. Most of the last five or six days. As a group of three guides- 2 Namibian, 1 South African, plus 2 Swiss, 2 Italians, 2 Spanish, 4 German, 1 Dutch, 1 American living in London, and me- we've renamed our overland adventure vehicle. Roy, the given name to this beast, is amazingly equipped for the unpaved roads of Namibia; the African massage. We enter the vehicle from the back, and there are two aisles of airplane style seats (that don't recline) raised above a center gully just big enough for feet. In the front, behind the barrier between the seating area and the driving area- think mac truck- there are seats around a small table and a cooler. It's a hangout place for playing card games and the like. The cooler, of course, is for beer. The new name it has adopted is African Tuk Tuk, or ATT. 

"Tomorrow we have a long day. I don't want to guarantee, but we might see...Expect the unexpected. T.I.A. This is Africa." There are other details of course. But this is what I remember, because this is what is said every night. And now we've created our own rituals. Inevitably at the end of the briefing, our guide Hofti asks if we have any questions. My arm shoots up every night at this point. 

"What time do we have to get up?" I still don't understand why that's not the first thing. I am in teacher brain, wanting things chronologically. He is in adventure brain- activity first, details second. The answer is usually the same- early. 5 or 6 am. I'm not sure why he tries to sugar coat this or treat it as an aside he can halfheartedly mention as if the early time will disappear, as we all signed up for a camping outdoor adventure and we know these types of things start early. Nobody complains or even makes mention of it. 

And again the ritual- Mikail says aloud to the group, "don't worry, Rebecca, I will wake you up around 4, to make sure you are ready." Everyone laughs. This is funny because I am always the first person up, aside from our incredible guides. This is also funny because we always wait for the Spanions. The very first day, we were supposed to meet at the office in Cape Town at 7:45 am. They sauntered in at around 10:00. Whether or not they wanted to start this precedent, it now exists. Our guides always ask us to have an African sense of humor and adventure but to keep European time. I think he should edit that to German time on following trips.

Our first week blends together in bursts of tent set ups and take downs, desert driving, convenience store stops, and regular pull overs for "pee pee in the bush". The ATT is starting to look like the common area of a college dorm. Towels hang from the storage shelf to the seat, drying or blocking the intense sun. Five liter water bottles line the back of the truck. Pillows, iPods, junk food, earphones,tour books lay strewn across every seat. And shoes. There are shoes everywhere- dusty, sand-filled hikers and flip flops. We've stopped a few times, to see the San people, to give some people the option of canoeing in the Orange river, to catch the sunset in beautiful Fish River Canyon. 

But the highlight of this first portion of the trip is disappointingly  named Dune 45. 

Sossusvlei dunes make up what I believe to be one of the largest areas of sand dunes in the world. This is the second oldest desert in the world, with the highest sand dunes, some reaching 3,000 meters high. The dunes are red due to the iron present and the age in which this iron has turned to rust. 

We rise extremely early to climb Dune 45 before sunrise, and are surrounded by people doing the same- the most people in one spot that we have seen since crossing the border into Namibia. The sand is cool and soft, and immediately penetrates everything I have with me. I'm covered in fine rust colored sand, and it's beautiful! The sun rising creates shadows emphasizing the curvature of the dunes, the direction and strength of the wind. Little ridges are formed on the windward side of the dunes, while the leeward side looks like its never been touched. Gazing across the valley, there are dunes as far as you can see, all shadowed beautifully. All with clearly defined ridges. Climbing is restricted to Dune 45 to decrease impact. 

Sitting in the sand, letting it run through my fingers, I am amazed that sand so soft can create such sharp ridges. I'm sad when the sun is finally up in the sky and the shadows start to disappear a bit, and that beautiful iron-rich sand starts to get hot. We climb, roll, run, and slide down the dune like children, and there is a beautiful brunch awaiting us in the parking lot.

We spent the rest of the day in the area, going to a place called Deadvlei in a 4x4, kind of like a dried up oasis. Eventually on the road, the dunes got smaller and lighter in color, and our African massage came to an end abruptly as we reached the coast to a black tarred highway. The temperature dropped from hot desert temperature to windy cold coast in a matter of moments as we pulled over in Walvis Bay to see the flamingos, hundreds of beautiful flamingos in the lagoon beside the road. Looking around at the manicured lawns, and large seaside homes was strange after where we had been. From here we stopped at the Adventure Center, a warehouse of adrenaline sports at our fingertips. Honestly, it felt like an onslaught of marketing, DVDs of people jumping out of airplanes, going four wheeling in the dunes. For the less adventurous, there was a harbor cruise, and a township tour. Honestly, I was a little put off, and opted instead for some unplanned time with as many showers as I wanted. 

Stranger still, after a windy lunch at the Adventure Center, we pulled into the German influenced seaside resort town of Swakupmund. It was nice to have access to Internet and real coffee for a few days, and a break from camping. We ate out each night, said goodbye to one of our fellow travelers, and piled back in the ATT after a refreshing weekend.The serene Namibian desert was behind us, but a new adventure was about to begin.

Making lemonade in Africa

Making lemonade in Africa

I'm rewriting my story. After fleeing a nanny gig, a very kind person took me under his wing, and convinced me to sign up for a tour leaving three days later, from another city, in a different country, even. I don't think about it overnight, or even over dinner. I say yes.

I've just joined a 20 day tour of southern Africa with 12 strangers. In the head space I have been in, I sort of just wanted to be quiet. Soak it in. Let nature heal.

Nature is healing. But so is remembering to be the fun loving, quick witted woman I can be. It's making people laugh. It's making me laugh. 

This is who I am.
Except when I'm not. And I've been not. So I am rewriting my story, and it's one I want to be part of.