INTRODUCTION
Joe
likes to say we traveled on our innocence; it kept us safe even while
we embraced experience. Our trust in humanity was met by
trustworthiness, and our capacity to accept different ways of life
let us adapt our life style to fit the surroundings.
In
1970, I was no more politically involved than I am now, just your
basic overly tall, 5 foot 9 inch bookworm English major at Boston
University, interested in current events, civil rights, feminism
especially, but unwilling to join a group.
My
roommate Claudia, even taller than me and much more active, went on a
tour of Europe in the summer of 1970 and fell in with a Canadian man
who took her from Amsterdam to the Canary Islands. In September, she
returned home to finish her degree in Special Education.
Then,
in the “most romantic” way, he followed her, and came to live in
our apartment. Did she even ask me? I'm not sure. Our third roommate
was already dropping out; it was December.
So
Darwin from Saskatchewan, formerly an LSD dealer, now on the lam from
the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police), lounged about, draping his
long limbs on the furniture, refusing to wash dishes.
Meanwhile,
Joey, as he was called then, had dropped out of college after one
year and was stuck back in his hometown, Boston, for his own
counter-culture-meets-the-law reasons needing to be sorted out with
the help of the right lawyer. Joey visited us, and Darwin, who had
been feeling a lack of male companionship, was thrilled.
When
Joey and I had met at the cottage on Cape Cod, I thought he was
terribly old, at least 30, since he had a full beard, owned a house,
and was done with college. Darwin invited Joey back, and I kept
listening to their talk until I knew he was my age, tall enough, had
a good mind and a sound character as well as beautiful eyes.
The
Far East was on all our minds. Young Americans chanted “Hare
Krishna” with shaved heads, orange robes and bells in the center of
Boston University every day. The Beatles had made India closer by
embracing the Maharishi, (Sexy Sadie). Darwin was ready for a
spiritual quest, especially since he couldn't go home for seven
years. Claudia would go with him once she graduated.
Talking
about travel with Darwin got Joey going. He had been on his way to
Mexico before Christmas, but cutting a tree in the median of highway
Rte 28 had gotten him arrested. That winter with me, he was happy
enough in Boston, but he suggested we escape the next winter by going
to Spain. From there, we could go on to India if we wanted.
Meanwhile,
I wondered about the value of my expensive stay at Boston University.
Career goals were beginning to force me to attend boring lectures.
After seven years of French, I couldn't speak the language. In Spain,
I could learn with immersion. Learning in my own way for a while with
various types of education seemed like a good idea. I could return to
university at any time. This was an opportunity to study the world
and free myself from old habits and dependence on the soft American
life, wrapped in plastic.
My
decision, taken in innocence and trust, would be hard on my parents.
I was going in spite of my worries about what the trip would be like.
Quick-tempered Joe usually plays an active role immediately, and a
sense of humor carries him through. I tend to stay quiet in new
situations, taking everything in before reacting. Surprised by his
quick response to a tough situation, I am often unable to do anything
more than go along. A quick decision can be as right or wrong as a
slow one, and he is often the first to see the faults, although once
embarked, the course taken may not be easily changed. Many decisions
are not ultimately important, so the time I spend deciding can seem
to him to have been wasted. In 1971, I took months.
By
the time we left, I had known Joey for almost a year and lived him
with him for five months. The intermediary stage before marriage
turned quickly, for my generation, from being engaged to living
together. Society's rules changed so quickly with the contraceptive
pill (The Pill) that our parents were shocked and concerned, but we
weren't listening to them. Old joke: “When your kids are fit to
live with, they're living with somebody else.” The kicker, now
forgotten, is the titillation of “living with” as Sex outside
Marriage.
I
accepted the new mores easily as a natural and honest way of
conducting a relationship. I had never seen Joey without his beard,
but I trusted his judgment, and I thought he would trust mine too.
The people we met abroad were to tell us we were a good-looking
couple, tall and healthy, he in blue jeans, a full beard and black
curls tied back; my skirt as short as any other and loose, long hair.
We didn't think of ourselves as hippies. Counter-culture has many
layers of involvement and we never espoused any particular way.
Europeans saw us as American students.
Europe
did not look as distant as it had when I had considered the
university option of Junior year abroad, not when we were
contemplating the Far East where we could find something, perhaps
“Nirvana.” Even if we only got as far as the Near East, Turkey
was the home of Meher Baba, whose smiling face proclaimed his
profound doctrine, “Don't Worry, Be Happy,” on posters on college
campuses.
Making
plans to free ourselves from the shackles of our habits and
dependence on things Americans take for granted, we chose small
dark-green backpacks with an outside pocket but no frame, easy to
carry or to throw in a car. My pack held two changes of clothes,
waterproof poncho, small set of nesting cookout pans, tiny Svea gas
stove, tiny tin of gasoline, toothbrush, toothpaste, herbal shampoo,
coconut oil soap, my flute, Moby
Dick, and a macrame project. I tied
the sleeping bag and thin foam mat to the outside of the pack and
carried a purse. Joey took even less, making do with one change of
clothes. His sleeping bag fit inside. Since a basic tenet of many
Eastern religions is that one should be rid of possessions, we felt
virtuous as we played at poverty and traveled light.
We
were also vegetarian, Joey's principle, based on his inability to
kill an animal. I thought more about the ecological possibilities of
the human race moving down the food chain and possible changes in
myself. People had begun to say, “You are what you eat.”
Hitchhiking
required no money or advance planning. I had often made my way to and
from classes in Boston using my thumb. I had been propositioned
once, but I opened the car door in the middle of traffic, and the
driver backed off immediately, pulling over to let me out. In
Europe, the relative lack of automobiles made travel by thumb even
more prevalent and allowed us to meet ordinary people who were
disposed to be friendly. As a couple, we kept each other safe. Some
thought us holy idiots, traveling along blithely oblivious to the
usual concerns.
We
really had no idea of how long we would be gone or where we could get
to. The money, $1,500 each, came from summer jobs. I wrote my
family, “You needn't worry. The cheapest way to go is round trip,
$165 Icelandic to Luxembourg, youth fare. So I won't be stranded.”
Chapter I:
STARTING OUT
Finally,
after getting passports, collecting addresses and saying good-byes,
we took the long flight. At a stop in Iceland, we could have bought a
snack, but the money was too confusing and the choices too odd. Our
destination, Luxembourg, was a city to leave quickly before we had to
spend any more money. We changed American Express traveler's checks
at a French bank, getting francs in bank notes, each denomination a
different color, with distinctive watermarks to foil forgers.
In
October, 1971, Joe and I set out hitchhiking through France in the
rain. We must have had a number of rides those first few days, but I
remember just one, a middle-aged man who asked questions in rapid
French and was unwilling to wait while I sorted out a reply. Joe was
able to speak, an asset picked up on his previous jaunt through
France, though the driver felt it necessary to correct him often.
Considering how the French feel about their language, our years of
study were far from adequate, and they made sure we knew it,
something my teachers had not prepared me for. My dream conversations
in high school French were never to be - stage fright took over with
that hostile audience.
On
a Friday, we found ourselves in Neufchateau, 200 miles down the road
from Luxembourg in Alsace-Lorraine, about halfway down the eastern
half of France, bordering Germany. Already dusk, it looked like it
might rain again. Joe said we should look for a bridge to sleep under
like the old French bums, but first, we stepped into an inn for some
coffee.
In
the next room, a group of young men in suit jackets sat around a
table with a bottle of wine. After three days of cold stares
throughout France, we were surprised when Remy came over and asked us
to join them, first in English with a thick accent, and then in
French which was easier to understand. These schoolteachers (Remy
taught English) had started celebrating the weekend early. They
would be teaching the next half day, as school in France was held on
Monday, Tuesday, half a day Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and half a
day Saturday. The wine was good, costing less than milk, the source
perhaps of a French obsession with liver problems.
Without
any food in our stomachs, we felt giddy right away. Finally welcomed,
I was ready to try to speak French, but instead, our new friends
began singing. Three lines I couldn't understand and then “Comme
les autres. ” Going around the table, at the end of each verse, the
next person in turn was required to empty his glass. I went along to
be friendly until, soon, I couldn't drink any more. I couldn't talk
either.
I
was still awake for a ride in the cheapest car in France. The
“Deux-Cheveaux” was a two cylinder car with few safety standards.
It struck me as charmingly primitive as we rattled along with one
layer of thin metal between us and the rain. Latch door handles were
simplicity itself, but difficult to operate. At the cement block
dormitory for the teachers, Joe fell asleep on a bare mattress. I
pulled out my sleeping bag for cover from the bare bulb and turned
down a pass. One of the men wanted to know if Joe was the jealous
type. Honest as I am, my reply was that I didn't know about Joe, but
I was, so he left me alone. In the morning, they all went to work
while I threw up in the dismal toilet stalls, vowed my first drinking
game was my last, and wondered how I could have been so stupid. We
left around noon, when I could walk.
That
afternoon, Volkswagens passed us by the dozens. The bug, the car of
my generation in the USA, here belonged to older middle-class people
distrustful of young long-haired foreigners. Finally, after one ride
took us 30 miles away from the shelter we had found the night before,
we gave up trying to hitch in the rain.
I
wrote a letter in the train station, talking about the rainy weather,
the drinking game, French bread and cheese, and of my continual
endeavor: “The change of traveling is that I must keep it all
together. I like the pack as a general thing instead of a suitcase.
But the thing is to never leave my glasses somewhere.” I closed
with, “ Sorry I couldn't write a really cheerful letter, but I
wanted to do it as soon as possible since Mom asked me to telephone.”
Our
train to Perpignan arrived in the evening. At the platform exit, a
man in uniform asked us to present our tickets in order to leave the
station. I looked at Joe, now officially better at French. “What
did he say? He couldn't have said that.” The man repeated himself.
His job was to collect the punched tickets that we had left on the
train. The train had already departed.
Then
the man said, “Passporte?”
Joe
gave the man his passport, knowing it was all in order. Mine was more
difficult to get out of a special case I had made to wear under my
clothes, but I was working on it. Then the man put Joe's passport in
his pocket, said we would have to pay again, and turned away ignoring
us. We seemed to be beneath his notice. Angry, Joe made one of his
instant decisions. “Here,” he said, handing me his money. “You
take this, and I'll take care of those bastards. Go off somewhere and
wait. ”
“What!
Where?”
“Anywhere.
Go on. I can handle these jerks. ”
Joe
went with the station master and someone else to argue in an office
the size of a subway token booth. They ignored me, so I stepped over
a yellow and black striped sawhorse barrier and walked down a white
cement hallway to sit on a bench and worry under a naked light bulb.
It seemed like a long time, but was probably only ten minutes later
when Joe appeared, still mad, but free and unaccompanied.
“They
let you go!”
“What
else could they do? They couldn't keep my passport and I didn't have
any money.”
I
had been thinking of a number of things they could have done. In
fact, I had been making plans to call home, but I held my peace, and
we left the station for the now dark city.
Outside,
I ventured to ask what they had been doing all that time. “They
just made me fill out a million stupid forms. As if that would get
them anything! You'd think they wanted to make an international
incident over their stupid train tickets.”
We
planned to avoid French hotels as an unnecessary expense, but it was
really too late to try to leave the city. We found the pleasantly
cobble-stoned old quarter and a cheap, clean room in a pension.
Behind the curtain in the corner, our room had a sink and a bathroom
fixture I had never seen before. It looked like a toilet, sort of, a
squatting bowl of white porcelain on a pedestal. The drain was too
small for a toilet, but it could have been a urinal. It wasn't
attached to a tank of water, but instead, had faucets to make water
come out of a screened opening in the center of the bowl. The bidet
may be a useful piece of equipment, but I didn't trust it on my
private parts, not in a strange hotel in a foreign country.
In
the morning, we realized we were sick of France and almost to Spain.
I reminded Joe that he had wanted to get a cholera shot because that
summer there had been a few cases of cholera in Spain, probably
brought in from Morocco. I had got the shot in Boston, but, for Joe,
we went to a stone-clad hospital, probably once a convent, with
courtyards full of flowers. The French doctor wore a dark blue
uniform with brass buttons and a short cape. We sat in the sunshine
while he sent a Sister for the vaccine from the refrigerator. Did we
plan to go to Morocco? Indeed one should be careful traveling there.
The shot would cost five dollars and we should pay the Sister, he
said.
Leaving
Perpignan, we found hitchhiking still difficult, so Joe walked up to
a young, bearded Englishman who had passed us but stopped for gas. He
was driving to Barcelona with his American friends and said he had
plenty of room. This seemed like a piece of luck, but the far back of
the van had only one little window and a chemical toilet. The two
sitting in back with us knew nothing. They were just along for the
ride on vacation from some minor London college. The American
girlfriend, sitting in front, turned away from us, her head held up
straight and tense while the driver kept up the conversation, telling
us his huge hulk of a vehicle was called “Victoria Regina” or,
for short, “Vagina.”
The
driver decided to take the scenic route along the coast by the
Pyrenees. We sat, unable to see out of the window, while the road
wound back and forth. Occasional glimpses out of the windshield now
and then showed cliffs above the Mediterranean Sea. On our right
side, the barren uninhabited land rose to the mountain range
separating France from Spain. Somewhere in those mountains are the
Basques, an independent people with their own language and
traditions, and the strange city state of Andorra, with an economy
based on smuggling cigarettes between France and Spain.
In
the middle of nowhere, we got a break for tea, our Englishman
punctuating his cooking with a lecture about how the water must truly
boil, or the tea will be ruined. You can tell, he said, because
otherwise, the tea leaves will float. We gratefully accepted a cup.
Then
the girlfriend bustled into the back and began frying eggs for her
friends, her plain face unpleasant with her resentment of our
presence. I watched her in her men's clothes and dirty hair and
wondered if we were supposed to offer to pay for a fried egg. I
decided not to bother. I was feeling carsick. Joe was nonplussed, but
he too was feeling ill.
After
another hour riding in the swaying van, we stopped for customs at a
small seaside town, a tiny niche between the mountains. The shops
were filled with olives, green and black, stuffed with everything
from anchovies to zucchini. This town was a trading point between the
two countries, otherwise subsisting on what the sea could provide. I
wanted to stay there, but Joe said the ride was too good to miss. I
should remember how long we had waited and how much money we had been
spending. He held out doubts that the villagers would accept camping.
It
was a cool October evening when we reached Barcelona. Relieved to
leave the “Vagina”, we found El Pension des Angeles where Joe
came down with a fever. Had we missed a French warning about a
possible reaction to a cholera shot? Joe decided to treat the
symptoms as a flu. Suddenly, I was in charge. Joe sent me out for a
nasal spray, claiming he would be fine if only he could breathe. I
found a modern drugstore with a sign that English was spoken. By
means of gestures, I got Rhino, as it was called. As I walked back, I
read the directions and warnings in Spanish, German and English. “Do
not use for more than three days.” I tried to talk Joe out of it,
but he retreated into a cocoon of ill temper.
With
almost no Spanish, I was feeling lost, but a little Egyptian lady,
Aligata, spoke English and befriended me, telling me where to buy
bread, cheese and fruit. In return, I listened to her troubles, minor
fights with her neighbor, blown up by their proximity and empty
lives. The room's only window let into the hall, so we sat with the
door open to the windowed hall. The Spanish neighbor walked by
distrustfully eyeing our foreign jabber.
Aligata's
baby crawled over her until her husband came home to complain about
his difficulties at his Spanish office job. I tried to get tales of
travel, but all he would say was, “Egypt is very nice. You would
like it.”
Moving
on by train was not restful, the weather continued chilly, and Joe
was no better when we reached Madrid. Outside the train station,
walking along a parkway, we passed El Prado, a famous museum with
collections of Goya and El Greco. Surely, I thought, we should stop
and look at these masterpieces of European art. “Go ahead,” said
Joe. I did not, not with Joe in that state. This was no place to
begin a study of art history.
We
went on our way to the friend of a friend who kindly lent a room in a
high-rise apartment overlooking other high-rise apartments. Twenty
stories below, in a barren field, boys played soccer, entertainment
for the convalescent sports fan. I was surprised at his interest
since I had no experience with watching sports. In my family home, we
watched an ancient television on the third floor: Secret Agent or
Star Trek from dusty couches in an unheated room. Our student
apartment had no television, and Joey's cottage would have needed a
serious antenna.
Chapter II
MIJAS
By
the time Joe felt able to walk, I had finished a macrame project, a
purse of dyed sisal, charmingly rustic, but the rough material chafed
my skin, and I discarded it quickly. An overnight train was cheap,
and Joe felt sure he would feel better in warmer weather. The Costa
del Sol on Spain's southern coast has tourist beaches and artists
colonies in the mountains above the coast. In Malaga, a friend of a
friend sent us to Mijas, a tourist village on a hill with narrow
winding stone streets and houses whitewashed every year by decree.
At
a small cafe with a singing canary, an American writer from New York
took it on himself to sell us this village, telling us of a free Yoga
class taught by Americans, followed by a potluck vegetarian dinner.
We were allowed to admire his apartment, and he convinced Joe to try
the best possible cure for a cold, sworn to by Spaniards, chewing a
clove of garlic. He provided a huge clove, or tooth, as the Spaniards
call it. Joe managed a bite, and, lying, said he thought he would try
to eat the rest later, but we had to be moving on to find a place to
stay.
If
Mijas really was so great, we figured we could camp for a few days in
a field outside town, but it was miserably windy and Joe wasn't well
yet. I had brought some tea bags and filled my little pot with water
at the tap at the edge of town, but it was too windy to light that
little stove I had been carrying for hundreds of miles, even when Joe
got up to help, and ended up cursing. So far, Europe was interesting,
but not fun.
In
the early morning, we headed to the first bar-restaurant for tea.
Cafe-leche, espresso mixed with hot milk, is the usual breakfast
order in Spain, and Joe's favorite beverage, but this morning, he was
recovering from a flu. Tea was more appropriate, but didn't improve
his foul mood. I felt helpless.
We
sat staring at the enormous hams hanging from the ceiling while at
the bar, a thin gray-haired man with a beret and a scarf was talking
to the owner in halting Spanish. After a bit, the foreigner came
over. “You know, I was just talking to Juan there, and we thought
you looked a bit lost. Are you feeling all right?” he asked,
leaning over the table and blinking his eyes. By the accent, this was
an Englishman.
“Well,”
I said as I looked at Joe's tired face, “Joe has quite a cold.”
The fellow looked at Joe quizzically, so I went on, “He tried
chewing garlic yesterday to cure it, but it didn't seem to work.”
“Garlic!
No, no, no!” He raised his gray eyebrows and pulled his head back
in horror, but recovered to say, “That was yesterday. He's not
offensive now.”
“No,”
I smiled. “He didn't finish it. The Spaniards are supposed to swear
by it. Did you ever hear of it?”
“I
shall ask Juan.” He made his way to the bar where they had a short
discussion, and he returned. “Juan has heard of it.”
That
seemed to be all, so I changed the subject. “We should be looking
for a pension,” I said. “Can you suggest any? We tried camping
out on the mountainside last night. That was too cold.”
“Perhaps
you could come to my place. You could have a hot shower.” This
seemed a tremendously good idea to him. “The pensions don't have
hot showers, you know.”
“Do
you have an apartment here?”
“Quite
close. I just popped out for a morning cafe-cognac with my friend
Juan, much the best way to start the day. I think we should take Joe
up right now. He looks as if he could use a bit of a lie down.”
“I'm
all right,” Joe said glumly. “I just have a headache. ”
“No,
no, no, no, no! You should have a hot shower and some aspirin and a
nap. And remember, don't ever swallow that poisonous stuff in your
nose. I'll show Flossie here my puppets.”
So
we followed him, beguiled by the promise of a hot shower and puppets.
There hadn't been any hot showers yet in Europe. Outside the cafe,
our new friend introduced himself. “My name is Rory O'Neil. Irish,
of course. All the best drunks are Irish. That's Joe, and I will call
you Flossie.”
I
realized I didn't hadn’t told him my name, so I said, “My name's
Ellen,” but he seemed uninterested.
Across
the street and up the stairs, we arrived in the hall of a two room
apartment with an efficiency kitchen and a bathroom. In the living
room, Joe was hustled into the only chair, next to a work bench
holding two handmade puppets with paper-mâché heads.
While
Rory O'Neill turned on the electric water heater, I examined the
grotesque witch with a wrinkled face, black yarn hair and paper-mâché
hands attached to a simple purple robe. A clown puppet was also
finished with a red robe and red yarn hair. Two dry paper-mâché
heads seemed to be awaiting paint.
“This
will take an hour or so,” said Rory, coming into the living room.
“We mustn't waste money keeping the hot water on all the time, you
know.”
“All
right. That's fine. Joe can rest here,” I said. “I love your
puppets. Do you put on shows?”
“Ah,
yes, the puppets,” said Rory O'Neill, turning to the work bench to
fuss over his creations. “I like this one best.” He picked up the
grotesque witch and settled it on his hand.
“Do
you sell the puppets?” I asked, since my previous question had gone
unanswered.
“No,
no, no, no, no!” Rory's eyes widened with horror as he lifted his
chin high and raised the hand clothed with the surprised witch,
making her fling back her head and hands. “I couldn't part with my
creations for mere lucre!”
I
put the clown onto my hand and practiced with it, making it bow to
the witch on Rory's hand. He had the witch jerk about looking at
things for a while, and then returned her to the stand to admire her.
Finally he said, “I thought of joining a caravan. There's a fellow
planning to take his daughters to India in a horse-drawn caravan. I
thought I should go with them. We could pay for ourselves with puppet
shows along the way.”
“When
would you leave?”
“I
haven't finished the puppets yet.”
“What
kind of show will it be?”
“Oh,
Punch and Judy type. Boff on the head, you know. Classic puppet
theater. But I need time to perfect the moves. Now, Flossie, do you
know how to make tea?” I wasn't sure, after all I'd heard about
English tea, but tea bags were all he had, so that was easy enough.
Joe
and Rory got into a discussion about the caravan to India. Joe loved
it and wanted to see if we could go along. I thought we had a lot to
learn about horses. Finally, when the shower was ready, Rory left us,
going out to his bar. Joe showered and napped while I worked on
another macrame project and planned a simple dinner of potatoes and
eggs with the food we had bought for camping. When I tried the
shower, I found it disappointingly low on heat and pressure. Often,
in Europe, water pressure is low, the force behind the taps being
simply gravity working from a tank on the root of the building. If
air gets trapped in the pipes, bubbles working their way up can slow
the flow of water considerably.
“No,
no, no, no, no, no, no!” came up the stairs in a descending
crescendo at about 5:00. The offending article was apparently the
door.
Conversation
was not as coherent now, and Rory's eyes were bloodshot. A long story
about a woman he had been talking to that afternoon culminated in
what struck me as an offensive expression, evidently British slang.
“I don't know what was wrong with her. I wasn't trying to poke her.
I didn't want to poke her.” Joe thought the expression was cute.
I
retreated to the kitchen to cook, and Rory confessed his true name to
Joe: Alexander Worstely.
Tuesday
we met the man going to India with his daughters. He was still in the
planning stages, drawing up a fiberglass trailer. We heard the story
of his hike with his daughters from Torremolinos to Lisbon. Rory
decided our way was best. He said he envied us, traveling with our
houses on our backs like snails.
Wednesday
arrived, the day of the Yoga class. Joe was better and wanted to buy
a Spanish guitar and learn how to play. Since I had brought my flute,
we could practice together. Joe found a French guitar player who
took him all the way to Malaga and back for naught while I looked at
Mijas shops filled with tourist goods. Toledo steel letter openers
were worked to look like miniature swords. Horseshoe nail jewelry
crosses were popular, evoking an image of the nails were used to
attach bodies to the crucifix in ancient times. By the afternoon, Joe
and Andre were back and settled in the little hole in the wall shop
trying out all the guitars, finally choosing one.
After
siesta, we went back to Rory's place to find him contemplating a
chicken's foot from the butcher's shop. He had set it up on a
display stand next to the puppets. “Odd, isn't it?” asked Rory.
“But look!” He made the claws open and close by moving the skin
on the legs up and down. “I love it! If only my puppets could move
this way! Or if I could attach it to some strings and just hop it
across the stage.”
“Interesting,”
I managed to say, nodding my head. I was struck most by the
impossibility of ever actually using the item. I expect the butcher
enjoyed the crazy Englishman's fascination with the chicken foot. Joe
was quite disgusted with its almost alive shiny yellow skin and
claws.
We
were glad to leave it for the Wednesday night Yoga class. An American
lady was hosting, opening her house to members of this community of
foreigners. We had brought our thin foam rubber mats and some fruit
to add to the potluck dinner. The teachers, American students of
Swami Satchedananda and his course of Integral Yoga, had stories of
his healing through the asana stretch postures they demonstrated
while their tape recorder played Indian music.
After
class, the potluck buffet held casseroles attesting to the
possibilities for delicious meatless meals. Joe talked to the
teachers and got us an invitation to stay at their farm. After
dinner, we said good-bye to a surprised Rory O'Neil before meeting
our new friends and driving out of town.
Actually,
these Americans rented a farmhouse, and the owner, who preferred to
live in town, worked the land. We were escorted by lantern to the
tiny low ceilinged spare bedroom and given a candle by which we read
the only decoration on the wall, “Desiderata”, the short sermon
of plain advice found in St. Paul's Church, Baltimore. It begins, “Go
placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may
be in silence.” My favorite sentence is, “If you compare yourself
with others you may become vain and bitter; for there will always be
greater and lesser persons than yourself.” Years later, when we
wrote of our marriage, they sent us that now yellowed copy which I
have placed in a “floating” frame.
In
the morning we woke to the brilliant sunshine of southern Spain.
There were no windows, but the doorway opening to a private courtyard
could illuminate the small white room. We did the Yoga we had
learned, including the “Salute to the Sun” with back and forward
stretches of the spine and legs, for me still an essential part of
any health or exercise program.
After the asanas, we closed our
eyes to the orchard of ripening oranges beyond the cabbage patch and
tried to meditate, wondering if levitation was in our powers. For me,
meditation is thinking through my problems, at this time: Joe's
sickness, washing clothes, and repaying hospitality. Meditation
lightens their effect, and I move back from the realm of thought. By
centering on deep breathing, I continued for a few more minutes, then
opened my eyes and watched the butterflies until Joe seemed to be
done.
Around
the other side of the house, under the grape arbor still covered with
leaves, we found our Yoga teachers having granola, discussing the
class, deciding it had been a success. Their other discussions were
about diet. They took turns cooking vegetarian feasts, the only bone
of contention being whether or not eggs were permitted. The one
couple inclined to the Indian philosophy which allows milk but no
eggs, while the other couple felt the egg was the perfect food,
packaging and all, recommended for the woman with a tendency to
diabetes. She had her egg for lunch and the communal meal at night
had none.
Studying
their library, I found books about diet and exercise. Dr. Ehret's
mucous-free diet was limited to fruits and nuts in order to clean out
the system from all the gluey products clogging our bodies. This diet
would make our minds light and clear, but was a commitment in both
time and money.
They
recommended Living on the Earth
by Alicia Bay Laurel, with pen and ink illustrations of happy naked
people and Californian directions for food, clothing, shelter and
medicine. Our friends had arranged a toilet called a “proper shit
hole” on instructions from the book. Toilet paper in a plastic bag
was hung up on a stick next to a ditch with a shovel in a pile of
dirt. The book had everything!
Years
later, I bought the book and found the instructions simplistic and
incomplete. Since it is written in longhand and organized by whim,
information is particularly difficult to retrieve as well as
unsubstantiated. When I thought I would at least try the recipes
after ten years, I opened a page at random. “Winter Heat”
suggested a wood stove made from two 55 gallon drums seemingly
suspended by a flue pipe, resting on braces on two bricks over a
fringed rug. Inspiration faded, and I closed the book and put it in
the box for the Salvation Army.
We
spent a week on this idyllic farm in the mountains squeezing juice
from bursting pomegranates, watching cabbage butterflies,
whitewashing our little room with “cal”, and taking our turn to
cook.
At
the next week's Yoga class, we witnessed the teacher taking away the
pain of a scorpion sting by holding a student's hand and meditating.
The macrobiotic feast included an Indian Raj Kumar who invited us to
visit in Madras should we actually get there.
November
weather in Mijas began to be chilly, so we set out again. We would
use our travel leisure time to work on Yoga and to study the effects
of diet on the body and mind. Since the summer before our plan had
been to winter in the Canary Islands. Nominally European, but off the
coast of Africa and south of Morocco, the Canaries are hospitable and
cheap as well as close enough to the equator to have a pleasant
winter. Ferry passage goes out of the port of Cadiz on the south-west
corner of Spain, the oldest city in Europe, we were told.
CHAPTER
III: GALDAR
In Cadiz, next to the
waterfront, we stopped in the square to buy fried squid rings, fried
in batter like onion rings, but much bigger and tougher. They had no
ketchup.
Away
from the port, the water's edge formed a narrow and littered beach,
bordered by a short, stone embankment. As the beach is communal
property, we thought we might spend the night sleeping there. We sat
on the sand with our backs resting against the wall and watched the
ocean as dusk fell. Rats came out of the stone wall to forage, so Joe
put the food a few feet away from us. The rat went straight for the
plastic bags and had found our cheese and was ripping open the bag
before Joe could take aim and hit it with a rock.
We
were gathering up our things to leave this dreary scene when someone
addressed us from the embankment. The Guardia Civil, a policeman in a
shiny black three-cornered hat, wished to inform us the beach would
be covered with water overnight.
Back
in the square by the waterfront, Joe asked a couple of young Spanish
men where a good place to stay was. They said they knew the best
place, and it was free. These fellow wanderers traveled with no
luggage, just the permapress clothes on their backs. We, on the other
hand, were planning on camping out and carried, as Rory O'Neill had
said, houses on our backs. After walking for a half hour, Joe cursed
the weight of his guitar and wished he hadn't listened. We could have
found a pension for whatever small fee. Tired myself, I said nothing;
the time for decision was past. Having followed them for so long, we
were out of any hotel district and had invested too much effort to
give up, going on and on until a building under construction
appeared, a shelter of sorts.
The
next day, on a boat to Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, I discovered what I
should have known. Unlike the heroines in books, I get seasick. Of
course, an active heroine serves the needs of the story. Nothing
happens when you're seasick. Books taught me a lot of things, but my
hopefulness and mental balance did not protect me at sea.
As
the ferry pitched and rolled in the Atlantic, I sat in the lounge
watching the other passengers. The ones who had brought enormous
packs were Canadians, identified by the maple leaf flag sewn onto the
pack. Anyone with green pants would be American. Young American men
might wear army green. The middle-aged tourist sported bright green
polyester knit slacks.
I
made friends with a fellow sufferer, a single woman traveling with a
bicycle, and shared my honey and lemon for tea. She said we could
find a health food store in Las Palmas.
Joe,
meanwhile, pursued a different course. He claimed the best way to
avoid getting seasick was to run around the ship drinking cognac with
Spanish sailors on leave. They even gave him a guitar lesson.
We
disembarked at the first stop, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. We thought
we might make connections to one of the other islands: Santa Cruz de
Tenerife, Columbus' last stop before his famous voyage, barren
Lanzarote, actively volcanic La Palma, Fuerteventura, Hierro, or
green Gomera where the islanders sometimes use a whistling language.
However, Gran Canaria, a round island fifty miles in diameter,
elevation to 1,949 meters, was big enough to satisfy our interest in
exploration.
The
capital city, Las Palmas, is set up to handle English speaking
tourists. The beach, Playa de las Cantaneras, featured eateries with
German wurst, Swedish meatballs, hamburgers, hot dogs, French pastry
and Italian ices. Next to the beach, duty free shops held goods from
around the world: furs, jewelry and gifts. Before leaving town, we
checked out the health food store, run by an ascetic Swede and filled
with expensive vitamins and tonics. We could return for a few staples
once settled, brown rice and whole wheat flour. With a free map from
Tourist Information, we hit the road.
The
straight road south along the eastern shore was, in fact, a highway
to the island's tourist beaches. The mountainous island has distinct
climates, and that side has the dry, warm weather. Our first ride
came from a Spanish man and his little daughter headed for a picnic.
He left the highway for his favorite cafe where he bought a fantastic
baked omelet studded with potatoes, peas, onions, carrots and cheese,
and a liter of Coca-Cola, name brand but sweeter than the American
version. Chatting with this gentleman in our broken Spanish was fun.
In contrast to the French, the Spanish seemed to think we were
charming, trying to learn their language.
At
the first little rocky wash, just outside Maspalomas, he stopped the
car and proceeded to set up a huge yellow and white striped tent, big
enough to invite us in to share the food. After lunch came nap, so we
left him to the privacy of his portable home and walked down to a hut
built on the edge of the next bit of rocky beach.
A
wild-looking hairy young German was cooking over an open fire. In a
heavy accent, he extolled the virtues of the fisher folk who let him
work with them and stay in their hut. They paid him with fish and
lessons in machismo. He called out his woman, Greta, but she couldn't
speak English and soon disappeared. We were pleased to see this type
of camping permitted, though there was no room for us here. We waited
for our host with the tent to wake up so that we could say good-bye
and moved on.
Maspalomas
seemed to be little more than sandy beaches and high-rise hotels with
expensive shops and restaurants on the ground floor. A little shanty
town across a dry river bed next to a rocky shore completed the
picture. A bamboo forest was under guard. We camped out by that rocky
beach, but we knew we wouldn't stay.
We
returned north, back past Las Palmas on the island's north-east
corner and stuck out our thumbs on the road going west along the
north shore. An empty banana truck stopped and the good-natured
driver made conversation with Joe, giving us lessons in Spanish. Out
of the front window of the truck, we watched the cliffs going in and
out, up and down, rising along the sea. We passed buses stopped at
the little places on the inside of curves in the road, the
combination general store/post office/cafe serving as connection to
the world for people living in the narrow valleys. Our driver called
the rocky dry river beds “barrancos” and I wondered what the
valleys looked like when it rained.
We rounded a cliff, wondering if
we would meet a truck going in the opposite direction, and in the
distance, a perfect volcano cone rose up by the sea. It disappeared
as we headed to the next little stop in a rocky culvert, but appeared
again and again, ever closer, seeming to watch us as we backed 100
yards into a narrow space to be passed, until we reached Galdar, the
town named for the mountain, where we were glad to come down from the
cab and set our feet on the earth again.
We
bid the driver adios at his cafe and walked past hedges of leggy,
unpruned poinsettia, the red blooms high over our heads. Here was a
real Spanish town with an economy based on bananas and tomatoes. We
saw shipping warehouses, a cement factory and every necessary shop.
Signs above the shops were word puzzles: Cafeteria = coffee shop,
drogueria = drug store, churroria = churro shop, zapateria = shoe
store, comestibles = food store, banque, bank, and so on. The
shopping area looked like just the right size; we could get anything
we wanted and not get lost. Before heading downhill for the seashore,
we stopped to buy a Spanish-English dictionary. We had gone a month
in Spain without one, simply in order to travel light. Now in Galdar,
we were ready to stay and study the language.
Bananas
as a cash crop began in 1910, and the town had grown around the
banana plantations' high cement block walls lining the road down to
the beach. A metal gate gave us glimpses of the small trees in a
damp forest, utterly unlike the dry rocky soil outside. We didn't see
the other cash crop, tomatoes, until later since they are farmed
outside town in drier conditions.
We
walked downhill until we came to a rocky shore with a bit of sandy
beach, a few houses and, right on the water, the bar-restaurant
“Agujero”.
Near
the shore, we found what seemed to be old foundations cut into the
soft volcanic rock, littered with old shoes and sardine tins. We set
up in one, and Joe went to the Agujero tienda, for bread, sardines
and tomatoes while I cleaned up.
A
young woman from the next house came out to talk to me. “Ingles?”
she asked.
I
knew that meant English so I said, “America,” pronouncing it in
the Spanish way.
“Tiene
hermanas?” she asked.
I
scrambled through my dictionary but couldn't find “ermanas.” She
found it for me. “Sister.” Then I could reply. “Si.” I held
up two fingers. “Dos.”
“Tiene
hermanos?” She wanted to know.
I started looking in the
dictionary again, and I found it, right next to sister - brother. Of
course. “Si.” I nodded my head. “Dos. Two hermanos and dos
hermanas. ”
“Donde
es su familia?”
I
looked up donde – where. “America. ”
“Estados
Unidos,” she said. I had heard that phrase before.
When
black bearded Joe reappeared, she left quickly.
The
next day, Joe tried setting up a roof made of wild bamboo and our
waterproof ponchos. Even though rain was not expected for some
months, we might want a little privacy, camping out so close to town.
However, the Guardia Civil came by to tell us the site was a national
monument, carved out of the rock by the Guanches, blond stone-age men
who had been here when the Romans had discovered the islands.
I
wondered what had happened to the Guanches, but Spaniards never had
much information about them or even interest in them. Their lot must
have been to be enslaved and assimilated into the Roman Empire,
leaving little behind but their caves and their names.
We
were packing up to move on when the owner of the Agujero came out.
Emiliano Gomez Santana wanted to offer us the flat roof of his
building. I wondered what the catch was, but Joe accepted. Emiliano
took us under his wing. He and his son, Emiliano Chico, helped make a
shelter on the roof out of bamboo and plastic next to the short wall
forming the edge of the roof.
Meanwhile,
the wife, Conchita Moreno Mendosa, and daughter, Julia Gomez Moreno,
took me into the kitchen. When the men were done, we joined them for
a meal. Joe warmed Conchita's heart by eating three bowls of
vegetable stew. We offered to pay, but they happily assured us there
could be no question of money. We figured we could renegotiate later.
Here
we were, without elaborate arrangements, in a Spanish family ready to
take us in. Emiliano was probably more open to new ideas than the
average Spaniard, but otherwise typical: short, dark, energetic and
polite. Conchita was sweet, like a fat pretty girl dressed in bright
colors instead of black like most married Spanish women. Her smooth
skin showed no lines after four children, her face unscarred by
worry. If things weren't just like always, if she were out of onions
or the beans were too big, her voice would get shrill, sounding very
dramatic as she declared the soup “ruin”. For an education in the
Spanish language and character, we had hit on the real thing.
Learning
Spanish with the family provided some surprises. A long sigh, “Hey
Sue”, from Conchita as she began peeling a pile of potatoes was an
invocation of our savior, Jesus. Whereas, a common exclamation we
picked up right away, “Conyo”, turned out to mean something quite
out of my usual vocabulary, “cunt.”
In general, the language was
easy once I tuned my ears in for similarities with French and English
within the pronunciation framework and the Spanish turn of phrase.
Our lack of verb tenses didn't bother anyone.
We
liked the phrase “Par piso” which reflected on the architecture
as well as mentality of the people. “Par piso” means literally,
“for the floor”. A number of things were consigned to the floor
automatically, peanut shells, cigarette butts and candy wrappers.
This trash disposal was possible with the ubiquitous cement or tiled
floors. Of course, this meant the daughter of the house had to sweep
and wash the floor every day. Here came in another use of the word
“manana” that we know in the South American sense as putting
everything off. As Conchita used it, it meant, “Oh, well, we don't
have to do a careful job today since we'll just be doing it over
again and again.”
Conchita
had a weekly cooking pattern. Monday's potaje was followed by
Tuesday's sopa de fideos, chicken bouillon with chickpeas and
noodles. Wednesday's paella was made with chicken stock and bright
yellow from the Spanish food coloring labeled “asafran” though it
wasn't saffron. Thursday was potaje again and Friday, fish. Saturday
and Sunday were restaurant days with leftovers from whatever was
served in the dining room.
If
anyone was sick, Conchita fixed eggs. She called this dish for
invalids “Arroz Cubano”: white rice, fried potatoes and deep
fried eggs. The other egg dish, maybe whipped up to fatten “Hoesie”,
was “tortilla espanol,” a fried potato omelet. The omelet is
about three inches thick, studded with home fried potatoes. Conchita
would also fry green bananas - they came out almost exactly like
potatoes. During the war, she said, (it turned out to be the Spanish
civil war) they had lived on fried bananas.
I
was really happy this Spanish family didn't eat meat. Conchita was
cheerful when we explained about our diet and said, “Oh, we don't
eat meat either.” She must have thought it a good joke that we were
concerned with avoiding the meat that they couldn't afford. I also
noticed she cut onions with the grain - up and down rather than
slices of rings as my mother did. The macrobiotic we had met in Mijas
had told us this was the Right Way. She was pleased that this was the
Right Way. I realized once I started helping that cutting is a lot
easier that way, particularly as the knives weren't sharp.
If
Joe didn't eat two bowls of paella, Conchita would act offended.
“Eat! Eat more! Hoesie! What's the matter? Don't you like my
cooking?” In fact, he did tire of the exact same recipe for lunch
and supper twice a week.
To
get me to eat more, she would scold me for being too skinny. She said
I would waste away to nothing and die, and Joe would get someone
else. I didn't think I was underweight, but I guess to look like a
married woman, a Spanish housewife, I would have had to gain at least
twenty pounds.
After
muerza, the midday meal, there was siesta. I never got used to that
nap in the middle of the day, but was glad to retire to the roof
where I could meditate on the perfect volcano cone of Mt. Galdar,
write home, or read Moby Dick
with the waves pounding on the cliffs below.
Joe
stuck around the bar to talk to the guys who worked in the gravel pit
just past the banana plantation. Their siesta time was spent drinking
beer and talking to the American. Emiliano must have been pleased
with the extra business. Joe even took up smoking because it was
embarrassing to keep refusing cigarettes, buying a milder brand than
the foul ones made locally. He picked up the skill of drinking
without touching his lips to the bottle, usually learned on a “bota”
or leather water flask.
Sunday,
the big day for the bar, Emiliano served “tapas”, little dishes
of savory, oily food: paella, squid or octopus simmered in tomato
sauce, or “Ropa Vieja” made of chickpeas and potatoes fried with
a bit of canned corned beef. The squid was very good even though it
still had little suckers on the tentacles. Emiliano Chico hated his
job of cleaning them. Maybe because they had been frozen and were
still cold, or that the thin skin was too difficult to peel off.
Maybe he just didn't want to be in the kitchen, but everyone helped
on Sundays. I washed dishes.
In
the mornings, Joe would fish off the low cliffs into the sea. Bamboo
for poles grew wild, and Emiliano sold tackle in the tienda. Bait was
old bread, soaked in a bucket of sea water. After removing the
crusts, you squeeze and work the cooked dough until it sticks to the
hook. The method involves a lot of re-baiting, especially when the
seas are rough, but they caught fish. Santiago “El Macho” caught
La Vrancha which was very big, and Joe got some tasty little Foola.
They were deep-fried whole without batter, a method I see in this
country only in Chinese restaurants. It's a great way to cook scup
(also known as porgy), a small sport fish caught in Massachusetts. It
was in Spain I lost my fear of using plenty of oil for cooking.
One
day, after watching Mt. Galdar for weeks, we decided to climb the
volcano, to make it our own by walking on it as well as by studying
its perfect slope. Emiliano had climbed it once, he said. It wasn't
too hard. Not too high. Conchita thought mine a strange ambition. She
had seen its smooth sides for 40 years and never had felt the urge to
climb it. The weather was perfect, as always, pleasantly cool. I was
having my monthly period, but that doesn't usually slow me down, and
Joe offered to carry a backpack with some lunch.
We
set out to travel in a straight line, walking through tomato fields
and people's yards, the mountain ahead of us. People stuck their
heads out of windows to yell, “Donde van?” Joe would yell, “ La
Montana!”, and they would nod vigorously, satisfied.
We
walked for half an hour slightly uphill until we reached the base of
the cone. Here an empty tomato packing plant nestled into the side of
the hill, waiting for the tomato export season to get underway. The
rock underfoot changed to light chunks of porous lava, the whole
mountain seeming to be made of crunchy rocks moving underfoot. The
packing plant began to look as if it would get buried in pumice.
However, we were the only climbers setting out from here, pushing
down rocks. A road spiraled around the cone for sightseers. We
crossed it several times before we came to a huge cave about three
quarters of the way up the mountain. We stopped to rest, noting the
rocks were wearing away our marvelous Spanish espadrilles (that don't
last) made with real rope soles and crude canvas tops with no right
or left foot.
We
had a snack while looking into the cave that disappeared into a
tunnel far above our heads. We were considering exploring it when
some Spanish boys showed up, dressed, we thought, most
inappropriately for hiking, in their usual tight pants and polyester
knit shirts. They explained the cave had once belonged to the
Guanches, but now was sacred to The Holy Virgin. The tunnel, they
said, didn't go anywhere and anyway you couldn't climb in it. I
wondered how they could climb at all in their tight pants and
slippery shoes, but they scrambled about for a while on the big rocks
at the entrance to the cave.
We
didn't want to climb to the top with them, so we waited until they
got bored and set off again. I rested while Joe went as far as he
could into the cave. He reported the tunnel seemed inaccessible and,
if it were made of the same crunchy rock, it wouldn't be safe for
climbing. Also, from the droppings on the floor, Joe deduced it
probably had bats. So we set off again uphill, finding another
smaller cave, and then reached the top.
The
view revealed the entire north side of the island from Las Palmas,
the north-east corner with a jag sticking into the ocean, to Agaete
barely visible as a few buildings in the west. We spotted “our
house”, the restaurant Agujero, down by the seaside and south into
the mountains of the interior, green with banana plantations and
disappearing into the mist like the enchanted kingdoms of a fairy
tale.
A
Fiat drove up, a couple of men got out and looked around for a
minute. They offered us a ride down, but we refused, so they climbed
back in and drove away.
Descending
Mt. Galdar was harder than climbing up with that insecure footing,
and we were tired now. After spilling numerous stones on the factory,
we came into a part of town we had never seen. We stuck to the road
now with a stop for cafe-leche and a sweet before going back down to
Agujero.
For
electricity, Emiliano would run a diesel generator at night and on
Sunday. Most evenings we spent watching Spanish TV. I remember
“Notacias de Hoy”, the news, and “Perdido en Espacio”, Lost
in Space, a show I had always avoided in spite of my addiction to
science fiction. The dubbing and the ads added a little interest and
helped my language skills. SOS soap pads made a little pun on “Eso
es” which translates as “This is”. Brillo, which translates as
“Shine”, is pronounced “Breeyo”.
By
early December, we were definitely picking up the language. When the
two young Canadian couples (huge backpacks) arrived, I was sent to
the tienda to handle the transaction. They had rented rooms down by
the “piscina”, a huge ocean water swimming pool washed by the
waves. We had been swimming at the sheltered beach a couple of times
in November, and Conchita had been worried. “Hoesie! HOESIE! Come
back! “It's deep!” she had yelled from the roof, but of course we
couldn't hear her. Later, she gave us a dramatic show of how she
tried to save us. The piscina was pronounced safe by all, but by then
it was December and getting cold in Galdar.
We
visited the Canadians to exchange reading material and they let me
cook tempura vegetables in their kitchen.
I
really wanted to reciprocate for all the cooking Conchita did, so
when I went to Las Palmas to check for mail, I bought a beautiful
cauliflower at the vegetable market, my favorite shopping place. I
also bought white gasoline for the little Svea stove I had been
carrying. I made a slightly different potage for a surprise for
dinner. I am still embarrassed to say some gasoline spilled on the
cauliflower and, although I threw away half the beautiful head, the
part marked with the clear stain, the stew was spoiled. Sopa de
Gasolina, Emiliano called it. Conchita didn't mind: she had refused
to even try the stew. I could only reciprocate for her cooking by
washing the dishes.
We
tried once again. Joe decided these potato lovers would like lefse,
Norwegian potato flat bread we labored hours over, but only the
father, Emiliano, would taste it.
The
only successful cooking venture was a cake from a mix Joe made to
surprise me with on my twenty-first birthday. I was banished upstairs
to our little camp on the roof. Joe told me later Emiliano had to
light the oven as Conchita never used it and didn't know how. As the
heat came up, cockroaches came pouring out of their ancestral home.
The finished product was a delicious lemon sponge cake.
The
fourteen-year-old daughter, Julia Gomez Moreno, claimed to love
American music. Joe tried singing her some of our favorite Beatles
tunes, accompanied by the guitar, but Julia wasn't interested. She
wanted to hear her favorite American song, “Mamy Blue”, a big hit
that year in Spain. We hadn't heard of it, nor did her singing help.
Eventually, we saw it performed on Spanish TV. Written by a
Frenchman, this version featured a black Spaniard lip syncing,
accompanied by violins. It went like this: “The little house upon
the hill, (oh Mamy) Is empty but it's standing still, (oh Mamy) Oh
Mamy, Oh Mamy Mamy blue, oh Mamy blue. ”
Saturday
was Paseo, Julia's big event. Fridays she would nag her mother to get
the wash done so her new blue jeans would be perfect. I helped with
the wash as much as I could, a learning experience. Hand washing can
be harder on clothes, especially with Conchita's vigorous rubbing and
inspection, but they couldn't have been cleaner. Conchita complained
the blue jeans were harder to wash because they were thicker material
than most clothes.
When
the time came, Emiliano Chico would leave first. Then the neighbor
girl would pick Julia up so they could go together to the town square
to walk around. We never went. To me, it sounded excruciating to
dress for inspection and prepare for chit-chat with the whole town,
especially the teen-agers. Our rule at the time was, if you needed
new clothes, we didn't go.
Our
expeditions to town were usually made in the morning to do shopping
and mail letters. Shops, of course, were closed in the afternoons
until 4:00 for siesta. Anyway, morning was the time to buy churros.
Not a breakfast for a delicate stomach, churros there were fried
popover dough.
The
churroria we particularly liked had a machine to make a huge spiral
of churro. Our “churrorero” would spin the pan of hot oil slowly
while moving a long metal tube over the surface allowing a thin line
of eggy dough to run out. The finished tube of dough would fill the
pan and puff up to many times its size. Flipping the spiral would
brown the other side before its removal to be cut into six inch
pieces.
I
preferred donuts, as good as any but slightly flavored with anise and
pronounced differently. One day when there were no donuts in sight, I
couldn't just point, as I usually did. “Donut?” I asked. They
looked doubtful, so I tried “Donuet?”and “Donoot?” Finally I
saw an empty box. “Oh! Donoo!” they said. “Manana.”
One
day, in the shop that carried Quaker Oats, I found plastic bags of
gofio, in a range of color from light yellow to brown. With the help
of my dictionary, I discovered it was corn flour. I said to the
friendly shopkeeper. “What's the difference here?” I asked the
friendly shopkeeper. “This one is yellow, and this one is brown.”
“This
yellow is for babies. The brown, that's for men.”
Certainly
I wasn't cooking for a baby, so I bought the dark gofio.
Next
to our sleeping shelter on the roof, we had a little setup with the
Svea stove. My plan was to make tortillas from the corn flour to vary
our diet a bit with the readily available beans for a Mexican style
meal. Unfortunately, gofio is ground from toasted corn kernels and
the darker stuff had been toasted longer. The “macho” gofio I had
bought tasted slightly burnt. It was ground finer than masa harina,
and, because of the toasting, would not stick together at all. I
threw in an egg as glue, but the result was total failure as
tortilla.
Joe
entertained our Spanish family with a recital of my cooking attempt.
Conchita just shook her head at the idea of gofio flat bread.
Emiliano offered to take the gofio off my hands. He claimed to love
it mixed with Sopa de Fideos, even though Conchita didn't keep it in
the kitchen. I brought it down, and Emiliano demonstrated how a man
eats gofio.
A
letter I wrote home tells the story of an attempt to make jelly.
“Julia and I went for a walk to pick cactus pears and left Conchita
by herself, so she cheered herself up by lighting a big fire with
lots of smoky plastic. Coming back, Julia saw the smoke and was
scared for the house. I was sure it was just a rubbish fire. A cement
block house wouldn't make that much smoke. On the road was a parked
car, and Julia was scared it was two men. I looked and told her it
was a man and a woman, but she called the dogs and picked up some big
rocks. Spanish women do not go off by themselves.” All that, and
the “tuno” cactus fruit weren't even good, sort of slimy and not
sweet, with tiny prickers to work their way into the skin.
The
family kept three dogs: an ancient mutt, Dicke (we called it Decay),
a German shepherd, Mopey, that finally bit Emiliano, and another more
docile shepherd, Linda. There are dogs indigenous to the islands; in
fact “Canary” is derived from the Latin “canus”. The Canary
dog looks like a small beige whippet, cringing at an outstretched
hand. Dogs have a small place in that society. These restaurant dogs
actually had a soft life, living off scraps. They never had any
trouble eating fishbones. They just had to know their place. Mopey,
who didn't, ended up chained as somebody's watchdog.
Meanwhile,
as December came in, Emiliano was working on a new scheme: a third
floor with rooms to let. The work went slowly since cement was mixed
with wheelbarrow loads of sand and gravel from the beach. That's the
kind of work you couldn't pay Joe to do, but he did it for free
because he was glad to help. He would also help carry cement blocks
upstairs, but was only allowed to carry one at a time while all the
other macho men took three.
There
were a lot of problems Joe encountered and used to lump under the
label “Spanish construction”. Joe particularly disliked
Emiliano's habit of saving nails: removing them from boards and
straightening them out. It seemed like a nice idea to me, but since
the wood was also all old and iron hard, the nails would bend more
often than not. Finally Joe convinced the old man to go and buy some
nails. Emiliano bought used nails.
By
mid December, Conchita had a lot more laundry to do. “Look, Elli!
Tsk! The cement dust on these pillowcases!” she said as we stripped
the beds. Their rooms were tiny with a dressed doll on the bedspread.
The
layout for the third floor surprised me; the rooms were to be the
same size as the old ones, about as big as a full bathroom. I had
expected them to want bigger rooms for the family. I was happy to be
living outside instead of in such a room.
In
the warmer climate, December went by before we realized the shopping
hype was missing. We expected this Catholic country to celebrate with
a holier air than our American materialism, but Christmas in Spain
was a disappointment. Our Spanish family didn't even go to church.
Conchita didn't have any olive oil, and Emiliano said he couldn't
afford it because of the construction, so she pronounced her special
sweet potato pastries “ruin”.
We
practiced with the flute and guitar and played some Christmas carols.
The men at the bar contributed an odd Spanish carol I had never
heard, “Pero mire como beben”, “But look how they drink”. I
translate loosely:
The
Virgin is combing her hair
Between
curtain and curtain.
Her
hair is of gold,
The
comb is silver.
But
look how they are drinking,
The
fishes in the river.
But
look how they are drinking
To
see God who is born.
Drinking
and drinking and coming back to drink,
But
look how they are drinking
To
see God who is born.
The
Virgin goes walking
Goes
walking by herself
And
takes no companion
But
the infant in her hand.
(Chorus)
The
Virgin is washing diapers
And
hanging them up to dry
The
birds are singing
And
the water laughs.
(Chorus)
For
New Year's Eve, everyone pitched in for a clean up. The older son
appeared on his motor scooter to help repaint the huge restaurant
dining room with birthday cake colors, pink, yellow, blue and green.
The sixth of January, day of the Three Kings would be when presents
are exchanged in Spain, so we had heard. We made a few things, but
the family didn't have the tradition of presents.
In
January, I'd been living with construction for a month - no place to
do Yoga alone. They were going to put the roof on. Emiliano had a
load of special gravel dumped from the pit on the other side of the
beach. We had eaten enough of their food. Joe was sick of drinking
every afternoon, especially since he could now understand the
conversation. It was time to go.
Conchita
thought we should settle in town. She wondered why we had to travel
so much. She herself had only been as far as Las Palmas to the west
and, to the east to the town of Agaete to see the “Finger of God”
pointing up forty feet to the heavens. I didn't even try to explain.
I wrote home with rumors of a jaunt in Africa, and we went to check
out passage at the port of Las Palmas.
Chapter
IV: CAVE DWELLINGS ON GRAN CANARIA
We
left Galdar looking for a warmer location for January. Africa was a
possibility, but passage on a ship to Senegal was neither cheap nor
easy. We spent over a week in Las Palmas on research. Regular
channels were not helpful, so we turned to fellow travelers for
advice.
A
young woman from New Zealand who had been on the road for a year was
especially knowledgeable. We went to visit her for advice one
afternoon before she went to work.
Without
working papers, the only job Colleen could get was in a nightclub,
drinking for a living. The “clip-joint” hired her to keep the
guys company, and she got a percentage on the “champagne” they
bought for her. Colleen said when she went home, she would be
toddling along with a bellyful of water sloshing around. A customer
could also buy a bottle of “champagne” for an exorbitant price
and take her out for the evening. The job sounded awful to me, but
she said Spanish men were very polite, so I figured a real traveler
could accept such a job as part of the trip. I wondered if her hair
cut as short as a boy's helped establish her identity and offset the
image set up by her large breasts.
Colleen
had never been to Mauritania and Senegal, and agreed they sounded
likely, although in Africa you never knew how your white skin would
affect people. She had not been able to visit northern Africa
because she had worked on a kibbutz in Israel; the Israeli visa stamp
in her passport meant Egypt and many Arab countries would not let her
in. Then, after all that, kibbutz life was too regimented,
nationalistic and against non-Jews. I asked about Morocco, and she
said of course many people liked it there, and the country wasn't
actively anti-Jewish. However, we might like a place much closer,
Presa Soria, a lake in the mountains of Gran Canaria where she had
been camping until she had had a fight with her boyfriend. We
decided to check it out.
We
took the highway south, and just before the main hotel district, in
Arguinigin, we headed inland, north up a dusty unpaved road. A
cement truck stopped to pick us up, and the driver gave us a little
history of the place we were heading toward. Presa Soria was built
two years before with American money. The Canary Island people
mostly depend on a rainy season for the year's water. For the
tourist zones, there is actually a de-salinization plant, but farmers
can't afford that water. When the Soria dam was built, the locals
were bought out of the land that would be underwater or inaccessible.
The Spanish town of Soria was thriving on the near side of the lake,
serving the men working to finish the reservoir.
On
the opposite side of the lake, a camping community of young
foreigners had sprung up in the deserted houses. Our driver stopped
at one cafe and sent us to the other one where they spoke English and
we might find friends. Several people pointed us the right way
without even being asked, and we found the entrance under veranda
shaded with grape vines letting into a cool room, Isabel's tienda, a
general store and bar where we joined two young Americans with
surprisingly short hair drinking beer, warm six-ounce “Cerveza
Mas”.
“What
a name for a beer. More,” said Tim. “Uno mas, Isabel, por
favor.” Quiet, pretty Isabel understood English from a
correspondence course. She wouldn't speak that day, even to me, but
she understood and smiled as she waited on us. “Isabel, Isabel!
Isn't she beautiful,” said Tim. “She's engaged, of course. She's
just playing with my heart. They 're keeping her here to make money
as a translator.” He turned toward her, “Novio, Isabel, where's
your novio?” Tim abandoned his fruitless courtship and turned back
to us. “You're new here. How did you hear of this place?”
“We
met Colleen in Las Palmas and she thought we would like it here.”
“You
should. You should. How is old Colleen?”
“Working
in a bar, drinking for a living. ”
“I
hope she isn't sending all her customers here. If it gets too
crowded, the Guardia will kick us all out,” said Tim.
Dave
was silent. We found out later he was the boyfriend Colleen had left.
After one more beer and buying a few supplies, Tim and Dave
conducted us down to the raft.
Some
one of our fellow travelers had made this raft and strung a rope all
the way across the reservoir so we could pull ourselves across. Tim
said the Spaniards were afraid of the water and wouldn't ride the
raft. We balanced ourselves and our packs on the low platform.
“First ride's free,” said Dave, and took up the rope to do the
work.
Tim
showed us his tiny little shelter in an enlarged cave and took us up
to see some other Americans who had an extra room. We thankfully
dropped our packs to set up for the night. After the extended stay
in Spanish culture, we were ready for a more familiar community, what
the I Ching calls “like-minded people.”
I
had become quite tense, staying in Las Palmas without a plan or
destination, so tense my menstrual period was two weeks late. I was
not really worried about pregnancy because I trusted my IUD, but each
month had been painful ever since I had gotten the thing in Boston. I
relaxed profoundly, and, in the morning, felt the relief of the
return of my monthly cycle.
The
empty room where we had spent the night was part of a set of cement
block boxes built in a row like a motel, doors opening on a courtyard
overlooking the lake. A young couple and their friend had two rooms
and shared the cooking, but we found the setting bare and lacking in
privacy. The most likely spot for us, they thought, was back down
the path in a large house next to a eucalyptus tree. Other travelers
had lived there, but had left saying they might be back for
Christmas. Now the end of January, we could take over with a clear
conscience.
Our
new home had been underwater and now had only half a roof, but since
it hadn't rained all the time anyone had been there, we decided to go
with what was left, a spacious cool space. We camped within its
walls, setting up a waterproof poncho as a canopy over the bed,
separating ourselves from the cement floor with a layer of bamboo and
our thin foam mats, our tree visible through the broken roof. The
path to the raft went right by our front door, so I would have
preferred a place on the mountainside.
On
our next trip to Isabel's store, we met an older Englishman, Toyvo,
who had been in Soria all season, fishing. He was pleased at our
conversational Spanish. So many of the young people coming here had
no knowledge at all, he said. His little shelter close to the lake,
as befitted a fisherman's abode, consisted of a small room built out
from the side of an overhanging rock. Although it had been underwater
after the previous year's rain, it had suffered no damage.
Toyvo
thought we might enjoy another American couple and sent us up a path,
a fifteen minute walk up to what looked like a homestead. The young
man from the Midwest had started a garden. We were amazed at the work
he had put in, but especially at his purchase of shovels, hoes,
rakes, saws and hammers, items usually thought of as investments in
the future. Inside, the dwelling itself was large enough for a barn
by Canary Islands standards, built out from a high cave in the side
of the mountain. He had made a table and bench out of scrap wood.
Oddly enough, they chose to cook indoors, a smoky fire that drove us
out after a short look. As we prepared to leave, Joe asked him if he
wouldn't feel upset if the Guardia came, after all this work, but he
was philosophical. Even if he didn't get to harvest his crops, he
said, he felt sure someone would benefit.
To
round off the community, a large square block of a house held a
harmless gang of hippies, involved in the peaceful consumption of
LSD. A young American who had worked in Detroit for two years on
union wages was supporting a number of his Irish friends there.
I
liked the cave homes; they had a natural touch lacking in the square
stone block house, but ours had the eucalyptus tree and an air of
quiet privacy. All the houses with their tiny windows seemed much
like caves, providing a cool shelter from the sun, retaining heat for
the cooler nights. Once, the Spanish housewives had filled their
courtyards with plants in containers, usually olive oil cans, but now
the houses were surrounded by bare empty space. Taking the lead from
our neighbor up the hill, I got seeds from Isabel and planted a
garden of lettuce, radishes, and Swiss chard, hoping these fast
growing crops would have time to mature.
Most
of our socializing was quiet. Joe taught me cards, cribbage, which I
like, and honeymoon whist, interesting because you could lose every
hand and still win the game – that way, the card shark (Joe)
avoided dealing. We had nights of cards with the American trio.
Usually, I lost.
For
party food, we had pasta guayaba, guava jam made into a brick, served
in slices with the local goat's milk cheese, white, delicate, and
full of small holes.
For
music, Joe and I were learning to harmonize his guitar and my flute.
He and the others could sing.
Colleen
came up from Las Palmas to visit Dave and invited us and Tim for
dessert, New Zealand steamed pudding. It was fun until Dave
complained about how many containers she used for mixing and cooking.
They were only tin cans, but still had to be washed. She left the
next day.
The
full moon was an occasion for a game of hide and seek. Rather than
run around, I sat quietly in a cave. When no one seemed to be
looking for me, I came out to find the party was over. The rich
American boy on LSD had fallen off a cliff where he had been staring
at the moon. His teeth and his glasses were broken, and he had to be
taken off to Las Palmas at once.
We
avoided drugs in Spain. Enough else was going on, and laws were
strict in that military dictatorship. Soria was certainly isolated,
but we were not completely cut off from authority. We figured it
would be stupid to risk it. We accepted an occasional smoke of
Moroccan hashish, but carried no contraband. I felt safer when those
boys left, all accompanying their friend with the money. My letters
home discussed worries about overcrowding and whether the Guardia
Civil would kick us out.
With
nothing pressing on the agenda, we decided to try a brown rice diet.
Ten days of nothing but brown rice, soy sauce and tea would probably
take off the weight gained in Galdar as well as giving us a chance at
macrobiotic enlightenment. Instead of the LSD route, we wanted to
try a natural high, health promoting rather than dangerous.
We
traveled to the Las Palmas health food store and bought 15 pounds of
arroz distributed in one pound plastic bags and soy sauce from a
Chinese restaurant. We ended up carrying it all up the mountain on
our backs. The trucks gave no rides that day.
At
the top of the road, we saw what we thought must be the “other
tienda ”that we had heard described as “the bad one”. We
wondered if our Spanish might serve us here, whether the owner simply
couldn't relate to English speaking foreigners. Fernando “The
Crook” had the only truck and transported goods for Isabel's shop,
so he too was profiting from our stay. We went in to try our charm
and buy a beer. He overcharged us.
The
picture remains in my mind of flies buzzing around in a circle in the
middle of the room and some noisy men, workers on the dam, turning to
look at us. Sunlight from through the door pierces clouds of
cigarette smoke and dust. A skinny dog hanging around puts its nose
in to be yelled at by the bartender, whose unpleasant voice shatters
the quiet afternoon. “Saleepaya, conyo!”
We
went on our way, past Isabel's shop, down to the raft across the
lake, to our spacious house under the eucalyptus tree to begin our
experiment in diet.
We
took life easy, spending most of the day with music rather than
hiking. As you might imagine, brown rice for ten days is a boring
diet. The most interesting way of eating our meal was to “parch”
or toast the rice grains in a frying pan until they began to pop
slightly (never spectacularly like popcorn). This crunchy meal could
last a long time and tasted good with soy sauce. We were hungry, but
no closer to enlightenment.
Seven
days into our stint, it began to rain. Our roof was not adequate,
not even with the poncho canopy over the bed raised up a few inches
over a bamboo and grass base. We packed up to seek shelter with the
three Americans, figuring to play cards for the extent of the
rainstorm.
When
the Guardia Civil arrived, it was pouring. Two men in uniforms with
their regulation three-cornered hats and rain capes came walking from
the dam. Tim said the Guardia comes in the rain to be sure to catch
everyone at home. We were politely kicked out. The man who had put
in all the work at “his” place was upset. Some said Fernando the
Crook must have called the authorities. I disagreed, thinking of how
he had been making money off of us too.
In
the pouring rain, we packed everything onto the raft while the
Guardia watched. When everyone was gone, they cut the rope and went
back the way they had come, walking back around the dam in the
downpour.
We
all went to the store to ask Isabel what to do. For the night, her
father offered us a large cave, their goat barn, already half full of
hay with room for all twenty of us and for a small fire near the
front of its huge opening.
Toyvo
had just caught a large fish. The poor man didn't really want to
share it, but I admired it and offered to cook it for him, since it
wouldn't keep. That was too much. I had forced him to share it, but
he would cook it for us himself. He said he knew the best way to
cook fish. Joe and I broke our brown rice fast early, though it was
only a taste of fish, symbolic of brotherhood in adversity, bony and
not as flavorful as the ocean fish Joe had caught in Galdar.
In
the morning, the sun shone and waterfalls appeared over every cliff.
Our little company began to disperse. Some went to join a group of
young foreigners at the beach of Mogan. Others spoke of Mauritania
and Senegal on the west coast of Africa. Toyvo would rent a room in
the village of Soria.
We
decided, with an American student named John and an athletic English
brick mason named Rod, to explore by hiking to the west coast of the
island where the paved roads ended. Joe and I left the rest of our
brown rice and the guitar with Isabel, had her cook us a two-egg
tortilla espanol studded with potatoes, and set off with light packs
and light hearts, happy to be walking again in the bright, washed,
empty country on top of the island.
Twenty
minutes walk up the mountain from Soria is another reservoir, Presa
de las Cuevas des Ninas with several caves we noted for future
camping. In the cool breezy weather, we hiked past little streams
running between groves of pine trees, their needles shining with the
rain water, following a dirt road west until it ended at a small
empty house with a beautiful view by a cliff.
Backtracking
to a ravine, we found a way down the mountain at an angle of about
forty-five degrees with occasional cliffs. We all agreed to chance it
and followed the stream. Only a little water was left in this
“barranco”. At one waterfall, we threw our packs down and
descended a pine tree, feeling lucky to suffer only a broken mirror.
We
hit the dirt road in the afternoon with no coastline in sight,
looking up at the mountain, amazed we had actually been able to come
down that way. Consulting our small tourist map, we decided to go
north on this road and turn off for the closest town on the shore,
Tasarte. After another half hour of walking, a truck came by and
offered a ride to Tasarte's tomato packing warehouse. Our athletic
Englishman felt this was poor sport, but came along to keep the
company together.
The
truck stopped in the upper village. We walked down halfway to shore
and camped. In the morning, we went on down the narrow valley past a
small banana plantation in a narrow pass served by a noisy pump. As
the valley opened out again, bananas gave way to tomatoes. Near to
the shore, piles of tomatoes too ripe for shipping lay by the side of
the road. This seemed luxurious to me, though uncharacteristic of
the frugal Spaniards not to make tomato sauce, but it was not their
tradition here. Tomatoes are a recently introduced cash crop. Joe
took one to munch on and the workers smiled and waved to him. I took
a couple for later.
“Playa
Tasarte” held a tienda, indicated by an advertisement for soap in
the window. The senora served us cafe-leche and bread. As usual, Joe
took the lead, asking her about the town and its beach. The beach
was all rocks, nothing for tourists, she said.
On
the rocky beach, we found a bar, usually open only Sundays and feast
days, but the owner, there on the beach repairing his boats, was
happy to serve us warm Cervesa Mas and peanuts for even less than
Isabel had charged. The building was cold, so we took the beer
outside and sat in the sun on the rocky shore, surrounded by bits of
tar, fishing nets, and old shoes. Eleven o'clock was too early for
beer for me, no matter how cheap it was, but I rested with our
friends and ate peanuts while Joe went exploring.
He
came back with the news of a cave in a cliff down the shore. The
fisherman mending nets in front of his house said it belonged to no
one. The bar owner agreed - an empty, unused, unclaimed cave. Joe and
I decided to stay overnight. John, ready for civilization again, took
a ride to Las Palmas with the beer delivery truck. The athletic type
took off up the road to do some serious hiking.
In
the morning, we stopped again at the store for cafe-leche. Most of
the village found an excuse to drop in and look at the strangers. We
bought the most flavorful muscatel raisins ever, well worth the
trouble of spitting out the seeds. We told everybody we would be
back and headed out, hiking up to the road that circumnavigates the
island. We turned south this time and hiked for an hour. The next
village, Veneguera, didn't seem to have a shop; no one would even
offer to sell us a soda.
Going
up over another pass took us to Mogan where the roads are paved and
the highway to Las Palmas begins, tunneling through seaside cliffs.
The card playing trio from Soria were at the beach of Mogan. Instead
of staying with them, we looked up my acquaintance from the boat,
fellow frequenter of the Las Palmas health food store. She had
rented a small place in a bamboo grove deep in the valley, or, should
I say, in the ditch formed by volcanic ridges on either side. She
served us endless cups of tea and told us of Spanish men harassing
her on her bicycle. That night, all was quiet. Though I believed, in
principle, that single women should be able to travel alone, she had
dealt with more trouble then I might have withstood.
In
the morning, we hiked back to Soria. Our map showed a dirt road into
the mountains, a route to the Presa de las Cuevas des Ninas
zigzagging back and forth in hairpin turns. We followed goat paths at
the edges of the turns to go straight up the mountain.
Back
in Soria, there still wasn't any mail. While we looked forward to
hearing from home, the family didn't think their lives were worth
recording. Our parents also complained of writing into a void.
Because we kept moving around, they worried the mail would get lost
or never be claimed.
We
had promised to stay at Soria for another month at least, so we
decided to wait for the mail and eat up the brown rice we had carried
from Las Palmas on our backs. Across the lake, a few newcomers had
moved in already, but the Guardia had made it clear we weren't wanted
there. Instead, we went up the mountain and camped in a tiny cave
next to a stream leading into the Presa de las Ninas. We couldn't
stand up, but we felt sheltered.
This
time, with just the two of us, we saw little green and yellow
finches, wild canaries, the forebears to the caged birds in cafes in
Spain, though we hadn't seen any caged birds on the island.
Almond
trees around in the nearby hills were covered with nuts, so we played
squirrel. A small percentage of the trees bore bitter almonds, as we
found out the hard way. Such trees, saved for almond extract
flavoring, always had a rock stuck in the principal crotch or the
first branching off. The nuts have much harder shells than the
California varieties, but also seemed tastier. We spent hours
cracking them between two rocks. We had delicious meals based on
brown rice and almonds, sometimes flavored with wild watercress. Wild
mint provided tea. I wrote home I had splurged a dollar on honey.
When
mushrooms sprang up after another rain, we remembered a lecture on
mushrooms from Toyvo who was still in Soria. We brought some to ask
him it they were safe. He wouldn't commit himself, but he said they
appeared to be good and smelled safe. What he would do would be to
take a tiny taste, and if he felt good after a couple of hours, he
would make a meal of them.
The
almonds were another story. He told us every almond tree had an
owner. The island had no squirrels, so the owners left them to pick
at their leisure. I felt guilty, but we had already picked and eaten
so many; too late to give them back.
As
far as the mushrooms went, Joe convinced me to let him do the tasting
first, so we wouldn't both be ill. After an hour, I tried my piece,
and in the evening we had a meal of brown rice, mushrooms and the
almonds we had already picked.
When
another bunch of mushrooms appeared, we shared our discovery with
another couple, Ron and Martine. Ron was one of the penniless
Irishmen whose French-American girlfriend had come to join him.
Toyvo sent them to us, and they moved into another cave across the
Presa. We ate a large mushroom meal together. The next day, we all
felt a bit groggy from an extra long sleep. What had passed before
when we had eaten the mushrooms as simply fatigue, now was shown to
affect us all. Ron and Martine were pleased with this effect, but I
was finished with that experiment and ate no more mushrooms.
There
was a dirty old goatherd who tended his animals up in the mountains.
We met him several times and tried to talk, though he was hard to
understand. One day, on my hike back from Soria with the mail, he
surprised me. “Hey! Hey, you! Tst Tst Tst!” he called, so I
waited. “Bente duro! Bente duro!” he said with hand gestures to
indicate his intentions. A duro is the quarter sized twenty-five
peseta piece worth twenty cents, so he was offering me four dollars.
Alarmed, I left quickly, glancing back angrily, but he didn't follow
me. We had gotten the mail, sent our new address, and it was cold in
the mountains in February. We moved to sea level, the shores of
Tasarte.
CHAPTER VI
TASARTE
AND THE WEST COAST OF GRAN CANARIA
As
we walked to the shores of Tasarte, workers in the tomato fields
called greetings. Piles of ripe tomatoes still lay by the side of the
road. On the rocky beach, the fisherman mending his nets remembered
us. Our cave by the water was still empty, waiting for us.
At
the tienda, an invitation from Don Luis and Senora Perez came with an
escort, a troop of small boys, to conduct us to a courtyard paradise
of tropical plants. Don Luis Perez, a slow-moving, fat, white-haired
man of about sixty years, was ready to greet us and shook our hands
gravely. Josepha, who was much younger, introduced us to their boy
and girl, and to the parrot before bustling away to make us a potato
and egg “Tortilla Espanol.”
When
siesta time came, Don Luis disappeared. Josepha wanted us to watch a
dubbed American cops and robbers show, “The Mod Squad,” since the
generator would be on all day. She seemed mesmerized immediately in
the hot afternoon.
We
thanked her and left for our cool cave by the ocean. In the Canaries,
tradition dictates welcoming strangers as a way to measure virtue.
Somehow, we seemed to be the perfect recipients for their idea of “It
is better to give than to receive.” We enjoyed it, but got tired of
being unable to strike a balance.
Josepha
was proud of her work. She ran around in an old mended black dress
with her long dark hair pinned up, flashing her gold teeth as she
smiled. She managed two children, a parrot, guinea fowl, turkeys,
setting hens, a pig, goat, bananas, avocados, potatoes, coffee tree,
the school, the poor, and foreigners.
I
recorded in my journal with irony, “Went to see Josepha and
“bought” milk.” Fifty cents for the milk and a goat stew (that
I didn't want) thrown in. I preferred meals I made with tomatoes left
by the side of the road; however, the piles were never renewed. Was
the season over, or did people dump them elsewhere just so they could
stop me and present a handful?
For
two months we sheltered the cave under the cliffs of Tasarte's shore,
around a rocky point from the fisherman's houses. Someone had built a
wall on the seaward side of the high-ceiling space overlooking the
Atlantic Ocean. To the west, Tiede, the island of Tenerife's classic
volcanic cone, rose above the sunset clouds. The floor of the cave
was only just a bit bigger than our sleeping bags, but we were not
cramped because we were really outside, simply hidden from the sky
and around a bend from anyone else on shore.
I
hung a bright scarf on the wall, anchoring it with rocks in crevices.
In the day, I folded the bedding up with my turquoise sleeping bag on
top for a couch. Stepping out from the cave, we had a semi-patio of
rock going out into the sea with anemones in tide pools, visited by
birds at high tide. The weather continued calm and sunny, so we were
never bothered by incoming seas. As usual, we expected the climate to
stay the same and were justified. We were not in New England. For the
rest of our time there, it never rained again.
The fisherman living on the
shore, Juan Medina Alonzo, was called Juan Capote. He presented a
ragged appearance with wild gray hair and, usually, a week's growth
of beard. His bare feet were amazingly swollen by the sea water and
agile on the rocky shore or holding the line as he sat on the beach
repairing his nets. At the bar, they told Joe the story of how he had
moved to Tasarte as a young man with a wife but no coat or blankets,
only a cape or “capote”. He and his wife had lived in our cave on
the shore until they could afford to build a house.
His
little girls would come to rest their black eyes on us. Joe said the
age eleven was the most beautiful in Spanish girls. By thirteen, they
acquire fashion and brittle charm. By eighteen, they are married and
pregnant. By twenty-one, they cease to care for their looks. These
girls were bold, for Spaniards. They sat for an hour a day just
watching. After we had exhausted their conversational powers, Joe
would practice his guitar. I worked on a macrame project.
When
the day got hot, we would swim. We were surprised the locals couldn't
swim. Even the fisherman who had lived by the sea all his life was
alarmed to see Joe go into the ocean on those hot days in March. He
told Joe we would be safer swimming over by the rocky beach; the
water was deep next to our stone patio. Joe reassured him, “Don't
worry. I only swim on the top.”
Joe
went back to the fishing he learned in Galdar, with a bamboo pole and
hooks baited with bread. Off our patio he caught, as in Galdar,
parrot fish and La Foola. On Sundays with a low tide, people would
gather the only local shellfish, limpets, from the rocks. A half
dozen were attached to rocks right by our cave, but they were quite
impossible to pry loose. I didn't care since once cooked, they were
tough.
Mornings,
after yoga exercises, were the best time for a walk to the tienda. We
posted letters making plans to meet my father in Spain in May. On our
way back with little loaves of bread, we went by a tall walled
enclosure, Don Luis' water pumping station, the source of his wealth.
Often, a man would be getting a haircut in the shade of its walls.
The barber, who doubled as pump caretaker, would call out to us.
Obviously Joe needed a haircut. Joe pretended fear of the scissors.
One
day when business was slow, he called us over to talk and offered to
cut Joe's hair for free. Finally convinced Joe would not get his hair
cut, our new friend opened the gates to show us the beautiful garden
within, especially pleasing in contrast to the dry rocky ground along
the road. The papaya tree, visible above the walls, shaped like a
palm tree with huge indented leaves in place of fronds, looked as
exotic as the avocado tree looked ordinary. Ripe loquats, a fruit I
knew from my childhood in California, were a treat.
The
next week, as a reward for our interest, the barber presented us two
melon sized papayas, green on the outside and orange under the skin.
We ate the smaller one, and Joe tied the larger with string and hung
it from a projecting rock in the ceiling of the cave. Knowing we had
mice, we took precautions, cleaning thoroughly after every meal and
putting any food in a net onion bag hung from the ceiling. We went
out that afternoon and returned to a partly gnawed papaya.
Astonishment mixed with outrage.
A
couple of days later, I was dabbling my feet in the ocean off our
patio, making a birthday card for my sister. Joe woke from his nap to
see a large rat nonchalantly walking along the wall of the cave to
disappear into a small crevice. “Ellie, come here! Hurry!” I
folded up my papers and ran to see. “Gasoline!” Joe said,
reaching for the small squirt can of gasoline we kept for our little
stove. “That should get him!” Joe squirted the poisonous
substance into the hole, and we waited.
“Matches,
Ellie, where's the matches!” I found them. He lit a match and threw
it at the hole. FOOM! The fire burned, but no rat appeared. Joe
squirted gasoline into the fire. The fire tried to follow the
gasoline path back to the can in Joe's hand, so he stopped squirting.
Several explosions sounded, FOOM FOOM FOOM and suddenly a ball of
fire flew out at the explosions, landed on my foot and scurried away.
We had turned the rat out of its home and claimed the cave as ours
alone.
Joe
really had a story to tell, so we went up to the tienda bar in the
evening. After the general siesta, everyone has plenty of energy for
socializing at night though the women mostly stay home. The boys
played the table foosball game. I drank a sweet muscatel wine while
Joe talked to the guys.
Living
outdoors as we had been, we saw a lot of the moon. Knowing just what
phase the moon was in let us plan around its inconstant presence. In
Isak Dineson's Out of Africa.
I recognized a feeling I got for the moon. She writes of her use of
its light in the cool of the African night, concluding, “It is
strange, when back on a visit to Europe, to find your friends of the
towns living out of touch with the moves of the moon and almost
ignorance of them.”
Here
next to the sea, we also saw the moon's effect on the tides. On full
moon nights, we would wake at midnight as the moon came over the hill
top of our cave to find the tide lapping at our doorstep. The new
moon's tide was just as high, but the dark night hid the water's
advance. With the quiet splash of nearby waves, I woke one dark
night to look out at the sea within reach under the eerie gray
starlight.
When
Ron and Martine from the other cave at Presa de las Ninas followed
our lead into Tasarte, they took some of the pressure off us as the
only foreigners. These two were a bit needy and presented a tentative
appearance, as if they weren't all there, both being rather short and
Ron's beard having grown in thin. Martine didn't wear her glasses
most of the time, though she was almost myopic, giving her face a
dreamy appearance, dreaming with wide open eyes.
Juan
Capote lent Ron and Martine his fishing shed built out from the
cliff, a windowless cement block box very close to the Capotes.
Josepha told us we must bring the new people up to see her, so we
did. She found their helplessness charming. I did too, though I was
surprised the next day when Martine's bathing suit turned out to be a
matching leopard-print bra and panties set. She asked me didn't I
think it was okay. So I said sure, after all, why not, off on this
tiny beach where the only ones who would see would be the fisherman
and his family. She was their guest.
One
day in March, a singing Australian named Raymond hiked in to stay
overnight on the beach. Ray played Joe's guitar and got me accompany
him on the flute, though his strong voice worked well alone. We took
him up to see Josepha, and he made the occasion into a party. I don't
remember whose idea it was to give a concert the next day, certainly
not mine, but Josepha was thrilled. In return, she whipped up a
wonderful eggy pancake, fried in hot oil and served with Lyle's
Golden Syrup out of a can. After a farewell song, the Australian
left to continue his walk around the island. Josepha wept as he
shouldered his pack. She would never see Raymundo again!
In
March, letters from home made it clear we had missed picking up
Christmas cards and presents, so we took a few days to re-visit both
Soria and Galdar. Isabel's tienda was too quiet. She said we should
move back; the Guardia wouldn't bother us anymore. We thanked her for
saving our five letters.
In
Galdar, Emiliano proudly showed us construction was nearly complete.
Soon he would have rooms to rent. The Christmas package was huge. My
mother had sent too many clothes. I took a few and asked Conchita to
keep the rest. Instead of a “Mamy Blue” single, my brother had
sent a Crosby Stills and Nash album. Julia didn't keep it, but
neither did I. My sister sent a line-a-day diary. My father sent a
detailed German map of Gran Canaria. The people in Galdar weren't
interested in the rest of the island, so we saved our questions until
we got back to Tasarte.
We
were fascinated by the detail on the map. Studying the coastline, we
saw a stream in a valley north of Tasarte. Our neighbors, the
Capotes, were puzzled by our questions. Joe drew a picture in the
dust. “Look. Here's Mogan, next Veneguera. Tasarte, Tasartico and
here's this, Giugui. “
“Oh!
Woowooey.” said Capote's wife.
“No,”
said Capote, “Ow-wooey,” swallowing the first syllable, and
explaining this Guanche name, derived from the language of ancient
peoples required especially difficult pronunciation.
As
for Guigui, water indeed ran into the sea there. Capote spoke of it
as a great miracle. You could only get to the uninhabited valley by a
three hour walk over the mountain, or by boat.
Surely
we had heard the big news? A Swiss lady, Maria-Luisa, had bought land
there and was having a stairway of 500 steps built into the cliff.
Juan Capote was making a lot of money bringing in the cement in his
boat.
A
number of men from Tasarte were working in Guigui, building the
stairway, including Capote's son-in-law, Gico, the sweetest Spanish
man ever. Capote's daughter lived there with her parents and their
five year old daughter who had tagged along with her cousin/aunt to
visit us. Gico was living in Guigui and came home on weekends, hiking
over the mountain to Tasartico and then riding his moped.
We
decided to see if we could get to Guigui by walking along the shore.
We had to wait for a day when the tide was right, a half moon giving
a low tide in the middle of the day. Finally, we set out northward,
climbing around rocky ledges, past inlets and over sea caves for a
couple of hours. We saw beautiful rocky beaches and many of the
little limpets, grown much bigger here. The crabs scurried away at
our approach, clattering on the rocks. We couldn't catch any, even
when Joe threw his new espadrille. He watched his shoe go under water
and waited for the wave to bring it back. I saw it twice and then no
more. Finally, he dove for it, too late.
We
limped home to be told, “No, no, far away, too far away!” Juan
Capote waved his arms in grand gestures. “Muy lejos! You can't get
there by walking the shore. It's after Tasartico!”
We
would be leaving the island soon, having made plans to meet my father
in Spain April 24. We had explored most of the west coast of Gran
Canaria from Agaete to Mogan. We had walked the dirt road connecting
the towns of Tasarte, Tasartico, and Veneguera where the cliffs of
soft volcanic rock are in stripes carved by the wind. We knew when
the mini-bus took people to the shopping town, San Nicolas de
Tolentino. We had met the old man who fixes dirt roads by hand using
the wide Spanish hoe, the “satcho.” The Guanches survive only in
the names they left behind like Tasarte, the Guanche chief, and his
son, Tasartico. To complete the tour, we had to find the lost valley
of Guigui.
April
7, we packed up early and said farewell to our friends in Tasarte,
planning to see Gui-gui on our way to Las Palmas. At the tienda, a
minor discussion ensued on the best way to get to Gui-gui. Juan
Capote's boat would be too full of cement to carry us. Someone said
there was a path over the mountains from Tasarte. Everyone agreed
the safest way was a path from Tasartico. At our last stop, Josepha
protested - why did we have to leave? and refused to discuss Gui-gui.
We
went all the way up the valley of Tasarte, along the road to the
crossroads and down into the valley of Tasartico. Not far down the
Tasartico road, we asked at the tomato packing house. “Si,” they
said, “The path is down the road, almost to the shore. Here, he's
going that way; he'll take you in his car. Have some tomatoes. It's a
three hour walk.”
“Oh,
no, only an hour and a half,” said the man with the car.
“I
could do it in forty-five minutes,” said someone else.
“No,
you couldn't.”
“Maria-Luisa's
husband does, so I could too. ”
“He
says he does.”
The
hike took two hours up a steep, rocky path with hairpin turns around
giant candelabra cactus. Barren rocks reflected the heat from the
April sun, so we rested in the shade of bushes with leaves like soft
pine needles. We had once tried picking the soft spines for bedding,
eventually naming it stink plant. By early afternoon, we reached the
pass, with a view of the same dry, rocky landscape, not paradise
lost. There was a faint bloom of green from recent rains, but the
abandoned banana plantations were just dry terracing. The location of
the spring showed itself with a thick growth of bamboo, and we could
see the path snaking down to what looked like a swimming pool. We
could barely make out three houses, their square outlines showing the
straight edge of the local stone.
Walking
downhill is no easier than up, especially in those cheap espadrilles.
We followed the path to what wasn't a swimming pool, but a lovely,
small square cistern surrounded by bamboo and trees. The stone house
just downhill from it was evidently inhabited by the workers on the
Swiss lady's steps, including our friend Gico, so we dropped our
packs outside the door and followed the stream past two more stone
houses down to where it sank into the black volcanic sand. The little
stream undoubtedly helped make the sandy beach, not always a given on
the steep rocky coast, Cliffs formed the edges of the beach, jutting
out into the high tide. We saw no one.
After
an afternoon on the beach, we walked back up to meet the men who
worked on the steps: Gico; his father, Domingo Dias Sosa; and his
brother-in-law, Pepe Segura. Pepe told Joe something he hadn't
realized: they had the same name. Pepe as a nickname for Joseph must
be related to the Italian, Giuseppe. Three others Joe had seen around
Tasarte, were, as usual, not over five feet six inches. They welcomed
us into the small house, a ten by fifteen foot room with plastered
walls and a cement floor. A sheltered hearth was built onto the
outside of the house, but they used a small gas burner in a corner.
Someone whose turn it was to cook had made potage for all and offered
to make us a Tortilla Espanol as well, but we declined and shared our
tomatoes, bread and cheese as a meal extender.
We
had planned to sleep outside, but our hosts pressed us to sleep
indoors, offering a nice foam mattress behind a curtained partition.
The mattress was wonderful, but I did not sleep well, suddenly
indoors with six men. Someone got up every hour to smoke and cough.
The
men were up at 5:00 to work half a day Saturday, so they were gone
when a plump woman with curly black hair arrived, singing to her
children, “Ay, ay, ay ay! Canta y no llores!” She had hiked three
hours with her five children aged 12, 10, 7, 5 and 2. The youngest
boy, Juan, whom she called “la flor d'Espana”, was fussy and had
to be carried most of the way. Surprised and pleased to see us, she
introduced herself as Carmella Diaz Sanchez, Gico's sister, Pepe's
wife. She had brought the family for a weekend in the country.
Carmella
was a wonderful communicator. While the children went exploring, she
told us about our friend Josefa. She had been engaged to Gico before
the old man with money stepped in. She also said her father's mother
had not been married, a surprising detail to hear.
In
spite of his revealed status as a bastard, I saw Gico and Carmella's
father, Domingo Dias Soaza, as wonderful old man with a weathered,
wrinkled and cheerful face. I wonder if his birth as a love child
gave him a philosophical outlook, passed on to his children, a bit
outside of society, but feet firmly on the ground. Even talking about
the weather, I found his remarks significant. Yes, the sun was
shining and this was “good” weather, but really it was “buena
para turistes” and I realized I, too, could be classed as a
tourist. Real people need rain. However, in this valley, the old man
didn't lack water. It flowed freely into the soil he plowed with an
ox he had brought over the mountain on a longer, easier path than the
one we had taken.
Since
I hadn't enjoyed staying with the fellows and thought it would be
even more crowded that night, Joe and I decided to check out another
of the empty houses. Carmella went too.
The
next one down only had a dirt floor, and was infested with fleas.
Carmella said fleas live on long after a place is deserted, and we
must stay with the family. Everyone was leaving anyway except for
Pepe and her father. We accepted and returned with her.
To
begin supper, she quieted the children with a typical gesture. The
hand, held horizontally palm up, moves back and forth looking for a
bottom to spank while the voice moves slowly and threateningly
through its range, starting low and ending, as the children quiet, in
the next octave. She set the girls to peeling potatoes. Carmella
cooked the Tortilla Espanol, and we all sat around talking about how
things used to be, how Gui-gui had supplied an English fruit company
with bananas for years until the war (the Spanish Civil War). After
the war, everyone decided to move to the city, leaving the water to
run into the sea. After dinner, we played music and sang Spanish
songs. The children fell asleep where they were, exhausted.
More
comfortable with the family, I slept well. On Sunday we went down to
the beach with the children and back up for the big meal, cooked by
the grandfather, and siesta. In the afternoon Carmella found “yerba
buena”, an herb to be used as a hair rinse. She and I tried it out,
boiling some, washing our hair and rinsing it, ignoring Pepe's
quizzical looks. He brought out a typical husband's remark, Spanish
for “old wives’ tales.” I didn't actually notice any benefit
from the hair rinse. A trip over the cliffs showed us the fabled
stairway being built into the cliff, 500 steps and a landing by the
sea.
Monday
morning at 5:00 AM, Carmella got a ride for herself and the children
in Juan Capote's boat after the first load of cement came in. We
walked out the long path to San Nicolas, arriving in the afternoon.
We
found Carmella at home and again were greeted, as had happened so
many times on this island, as honored guests. She began looking
through her things to give me a keepsake, finally settling on a pair
of earrings as portable enough. I didn't like her choice, elaborately
worked posts, so she pressed me to tell her what I liked. I loved the
ones she wore, a simple dot and hanging heart and wondered if this
was a common choice and if she had another pair, but she took them
out of her ears. The heavy hook is hard to put through the ear, but
comfortable to wear. I promised to remember her always and wore the
earrings around the world and back again, having them mended twice.
Years
later, I brought her a replacement pair, under her protest. I felt
they should really have been for her daughter and quieted her by
explaining that her old ones were very dear to me.
When
we left for Las Palmas, Carmella gave us her sister's address as a
place to stay in the city. The street was in a section we had not had
occasion to visit before, a middle-class Spanish neighborhood. The
sister, Fela Diaz Sanchez, was wide with thick black hair and a touch
of a mustache, married to a gentle older man, Jose Navarro Demy, and
they had one child, Fabiola, although he had another family of grown
children. Jose and Fela gave us a terrific picture of Fabiola's
birthday. The 8x10 black and white, taken by a photographer for the
occasion shows the parents, the little girl with big round eyes, a
big cake, lots of bottles of Cervesa Mas, and several bottles of rum.
Fabiola
was the only Spanish girl we met to have a fiesta de compleanos. Most
children celebrate their name day, a custom set up by the church.
Children are named for saints and every day of the year is a saint's
day. Since Fabiola isn't the name of any saint, the traditional
solution would have been to celebrate her day on Mary's Day. However,
Mary's Day is also “La Dia de la Madre”, Mother's Day, so
Fabiola's parents were creative in setting up a special day for their
only child.
The
Canary Islands had been wonderful. We had even put off our departure
by a couple of weeks, but now we were well into April, and we had
planned to meet my father in southern Spain at the end of the month.
As our plans looked then, we would never touch Africa at all if we
took the ferry back. A truck caravan to Morocco from the Spanish
Sahara was known to be cheap and adventurous, and we wanted to try it
even though timing was tight.
Chapter
VI: ON THE ROAD IN MOROCCO
Although
the Canary Islands are off the coast of Africa, we had only heard a
few tales of travel on the Dark Continent. We worried a bit, but a
truck caravan to Morocco was the cheapest and most exotic route back
to Europe. A short boat ride took us the capital of the Spanish
Sahara, El Aaiun. The Spanish Sahara is no more. At the time, Franco
was holding onto this barren country where he had gotten his start,
using it as a military training post. In 1975 as Franco was dying,
Spain ceded the territory to Morocco, so the town is now called
Layoun. In our time, El Aaiun was a Moroccan town filled with Spanish
soldiers where we had to stay four days to make connections with the
truck caravan going to Tan-Tan, Morocco.
The
military presence in the small town overwhelmed our friends from
Soria. These young Americans had spent their time on the Canaries
exclusively with their own kind and never got to know the Spanish
character. As a statement against military dictatorship and to avoid
its threats, these young people took the first bus to the Arab
trading post in the desert where we would meet the truck caravan days
later.
Before
dismissing El Aaiun, we looked around. We saw Spaniards in uniform
simply doing their required stint with no feelings against us as
hippie drop outs or Yippies dedicated to anarchy. Some soldiers are
aggressive to young women, the anonymity of the uniform providing
freedom from personal rejection, but I was hardly bothered. Except
for two wolf whistles, these soldiers were quiet and helpful,
answering any of our questions. Unlike the USA, still mired in
Vietnam, the country was at peace, as they would boast to us, “Mucho
tranquillo”. Since Franco, no wars at all.
Or
maybe, the soldiers were quiet because there were no bars at all.
Instead of the restaurant/bar/cafes we were used to, available
refreshment was to be had in Moroccan style Berber tearooms. I
thought tea would be nice and dragged Joe up the stone steps to a
small, round, domed stone structure that seemed, from the sign out
front, to be a restaurant. We sat on cushions next to a low table
under the distrustful black eyes of robed and turbaned unshaven
Arabs. We didn't fit in, and nobody wanted to be friends. I didn't
care. I didn't want to be friends with any of them anyway. I liked
the tearoom's decor with a blue domed ceiling and carved latticework
screens between the two rooms. We sat in the outer room and drank
terribly sugary mint tea. No food was being served. Under Joe's
protest, I tried to find out when they served food and if it was all
meat, but our waiter just shook his head. Finally, Joe hustled me
out.
The
town of El Aaiun didn't offer much in the way of pensions, so we
headed out of town to look for a camping place. Just outside of town
was a little settlement of poor people in tin shacks, so we moved on
to spread our sleeping bags in the desert under the stars and were
awakened by a goat with a bell nibbling hungrily on our bags while
the small child following it hid behind a dead palm tree, a desolate
picture in the cold early dawn.
Back
in town, a Spaniard in a candy kiosk directed us to a lovely park, a
clean place, well protected by a friendly Spanish guard who invited
us to enjoy it but advised we could not spend the night camping
there. For the afternoon, Joe's guitar attracted musicians to help us
pass the time, local men, very dark skinned, with a different musical
style from the Spaniards.
I
wrote a letter home assuring my father we would meet him in Spain in
ten days. “Lots of little flies. The locals don't mind them at all,
let them land on their faces.
“The
swallows are all around, catching flies, I guess, zoom, flit, flit,
zoom, zoom.
“I
am wearing a shirt of African material that Mom sent, so I fit in
with the little girls who wear dresses of similar material, beautiful
with their black skin.
Oh
Lord! An alcoholic Muslim just showed up. He tried to get us to drink
last night. Joe has a cold and doesn't want to drink. Irish friend
John 'isn't a drinking man.' The keeper of this parkish place just
threw him out.”
Moving
from the sheltering trees of the park in the evening, we found a
small building of unknown purpose in what seemed a dry river bed. It
was quiet and not precisely dirty except for some broken glass. We
were all right except when the alcoholic Muslim showed up. Perhaps
the little building was his haunt. He finally went away, and I slept,
but Joe stayed up all night, worrying we might miss our 6:30 AM bus
and be stuck there another week until the next caravan.
At
the bus stop at dawn, we boarded the green and white military
transport bus. In contrast to the clean and well kept up vehicle, a
small crowd of dirty men in robes and turbans crowded around. One was
waving at me with an up and down motion I had not seen in Spain. The
Spanish wave is palm up and from side to side. I waved back, puzzled
to be singled out for a good-bye from a stranger. He became frantic
and the downward motion of his hand became stronger as he shouted
something in Arabic. I pointed it out to Joe, and we decided he
wasn't waving at all, but motioning me to “come here”, the sign
rendered with a crooked finger in my language. I turned away from the
window until the bus began to move.
The
bus took us past three military checkpoints, each requiring a
passport check, to the little desert settlement, a trading post
formed for this weekly exchange. The shacks were made of tin and
cardboard and papered inside with newspaper. Here we met again the
friends from the boat, the Americans who had spent several days
there. The Moroccan truck caravan hadn't arrived yet, so our friends
invited us in for tea. We followed them into one of the miserable
shacks, thinking how glad we were to have spent our days in the park
under green trees. Flies were everywhere, even more numerous than in
Spain. I suppose in the desert you don't have to be as careful about
germs since the dry air tends to keep them down, but we weren't
inclined to accept anything, especially sugary mint tea served in
cracked cups. The situation was ambiguous. Were we expected to pay
for this? We felt this was the poorest inn we had ever entered. The
Americans had apparently shared hashish with these people and felt
they were friends, but we were simply passing through. Luckily the
trucks started to arrive, so we could leave without explanation.
Outside
the tiny claustrophobic shacks, a huge fenced-in parking lot was
filling up with old one-ton trucks. Camel herds were tied up outside
the fence. We wandered a little while, talking to the traders in
Spanish about their various deals. We saw our friends from the boat
dropping their bags, so we went to see how they were doing. Halfway
there, a shifty-eyed little man ran up to us saying, “Here! You
come! This is best deal! See? Friends have already joined us. Very
nice. Camel stew. You like camel stew. Very nice. Good. Come.”
“What's
your price?” asked Joe.
“Very
good price. You come.” We went up to our friends and asked what
they were paying. They said it was the best deal. We wouldn't get any
lower than this. “You see?” The little man broke in, “Best
deal. I give you for one hundred pesetas.” Our friends nodded, one
hundred pesetas, a dollar fifty.
“We'll
see,” Joe said, and we walked off. The little man followed us past
a few other trucks, talking. We ignored him, Joe saying to me, “This
isn't a caravan, it's a bunch of teamsters hustling us.” When we
approached another truck, the little man faded away. This trucker
wanted 150 pesetas. The next didn't want passengers. We went back to
a young man we had seen before who spoke English for a quiet,
dignified, white-haired driver sitting quietly in the front seat. Joe
offered the young man the hundred peseta price without any mention of
the camel stew. The deal was closed.
After
making our bargains, we still had to wait for the caravan to trade
cargo with the Spanish army. Moroccan oranges, packed loosely, took
time to be unloaded. The Spanish bundles, wrapped in brown paper,
loaded up quickly. With nothing to do, the young interpreter from our
truck decided to tease our cute, baby-faced Irish friend John, a
fellow traveler who had attached himself to us in the park and had
now followed us to this truck. Taps on the shoulder and pats on the
head were followed by dancing away and laughter at John's futile
attempts to stop him. We were in stitches until John asked us to
please stop laughing. I felt bad I hadn't even noticed John's
discomfort at the slapstick.
Finally,
at about noon, we were given the go-ahead to climb on. There were
four passengers, we three and a handsome tribesman in a sky-blue
caftan, loaded on top of the cargo in the back of the truck. Sure
enough, there was the camel stew. I ate a carrot out of it to be
polite, though Joe wouldn't touch it. Across the way, we saw the
Americans going into the truck that had promised everything. There
were eight Americans, ten Moroccans and a goat on top of the load.
An
hour later, the race across the desert began. All the trucks took off
at the same time, roaring out a gate in the chain-link fence, going
in different directions. Fifteen minutes later, we were alone in the
desert. Half an hour later, there was nothing in sight but a pair of
children, dressed in rags, waving at us. In another half hour, salt
flats shimmered in the distance, forming the mirage of a lake.
Contrary to our expectations, the desert in April wasn't hot even in
mid-day. Even when we got a flat tire and stopped, a stiff breeze
kept us cool. To fix the flat tire, two men came out of the front
seat. The driver sat quietly while the mechanics jacked up the truck,
pulled the wheel, mended the inner tube, inflated the tire, and
remounted it in about fifteen minutes.
An
hour after our second flat tire, we rejoined the other trucks forming
a single line to ford a treacherous river of sand. In the middle of
the desert with sunset approaching, the line moved slowly forward.
Our truck would get stuck and two men, one hanging off each side of
the truck at this point, would jump off and take a huge steel grid
from the side of the truck and jam it under the wheels. The truck
would find purchase on the rough surface and move ahead as quickly
and as far as it could while the helpers picked up the grids and ran
as fast as they could to catch up. When the line stopped, we were
inevitably stuck again. The beginning of the line held one truck at a
time with all the men from three trucks behind working together to
help ford the sand trap.
At
sunset, up behind us roared a crew transporting some Danes and their
Volkswagen bus that had run into a camel. Unfortunately the Danes had
brought some liquor. Since alcohol is forbidden by a religion
ordering the entire life of a tribesman, the release of restraint
resulted in men aggressively unfit to drive. After roaring at the end
of the lane for a while, they took off over the hills of sand around
us and really got stuck. All the other men ignored them, righteously
contemptuous. Our truck forded the river of sand at twilight. The men
with the grids really ran hard to catch up. I wondered how the last
truck in the line would do it without extra helpers, and more
especially if the Danes would ever get out.
After
the sand traps, the trucks all dispersed again, and we drove for
hours through the empty desert. Night fell and Joe slept deeply,
making up for the night before. Our interpreter seemed to be sitting
too close to me, and Joe wouldn't wake up. I tried appealing to John.
“Hey, John, I think this guy is after me.”
“Well,
what do you expect me to do?” He probably felt more helpless than
me. Just as I began to deal with wandering hands, the truck stopped.
Suppertime in the desert meant the men gathered twigs to heat rocks
with a fire, then placed their pots of water on the rocks, avoiding
the soot of the open fire. We ate simply, spaghetti with lots of
cayenne pepper and mint tea with lots of sugar.
Joe
slept on, but when our interpreter kept bothering me, the driver told
him to leave me alone - I was a virtuous woman. Relieved, I enjoyed
the black velvet ceiling studded with stars, the red fire and silver
teapot, our gentle driver with white whiskers trying out Joe's guitar
next to the glowing coals, and the tribesman in his sky blue caftan
standing beyond him.
We
reached Tan-tan before morning and were allowed to finish the night
on top of the truck. At dawn we woke to find the tribesman gone as
was Joe's thin foam sleeping mat. Our interpreter now in a clean
suit, advised us not to try for a truck from here but to bus out of
this oasis town for $3.00 each, twice as much as the fourteen hour
ride across the desert.
First,
we had to change travelers' checks for Moroccan money. Keeping our
pesetas for re-entry into Spain would save on bank fees. I went to
accomplish this bureaucratic chore, leaving Joe sitting on the packs
where the bus was supposed to come in, a square near the edge of
town. Our interpreter showed me where the bank was, and on the way, a
shop selling the cargo we had slept on, ugly cheap blankets in muddy
colored squares, not what I would have chosen to sell in this country
of intricate decoration and precise colors.
Back
at the bus stop with Moroccan dinars, I found Joe had made friends
with a Moroccan. I got Joe to ask him where a toilet was. For an
answer the man looked spread his arms at the dry hilly outskirts of
town. Some answer. I took off to find a broken wall to pee behind. I
got back, and Joe told me the friend had followed. He had not meant
the answer for me and had become worried, Joe said. I was put off by
his solicitous behavior and would not meet his eye. If a cultural
rule of Islam is that a woman can never be alone, I was not accepting
it. I was glad when the bus arrived and I could sit by the window and
not look at anybody.
We
all rode to Agadir, Joe chatting with his friend, now identified as
Achmed Ben Mohammed, learned to count to ten in Moroccan Arabic
(waheed, jorj, loball, chemse . . . ) In Agadir, it seemed we must
stay with Achmed ben Mohammed in a clean tin shack in the midst of
other tin shacks with his two brothers, one of whom spoke good
English. They were not surprised by their brother's guests. Perhaps
he did this often, befriending people in a simple-minded way. They
seemed to love Achmed, and were hospitable to us. We ate with our
fingers, vegetable stew from a common bowl, scooping out chunks on
top of wonderful French bread. The mint tea was sweetened with a
large chunk of sugar broken from a tall cone by hitting it on the
table, dissolved by pouring the tea into a glass and back again from
a distance of two feet, a process to cool the tea, dissolve the
sugar, and provide entertainment as well. The next day, Achmed said
we must see his beautiful city.
We
couldn't stay. We were to be meeting my father in Spain in a few
days. Agadir has a magnificent location for tourists. Hotels were
rising at the edge of the long white sandy beaches. Achmed bought us
tea in a beachside cafe while we worried about the cost and the
snooty waiter. After tea, it was time to go. “Why go? Where?”
Achmed asked, following us to the road.
Not
sure of where we would get to, Joe named the next town north.
“Tiznit.”
“And
tomorrow? ”he asked.
“Tomorrow,
Casablanca.”
“Tomorrow
and tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow
and tomorrow, Tangiers,” said Joe.
“And
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow?” Achmed wanted to know.
“Espana.
Italy, Greece.”
“And
tomorrow?”
“And
tomorrow. India.” Joe thought Achmed would be satisfied with that.
Surely India was too far for him to grasp. Achmed wanted to know
more.
“And
tomorrow?” he asked. Our plan didn't go beyond India. Even that was
stretching it. Joe looked at me. “Australia?” I shrugged my
shoulders.
We
left him waving good-bye and hiked to the other end of town to try to
hitch a ride. I asked Joe what he thought Achmed did. “He's just a
chemeux.”
“What's
a chemeux?”
“French
for bum.” That seemed to explain somewhat. A French Moroccan bum.
We
had no trouble hitching. Two businessmen took us all the way to
Casablanca in a new car and let us off in the middle of the
international business district. Pillars and glass store fronts were
not our speed at all, so we went to another section of town for a two
dollar hotel with a shower across the courtyard, a chance to clean up
after the desert.
I
remember the huge bathroom with a shower head coming out of the side
of the wall on the lower level, near the door. There was no curtain.
I can almost picture myself in it, as the manager and his assistant
saw me through the key hole. When I was done, Joe told me he had
caught them peeking at me and shooed them away. It gave me the creeps
to hear such things, but Joe said I should forget it. It was normal
around here. Islamic women have to stay in their places and Western
women are viewed as fair game.
The
manager seemed not at all embarrassed when we appeared to go out for
supper, even offering to tell us of a nice little cafe. I didn't want
any advice from the man, but Joe said we should try the place. It was
okay, considering we were in the middle of a city, not terribly
overpriced.
In
the morning, we couldn't find the end of town. Casablanca went on
forever, so we took a bus to the next city, the capital of Morocco,
Rabat, figuring to look in on the American Embassy there for helpful
hints. The gleaming white porcelain bathrooms were impressive, but
for helpful hints, I found only a few glossy flyers and a map of the
Imperial Cities. “Fascinating ruins as well as fine hotels of
international standing make Rabat, the white city, and Marrakesh, the
red city, two pure jewels among the big cities of Morocco,” we
read. We had no time for sightseeing. We had promised to be in Spain
in three days.
After
lunch, we took a city bus as far as we could and then set out to try
to walk and hitch out of town. The suburbs seemed to go on forever.
Perhaps this was government-built single family housing. A group of
boys gathered to follow us and threw stones. I was horrified and
frightened, but Joe assured me we would be all right. We would get a
ride. I didn't argue, but was surprised when a blue Citroen stopped.
Once we were in and the doors closed, the boys began to stone the
car. The driver started the car up again, and the strange Citroen
suspension system lifted the back up. As I was wondering what was
going on, the middle-aged Moroccan in a business suit, seeming
unconcerned, turned around to ask where we were going. We went as far
as he could take us.
The
same night another ride left a dark spot in my mind. We didn't
usually hitch at night, but we were in a rush. By evening, we arrived
at some kind of a truck stop. Joe asked around for rides and got one,
but it seemed the cab would be cramped, so Joe would ride in back.
After we got aboard, an American girl ran up and told Joe to get off.
It wasn't a good ride, she said, the guy was a wing-ding. But it was
too late, the truck was already moving and I was in front, unaware.
The cab of the truck was not full. There was plenty of room between
me and the driver, but perhaps he didn't like to be crowded. I had
missed the warning and was ready to be friendly.
“Hey,
darling, where are you from?” asked the fat, gray-haired man. He
needed a shave.
“I'm
American.” I said. He nodded as it he knew that. I went on. “Do
you know the States? Massachusetts?”
“No,
I don't know America. Where is your state?”
“In
the north.” After a long pause, I asked. “And you, is this your
home town?”
“No,
I am from south, driving from Marrakesh.”
“Marrakesh.”
I had been thinking about Marrakesh after reading the tourist guide,
remembering a popular sang called The
Marrakesh Express. “Is it nice?”
He didn't answer, so I went on lamely, “It sounds nice. We have a
song about it.”
“You
can sing me song. I don't like Marrakesh, so I drive away from. To
Tetuan.”
“How
far is Tetuan?”
“Very
far. You come here now. Come over here. Come closer.”
“Why?”
“Come
on, darling. Come here,”
“What
do you want?”
“I
want you closer.” He was reaching for me now with his arm.
“Stop
it.”
“Come
on, darling.”
I
began to cry. The situation was impossible. “Let me out! I don't
want to be here any more.”
“Come
on, darling.” He wouldn't stop the truck and went on reaching for
me while I cringed in the corner.
“No!”
I cried harder and started trying to open the door.
“Don't
do that!” he said, and I realized I couldn't jump out with Joe and
the stuff in the back, but I had at least scared him.
He
stopped bothering me then for a while. He spoke of his history,
claiming to be Jewish, David Ben-something, leading a persecuted
life. When I stopped crying, he started in again, and I yelled at him
through tears. I guess there's not much a driver can actually do if
the girl is not willing and her boyfriend is in the back. Stopping
won't get him anything. Or maybe my tears were what he really wanted.
I spent the dark ride huddled in comer crying all the way to Tetuan.
I recall no more from that traumatic night. The journal says “When
we got here at 1:00 AM, the police took us under their wing. $1.50
pension.”
Tetuan
is the last Moroccan town before re-entering Spanish territory, so in
the morning we visited the medina (marketplace) to look at the
Moroccan crafts and buy a few presents to send home with my father.
For myself, I got a strong and comfortable straw hat, nicely woven
with different colors that lasted through my travels and, slightly
battered, came home with me. I'm sure I looked at every hat in the
market. I thought I paid too much, but the hat salesman was adamant,
and now I think he was right. Joe went through six hats to my one.
Then we were too tired to do more than buy a few trinkets. Sometimes,
you have to let the professional buyers from import shops find and
transport the beautiful things.
On
the north coast of Africa, the Spanish port of Ceuta borders Tetuan,
and we crossed over in the afternoon. The guards were upset we had no
stamp of entry into Morocco. We explained about the truck caravan,
and they ended up reluctantly accepting the stamps from the Spanish
Sahara as proof of our port of entry. On the bus ride to the boat for
the peninsula of Spain, I saw again beaches full of old shoes. The
Moroccan beaches had been bare, but here in Spain again, litter
covered the beach.
We
caught the boat, just barely, and arrived in Algeciras relieved to
feel we were back in civilization, ready to camp out on the hillside
overlooking the ocean near a billboard for EL TORRES rum with a cut
out silhouette of a bull black against the sunset sky.
Chapter
VII: SOUTHERN EUROPE
Having
rushed through Morocco to meet my father in Spain, we were
disappointed when we telephoned and found he had put off his
departure for a week. Our recent letters had been full of Gui-gui and
Morocco, rather than concentrating on making contact, so he had been
understandably worried. He had taken time off from his job as
director of a psychiatric clinic, and couldn't afford to wait for us,
should we not have made it on time. In fact, knowing our family, he
would have rather expected me to be late. Only because Joe took
charge of making the deadline were we there as promised.
We
were both looking forward to the visit, to seeing someone from home.
I was happy to meet my dad after six months of so much change and
letters once a month for communication. My family has always been
supportive and close, though reserved in expression. We are
respectful of each other and give ourselves plenty of space. My
father needed to make sure I was all right, but also made sure to
share other interests, specifically in architecture, so we would get
a more cultured tour of Spain.
With
a week to kill, we went back to visit friends in the hills above
Torremolinos. In Mijas, Rory O'Neill was in great shape. The puppets
were getting dusty on a shelf while he amused himself with a French
girlfriend. The wrinkles on her face showed through heavy make-up,
but I thought she deserved better than he treated her. While he went
to his bar for the afternoon, he detailed her to drive us out to the
farm where the Yoga teachers lived.
The
two couples had begun their own brown rice fast. Before trying it
ourselves three months earlier, we had written to them from the
Canary Islands asking for advice. Unfortunately, our fast had been
interrupted before we could take it the full ten days, and we reached
no conclusion as to its merit. We volunteered our recipe consisting
of crunchy parched grains, cooked like popcorn for a little interest
in the texture.
The
evening meal was plain, boiled brown rice. I asked if they had kept
any soy sauce anywhere, thinking I was on safe ground because salt is
a basic ingredient in macrobiotics, the discipline advocating the
brown rice diet. Salt is thought of as being “yang”, a desirable
quality to help balance the “yin” qualities of the vegetarian
diet macrobiotics follow. Meat is eliminated because it is too
“yang” to be easily balanced. However, they had given up salt
since our last visit, and no soy sauce lurked on a top shelf for
guests.
The
only salt they had was for use in a nasal douche. It being
suppertime, I didn't pursue the topic of the nasal douche.
Essentially, this method of combating mucous involves taking salt
water in the nostrils and spitting it out through the mouth. I tried
the procedure years later in the shower when I had a cold, finding it
painful and not apparently helpful.
After
spending the night, we were invited to stay with their macrobiotic
friend for the rest of the week, time enough to grind wheat berries
and make bread. His library included The
I Ching, Alan Watts' Cosmology
and the newly published Be Here Now
by Baba Ram Dass, formerly Richard
Alpert, Boston professor who had studied LSD with Timothy Leary at
Harvard in 1962. This appealing book tells the story of his deep
despair, walking around India for weeks, following a “very
extraordinary guy from California who KNEW” and finding an old man
in a blanket. The story of his search for meaning, culminating in
India, brought me around to the idea Joe had been advocating for
months.
Once
the brown rice fast was over, two of the Yoga teachers drove us to
visit a Spanish farmer who had expressed an interest in Yoga. His
valley featured grafted California navel oranges. Past the ancient
olive trees, down to his new orchard we walked, talking about diets
and fruit. These oranges were “fantasticos”, marvelously juicy
and sweet. Perhaps the next fast to try would be Dr. Ehret's fruit
and nut mucous-free diet.
On
May first, we met my father in the Torremolinos airport. I was moved
by his physical presence after the long and distant separation. He
greeted Joe cordially, shaking hands heartily, excited to be taking
this unusual trip. After renting a car, we drove up to Mijas to
introduce our friends. Though exhausted from the journey, he was
receptive to the magical beauty at the farm. The semi-tropical
climate of southern Spain had blossomed into summer already. New
leaves already covered the grape arbor. Under its shade, the white
chalices of calla lilies were too perfect to touch, though I
remember, as a child in California, crumbling the long, protruding
yellow pistil. In the sun, a huge marguerite bush was covered with
daisies.
The
Yoga teachers and my father enjoyed a discussion on architecture,
specifically the tile work of Antonio Gaudi. Our tour would take us
from the southern coast of Spain to the Alhambra and then to the
north-east corner of the country, Barcelona, where Gaudi was
responsible for a number of truly fantastic buildings. Seeing our
interest, the Yoga teachers decided to lend us a house rented that
month for visiting parents where beautiful antique tiles covered all
the walls and floors, surrounding us with a classic style.
In
the morning, we drove north to Granada, unfortunately over narrow
winding mountain roads. When it began to snow, Joe and I were
horrified, but my father, though surprised, simply took it as an
opportunity to test the skid ratio of the little Spanish Fiat. He
pronounced it not as good as his Volkswagen bug.
Arriving
in Grenada at dusk, we ate at the Parador National, a special tourist
hotel run by the government, a regally decorated dining room,
delicious, reasonably priced food, the dining room almost empty and
no dress code for backpacking travelers. We retired to a nearby
pension which cost less for beds.
In
the morning, we toured the Alhambra, Moorish architecture left over
from when Morocco ruled Spain. Tiles cover every inch of wall and
ceiling. We saw the room where Washington Irving worked. I wrote in
my journal, “Was the Alhambra worth the drive through the mountains
in the snow?”
The
road east was much faster than the road from Mijas. One day's drive
took us to the date forests of Elche, another reminder of the time
when the Moors ruled Spain. The miles of date forests held a tourist
campground for us and a nearby motel for my father. Stores connected
to the orchard sold marvelous dried fruits of every kind. We could
have enjoyed a tour of the orchard, but my father made inquiries and
realized the drive to Barcelona was a full eight hours, even on the
modern coastal highway. My father had only four nights and was
leaving early the fifth day. We drove all day and reached the
outskirts of Barcelona late. We were lucky to find anywhere to stay;
in fact we all shared a room.
In
Barcelona by 9:00, we began our informal tour of Gaudi's buildings.
Anthony Burgess calls Gaudi “the great mad sane genius.“ We took
in three of Gaudi's spectacular works, starting with the Casa Battlo,
whose eccentric Gothic arches ”seem to grow from the street like
concrete roots, .... its balconies like carnival masks, its little
ogre's tower,” all decorative and fun, though I wondered about the
cold in a concrete building, if Barcelona had winter.
We
moved on to the Parque Guell, once the property of one family. The
entrance to the park is a gingerbread cottage. A pathway of undulant
pebblework moved us into a fairy-tale where blue and gold stairways
to nowhere are guarded by drooling dragons. My father has always
maintained, with Bruno Bettelheim, that fairytales hold deep
psychological truths, so Gaudi had welded together in a dreamlike
way, my father's interests in psychology and architecture. In my
practical way, I marveled at the beautiful mosaics made of trash,
bits of broken tile and glass.
Finally,
we visited Gaudi's Gothic cathedral, still under construction though
he died in 1926. Burgess wrote, “Gaudi's masterpiece is the still
unfinished church of the Sagrada Familia or Holy Family. There is
nothing in the world like it. Some have called it Disney whimsicality
raised to the height of soaring nobility.” I saw it as a sand
castle made of drips and decorations. We took an elevator to the top
of a spire and looked out at another spire being built, the fifth out
of a planned twelve. The decorative globes were attached by being
wrapped in chicken wire which was then embedded in concrete. Joe
complained about Spanish construction. My father took it all as part
of the experience, a fluid construction, part of the great
architect's plan.
That
night, we ate dinner at the historic restaurant, Los Caracoles,
founded in 1835, famous for seafood. Then, Joe thought we should see
a Flamenco show as a send-off for my father who would be leaving the
next day. We found a little nightclub and sat around a table
drinking “Sangria”, red wine mixed with orange juice. While the
dancers were good, the guitar player was excellent. On the dancers'
break, he continued, sitting alone on the stage in a straight-backed
chair. Meanwhile, the women came down from the stage to ask for
money, gypsy fashion. They were sure my tall, dark, handsome father
was the one to approach. Probably, as an older man, he even had
money, but he just smiled, brushed them off and sat back, exhausted.
The
next day, my father's plane left at ten in the morning, his mission
accomplished. He felt much better about how we took care of
ourselves. The bandits from Don Quixote no longer lingered at the
edge of how he imagined we were living. He and Joe were friends. I
was homesick when he left, but remembered some vivid dreams of being
home and not wanting to be.
When
we had been in Barcelona before, Joe had been sick and I had made a
friend, so we went to look her up. At the pension, they gave me
Aligata's new address. She was in charge of a building, a concierge,
which was just as well because her husband was out of work and
gambling. We all went to the park, an outing with the little boy who
could now walk. Then she seemed to feel, like the women of the
Canaries, a necessity to feed us. She roasted peppers and peeled
them while they were still hot. The thin blackened skin separated
easily from the soft flesh of the pepper. She had made a fresh
pimento. I made a note about this new cooking skill. But we felt bad
about accepting a meal knowing we had more money than the family, so
we didn't visit again.
My
mind was not truly engaged for the next few days. On the road again,
I was homesick and became depressed at continuing what was looking
like aimless wandering. I wrote little notes. “Left Barcelona.
Slept by a river. Bought most expensive ice cream in Spain to use up
coins before leaving. A ride to Marseille in a van. Film fest on in
Cannes. Crowded. Slept on a hillside outside the city. Train to
Nice.”
With
my spirit not in the journey, I have no memory of those days. Nice
was interesting. Joe had been to Nice the year before, sleeping under
bridges with a young man who carried two passports, French and
English. Joe figured one at least had to be illegal, but he didn't
know which. The young man knew all the ins and outs of the city. They
had visited the soup kitchen for free food, and now, a year later,
Joe took me there. In the old city, up a steep narrow cobble-stoned
street, the nuns opened up a basement to serve free lunch to anyone
(notably the old drunken bums), the starchiest stuff I ever ate. For
a change, we didn't have to worry about eating meat. Charity food
does not include meat, but plain boiled beans and white rice does not
qualify as good food. I wondered what the nuns thought about
vitamins. Sitting on the bare benches, I lowered my opinion of Joe's
friend, whom I had not met.
French
pastry shops were tempting, but outrageously expensive, and the one
piece I bought was not good enough to be worth all the fat and sugar,
much less the money.
I
was not disappointed in one thing Joe had told me about. Socca,
served from stands on the wharf, was wonderful. Made from chick-pea
meal, it is as yellow and delicate as corn. The French, of course,
deny ever eating corn (for pigs only), but since Nice is next to the
Italian border, one might think polenta could cross the border. My
version boils cornmeal for polenta which I spread thin and bake in a
hot oven with plenty of olive oil and pepper. Years later, I found
Julia Child's recipe using chick-pea meal, but we prefer the corn
version, like baked grits.
We
slept in a seaside cave Joe's friend had shown him. Right in town,
it had a cement floor and a door in the wall connecting to some kind
of a boating club. After three nights, the sea rose right up into
the cave, driving us and a few other street people up against the
back wall. Enough of Nice. Hitchhiking out of town, the only
friendly French woman we ever met picked us up to combat her boredom
and drove us through Monte Carlo and right into Italy, leaving us at
the entrance to the Italian highway.
No
one seemed to ever use the stretch of road we were on, so we spent
the afternoon waiting and watching a man with a bulldozer who seemed
to be trying to change the course of the river below. Joe felt sure
the force of the river would defeat him, carrying away every bite the
bulldozer offered it. But perhaps some engineer had calculated it
all. The Italians have been famous from the time of the Romans for
aqueducts and water engineering.
After
two cars passed us by in as many hours, we hiked into town and took a
train to Genoa. We planned to spend little time in Italy, to avoid
its high prices by hitchhiking across the north on our way to Greece.
We didn't get a dictionary for Italian - supposedly our knowledge of
French and Spanish would get us through this short stay. The signs
on the train window said “pellicoloso”, surely the same word our
Spanish friends had used to warn us about swimming, “peligroso”.
Pension still meant small hotel. We figured “pizza” would be the
same word, but there seemed to be no pizza parlors in industrial
Genoa. Finally we saw a small place. Microwave, the latest
technology, produced soggy slices, nothing to compare to the Greek
pizza we got in Boston.
Going
out of Genoa, roads were suddenly superhighways full of trucks and
speeding little cars. Hitchhiking got us into a car going an
alarming 100 kilometers an hour. Of course, this translates to 65
miles per hour, still fast compared to the slow pace we had been
moving. We were in Milan before we knew it, early enough to look
around at the factories and decide to leave.
A truck took us through hail and
thunderstorms to Vicenza at dusk. One hotel was too expensive, one
was too full, and we were looking for the third and last when the
thunderstorms struck again. We took refuge under the overhang of a
gas station. In the glass-fronted office a German shepherd guard dog
went wild. I eyed him miserably as he barked and jumped at the
window. Joe cursed.
Suddenly,
like magic, a little green car drove up with a man in the driver's
seat speaking English, offering to rescue us. He said he and his wife
had seen us walking by, and decided we would be in trouble if it
started to rain again. Their lovely apartment had all the comforts
of home: hot water, music, a baby, eggs for breakfast, and English
conversation. He translated English for a small firm and welcomed
the opportunity to practice on Americans.
In
the morning, our host drove us to the highway where we had no trouble
hitchhiking to Venice, a city sinking into its canals, thinking we
might otherwise never get to see it. Canals for streets struck me as
pleasant as well as a romantic way to run a city. Unfortunately, the
problem of litter seemed worse, with candy wrappers and condoms
floating in the dirty water. Certainly, the buildings were all
beautifully antique, without a high-rise to spoil the line. The
ambiance was there, a quiet feeling of being outside the mainstream
of modern Italian hustle-bustle, a place to rest and vacation.
The
huge square of St. Mark's Place did not affect me as it did the
characters in Henry James novels. I didn't have enough background to
appreciate the way European history was on display. Meanwhile, Joe
scoffed at cathedrals and museums, disdaining religion and art
history. I wrote, “Venice is nice but expensive. $6 pension.”
Twice what we had been paying.
Somehow
Joe decided a nice meal in a good restaurant wouldn't break us, so we
picked something unpretentious, without a dress code. During the
meal, Joe decided to try to figure out exactly how much things were
going to be, whether we could afford dessert. Even if we didn't have
the Italian money, an American traveler's check would certainly have
done, so I tried not to bother with his muttering. The American at
the next table noticed, and, at the end, the waiter informed us that
our check had been taken care of, and that the gentleman had left.
Walking
back to the pension, we wondered how we should spend the money we had
saved. Storefronts showed Venetian glass and stunning designer
clothing I might have bought in another life. We couldn't afford or
use the best the city had to offer, so we decided to leave and find
somewhere we could.
Hitchhiking
took us to Yugoslavia. Rain again in Rijeka, where we, as foreigners,
were not allowed to stay in a small pension. We were sent to a
state-run hotel costing $5 a night. We were doubly disappointed
because we had hoped to see more of the native people in this
Communist country, an isolated backwater run by the same man since
World War II, Tito. I felt ill at ease, surrounded by heavy, ugly
furniture in our Communist hotel while Joe went out to buy some food.
He was startled when a fellow in the elevator suddenly asked in a
deep Slavic voice straight out of a spy movie, “How do you like my
country?” It was misplaced anxiety. Although not welcoming,
neither was Yugoslavia threatening.
The
next day, as we stopped for lunch on a beach, a Russian writer on
vacation introduced himself and, in broken English, tried to explain
his latest epic, The Brick.
His friends stayed at a safe distance while this artist exposed
himself to our dangerous influence.
Back
on the road, an educated businessman drove us for hours and told us
enough history to make us appreciate his country, a land overrun many
times by conquering armies: Greeks, Romans, Turks, Germans, and
Italians. In Dubrovnik, he let us off and said we must tour this
medieval walled city, still much the same as five hundred years ago
when enormous stones were placed to form the huge sea wall
overlooking the Adriatic Sea. Once, crowds gathered watching for
trading ships from around the world. We walked along ramparts wide
enough for four soldiers to march abreast in full battle dress. The
popular twenty-first century series “Game of Thrones” was filmed
there. The stones had been soaking up the hot June sun all day, and
now gave it back with a vengeance.
Having
done our touristic duty, we bought some bread, cheese, and cherry jam
in the old market and retired to a government approved tourist
campground where we paid the minimum fee, having neither a vehicle
nor a tent. We were the only ones to bother to pay for a bit of
ground to sleep on, but we were still uneasy about regulations. From
Dubrovnik, an Australian lady took us a short way down the coast to a
beach resort on the Adriatic Sea. At the restaurant in the evening,
an American expatriate offered to buy us wine in exchange for our
company.
In
a bored and affected way, he told us a story concerning a certain
wise man of the East. Once an unhappy rich man undertook a
pilgrimage to visit a wise man in the mountains. The long and arduous
journey through snow-filled passes and around steep cliffs took weeks
of difficult travel, until the unhappy man reached his destination.
“Oh wise man,” asked the pilgrim, “What is the meaning of
Life?”
After a moment and the wise man
said, “Life is a River.”
The
pilgrim left his gifts at the guru's feet and went home to
contemplate the statement. Months later, still unhappy, he again
undertook the laborious journey to the mountain to reach the cave of
the wise man. “Oh wise man!” he exclaimed, “I have thought
and thought, but I can see no meaning to your statement, 'Life is a
River.”
The
wise man looked at his supplicant and asked, “You mean it isn't?”
The
story didn't bear analysis, so I said nothing. Joe countered with
similar stories and jokes, but our host seemed to grow more morose as
the evening went on. We finished our wine and left. Having arrived
in town early enough, we had picked out an empty field to camp in
outside the resort area.
To
go overland to Greece from Yugoslavia, we had to forsake the Adriatic
Sea and head inland to go around Albania, a country paranoid in its
political insularity. At the time, Albania maintained diplomatic
relations with only one country, Communist China. After the Nixon
trip to China, Albania cut off that connection. Without an Albanian
visa, we had to go one hundred miles inland to Macedonia, the kingdom
of Alexander the Great, now a province of Yugoslavia.
Leaving
the resort, we got a ride with a rock music band. We climbed in the
back of their van amid the equipment and sat on loudspeakers. One
young man spoke a little English loudly. We gathered they were
traveling to a job in Titograd. The next day would be Tito's
birthday. I was surprised to hear a rock band would be playing on
such an official state occasion. Wasn't rock music a deplorable
capitalistic influence? The musician's English was not up to
explanations, even if we had thought it polite to open a discussion
of communist repression. We spent a couple of hours riding, allowing
their Slavic language to wash over us, not understanding a word.
Just
after Titograd, a Volkswagen bug stopped to pick us up. The driver,
thirty year old Ruti, introduced himself as a German professor and
seemed to have an endless store of conversation along with a small
store of hashish. Ruti was driving from Berlin to Greece to escape
an overwhelming personal life: ex-wife, child, and lover on heroin.
I loved sitting in the back seat list ening to the men talk. Ruti
would glance my way occasionally in the rear-view mirror and
eventually asked me why I was smiling. His friends in Berlin never
smiled unless they were high on drugs.
After
a day of driving between wooded hills, Ruti pulled off the road so we
could camp by a river, cook a simple meal over a fire and sleep well.
In the morning, Ruti swam in the river, though we were not impressed
enough with the warmth of the day to do more than wash. After our
breakfast of tea and biscuits, we were in no rush to leave. A herd
of thirsty cattle arrived to drink at the river followed by a peasant
girl in a beautiful traditional costume, loose paisley pants gathered
at the ankle. Ruti said she would fit right in at a Berlin
coffeehouse. She watched us with shy interest until her parents
arrived with the rest of the herd of cattle, calling her away.
Riding
south to Greece with Ruti, our destination was within our sights, a
Greek island, the exact one as yet unchosen. Our long winter stay on
a hospitable island had worked out well in the Canary Islands. Money
lasts a lot longer staying in one place. From all reports, the Greek
islands had a friendly tradition like the Canaries, dating from
before the time of Odysseus, who was assured of a welcome when he was
shipwrecked in the Aegean Sea. We planned to rent a small house for
some cheap rate and live a normal life again.
Chapter
VIII: GREECE
Ruti
was carrying his supply of hashish from Germany to Greece, but he
assured us we needn't worry - never any trouble at this border, he
said, and anyway, we could cross separately. We got out of the car at
the border and watched. The officials showed some interest in the
unique starting system Ruti had worked out for his Volkswagen. The
battery behind the seat had to be manually connected before ignition.
After a brief conversation, the border guards waved us through.
In
northern Greece, Ruti didn't want to stop even for coffee. He wanted
to get to Athens right away, except that he took the scenic route
(hairpin turns) around Mount Olympus for the magnificent view,
torture for me in the back seat on the winding mountain road. We
stopped once at a scenic point where fields of thyme rolled away into
the distance, the low herbal plants covering the hills, recalling to
me a particular Greek honey sold in health food stores, thyme honey
called Hymettus after those fragrant mountains.
By
late afternoon, we were driving on flat plains, well on our way to
Athens. We camped on the rocky shore of the Aegean Sea, sorry our
second day with Ruti had not been as nice as the first. In Athens, we
ended up taking rooms in an ugly pension near the walls of the
Acropolis. From outside the surrounding wall, the ancient monument
looked dirty, hot, graffiti-laden and expensive. We could have gone
that full moon night - tourist agencies had special tours, but
someone in the pension said to be extra careful for thieves if you
took the tour then. Ruti went and came back feeling depressed and
discouraged, so I gave up any idea of visiting the monument.
Athens,
the capital of modern Greece, is a huge, dusty international
crossroads, filled with more hustle and bustle than we could stand.
We spent a few days taking care of traveling business, such as
passport photos, shots, and visas for countries farther east. We
enjoyed local fast food, spanokopita, spinach and feta cheese pie
made with filo dough, now popular but an exotic food then. At corner
cafes, we sat with tea and honeyed baklava, watching the old men
working worry beads around their fingers. Sets of worry beads were a
common souvenir item, some beautiful, but not the right size to use
as anything else, being too big for a bracelet and too small for a
necklace. Meanwhile, Ruti came down with hepatitus and would have to
go back to Germany to recover. His visa was revoked.
I
too felt something was wrong. My head was itchy and a shower didn't
clear out all the little black bits of dirt on my scalp. Finally,
brushing my hair, I dislodged a louse. I had been suspecting
something since Yugoslavia. I blamed the flower-filled fields, but
human contact is more likely, perhaps the state-run hotel. An
insecticide powder on our scalps for a week made our hair look
stylish, Ruti commented as we said good-bye, as if we had coated it
extensively with hair spray.
At
a bookstore where we bought a small phrase-book/Greek dictionary, Joe
found something we had been looking for from the beginning of the
trip, a pocket-sized hard-bound atlas. Published in England, it
carried more about the British Isles than we would have chosen, but
at least it didn't devote a page to every state in the USA. Studying
the maps to choose a summer resting place, we decided the island of
Chios looked promising, fairly large and listed as agricultural, so
the local vegetables would be plentiful and cheap. Closest of the
islands to Turkey, Chios would have connections for the east when we
wanted to move on in September.
From
Athens' port of Piraeus, ferries left every day. The cheapest passage
on an overnight ride did not include use of the swimming pool, nor a
berth. Instead of resting in a cabin, we set up sleeping bags on the
wide, clean white deck. I stayed with our packs under the stars while
Joe went off with the first of many Georges. Joe called this one “fat
George”, and they drank coffee and ate baklava while exchanging
traveling adventures. Many Greeks go to America, learn to speak
English, and delight in showing off their knowledge.
Early
in the morning on June first, we arrived in Chios, capital and port
city of the island of Chios. A mildly interesting wharf featured a
row of little cafes, so we stopped at a taverna with red and white
checked tablecloths. None of the restaurants here carried tea. I had
a choice of coffee or soda to drink. The coffee was the Turkish
variety, brewed and served with a thick layer of muddy grounds on the
bottom, impossible to drink with cream. I had to stir a spoon of
sugar into it, feeling guilty for actually choosing to take sugar,
the substance described by our yogi friends as refined white poison.
I carried a little jar of honey, but the taste does not blend well
with coffee. Our waiter was not friendly and the town was quite
large, so we left quickly.
Just
a short bus ride south of the city of Chios on the east coast of the
island of Chios, our map showed a beach at Karfas, a resort area with
a long sandy beach surrounded by restaurants and beach houses.
Sunning himself on the beach was an obvious foreigner, someone to ask
about the accommodations. He was one of fifteen living in George the
Fisherman's house. The others were still sleeping. Dormitory life was
not for us, so we continued down the road, walking and thinking.
When
the sun got hot, we stopped under a large tree with thick green
leaves. The ground under it was littered with its fruit, carob pods,
also known as “St. John's bread”. We had been introduced to them
in the hills of Gran Canaria, so I cut one open, saw no bugs, and
chewed on its sweet fibrous meat while Joe talked about a new plan he
had just cooked up. He had been inspired by all the little boats and
thought we could rent one for the summer and spend our time sailing
from port to port. To me, this sounded like more of an undertaking
than we were ready to handle. With our boating experience, even a
houseboat could be difficult to handle, but I was idealistic enough
not to veto the plan out of hand.
Joe
said I should decide, so I suggested consulting the I Ching, the
ancient Chinese oracle book I use to help me read my own mind. My
father had brought a pocket translation. Psychoanalyst C.G. Jung
wrote, “It is a dubious task indeed to try to introduce to a
critical modern public a collection of archaic 'magic spells' with
the idea of making it more or less acceptable.” He went on to say,
“Probably in no other field (than psychology) do we have to reckon
with so many unknown quantities and nowhere else do we become more
accustomed to adopting methods that work even though for a long time
we may not know why they work.” His theory is based on what he
calls “synchronicity”, that “whatever happens in a given moment
possesses inevitably the quality peculiar to that moment.” By
throwing three coins in the manner designated, we can use the book to
read an interpretation of the pattern of the moment. Jung ends up by
noting, “Even to the most biased eye, it is obvious that this book
represents one long admonition to careful scrutiny of one's own
character, attitude, and motives.” I like Jung's explanation and
enjoy reading the allegories and advice.
I
often find insights in the I Ching, more than I could have brought to
the question, and the coincidences of particular details are
significant. As for setting it tasks of prophecy, I have gotten an
answer that seemingly reprimands the questioner, hexagram number four
out of the sixty-four, Youthful Folly. The judgment is: “It is not
I who seek the young fool. The young fool seeks me. At the first
oracle I inform him. If he asks two or three times, it is
importunity. If he importunes, I give him no information.”
Sitting
under a large carob tree by the side of a dusty road on the island of
Chios, I threw three coins six times, recording the pattern of heads
and tails each time to come up with a reading of hexagram number
five, “Calculated Inaction”. To describe our situation as best
handled by calculated inaction seemed to denote that a rented house
would be wiser than a boat. I had twice thrown sets of three of the
same, so I was entitled to read two changing lines. One spoke of
being stuck in the mud, seeming a reference to staying in one place,
and the other, of spending time with food and drink. The changing
lines, being overbalanced in their quality of yin or yang, change to
their opposite. The result is another hexagram; this time, hexagram
nineteen, “Approach”. This reading specifically mentioned
September as a time to move on, as we had planned. Joe does not
enjoy the sedate advice of the I Ching as I do. He suggested that
the reading just reflected my state of mind, that Calculated Inaction
was indeed stuck-in-the-mud.
However,
he had asked me to decide this time and accepted this reading as
advice to go with a house, so when a bus came along, we took it to
the first town, Nenita. We bought some food and headed downhill to
the beach. The winding dirt road led past fig trees and a small
church to a wide, empty, rocky beach and the beautiful blue Aegean
Sea. A few fishing boats and huts lined the deserted shore, and a
cement pier extended some fifty yards into the Aegean with a view of
Turkey in the distance, 8 kilometers away. Amenities included both a
tap for fresh water and a shower. We had the beach to ourselves.
The
next day, we discovered that 3:00 in the afternoon Saturday was
“beach time” for the town. The peasant tradition keeps the
community together. It's funny how Americans live with our land in
the suburbs and commute to work, and these people live together in a
town and commute to their farms. Our pioneer tradition splits us
apart, and their city-state tradition keeps people together. I am
accustomed to and enjoy the relative privacy of American life, even
though it has resulted in dependence on the automobile.
We
camped on the beach, Vocaria, for a couple of days. When wind came
up, we asked the English-speaking vegetable grocer about renting. He
suggested a group of summer houses owned by the church, five miles
walk along a dirt road to the next beach, Gridia. We set out along
the shore early one morning, but the people we passed told us we had
to go by the main road. Up in town, we bought ice cream and were
given coffee and it got too hot for walking. Motivated by the thought
of a house for a change, I went by myself in the afternoon and met
Gridia's inhabitants, a strange couple, Grigori and Marioga.
The
next morning, Joe accompanied me. In the little house in Gridia, we
accepted glasses of cold water and candied orange peel in syrup and
tried to work out Greek from our phrase-book/dictionary. Joe wanted
to know how they pronounced his name, but he was having trouble
getting through to the old man. Finally, I drew a picture of Mary and
Joseph and the Christ Child, and asked what Grigori would call
Joseph. He said Yiannis. We didn't find out for months that this was
the translation of John, the second most popular name, after George,
in those parts.
The
next town on the main road, Kalamoti, offered a house for $30 a
month, so we talked to George the vegetable grocer again. If we
didn't need to live on the shore, he knew a great house. For $6.00 a
month, we could have a three-room stone house in town with an outside
tap for water, an indoor fireplace for cooking, and an outhouse that
had not been used for some time. We loved it. As word spread of our
plans, the whole town seemed pleased that we had chosen them for a
summer vacation. The neighbors came by to offer to lend us a table,
two chairs, and a bed. From all over town, people came visiting,
bringing gifts of food. They took us in and pampered us like long
lost children. I wrote home with news of the arrangement.
“Dear
Family,” I wrote. “You just can't imagine how nice it is here in
a small Greek town where everyone is friendly! I'm a real social
being here, much more so than anywhere else so far except for Soria
which was friendliness with people like ourselves. I'm pleased with
my progress in the language.
“Greek TV at the cafe is okay
so far. We've seen “Family Affair” with Greek subtitles. In
contrast, every program in Spain was dubbed. People here can all
read! I have an old list of programs, written in Greek, The American
shows were “LAZH”, “XA'I 'ZA7APAL”, “MIZTEP NOBAK”, “EDO
LOYEY,” DE'Y'TON 7LAHZ”. “HANNIK”, “M7ONANTZA”, and
“XABAH 5-0”. In order, that's “Lassie”, “HIgh ChapperalI”,
“MIster Novak”. “Here's Lucy”, “Peyton Place”, “Mannix”,
“Bonanza”, and “Hawaii 5-0”. The last one was easy, and
“M7ONANTZA” is my favorite, but “Here's Lucy” I needed
translated by my neighbor, Limonia, who is seventeen and knows these
things. “The horoscope book Ann sent says, “Say as little as
possible unless it is to express praise or a compliment.” That's
good because that's about all we can say in Greek.”
In
the first weeks in Nenita, we were showered with housewarming gifts.
Eggs were plentiful in June, so we got about twenty. Everyone said,
“Here, these eggs are really fresh,” but of course they weren't
by the time we got around to eating them. When Joe's birthday
arrived, I enlisted my neighbors' help to bake a pie from some of the
local cherries. They sent me to the local baker who waived the charge
for baking the pie in her oven with the bread. Once I had mentioned
about Joe's birthday, presents started arriving all over again. I
listed their variety in my letter home. ”1) Potatoes, 2) A bowl of
apricots, 3) Two liters of olive oil, 4) A plate of homemade bread
toasted dry, 5) Some liqueur we haven't tried yet, 6) A bottle of
horrid sweet orange syrup for drinks, 7) A box of jelly candy, and 8)
Six bouquets of flowers.”
I
complained to my family about the difficulty in following the diet we
had set ourselves. We had given up sugar, but were constantly being
asked in for coffee and a sweet: orange peel, rose petals, or
pistachio nuts preserved in syrup.
Our
house was near the main road and the tree-filled walled central
square. On Saturday, the Greek Orthodox Sabbath, we witnessed a
weekly get-together similar to the one in Spain, called “Paseo”
by Julia Gomez Moreno. After church, everyone would walk around the
square and up and down the street dressed in their best. It was
called “Volta”. With only two changes of clothes, I was happy to
skip this communal gathering as we had in Spain.
Visits
to the vegetable shop now took us past the square where the
shopkeeper sat opposite his store in the shade of the park's trees,
ready to greet us loudly. “Kalostes, Pedia! Te kanetes? Katse
ligaiki!” (Hello, children! How are you? Sit a little!) He would
pat his extra chairs and we would practice Greek. We tried to divide
our patronage as best we could, buying feta cheese from him while
still getting vegetables from George. The worst was when he tried to
get us to buy our bread from him. Just up the street from our house,
we could visit the baker whose light brown loaf was one of the best
in the world, moist and heavy with olive oil. I was offended when the
shopkeeper said, “The bread you're getting can't be any good: it's
baked by a woman!” The town had two bakeries, and his
brother-in-law owned the one across town offering a dry white loaf.
The
communal use of ovens of Nenita impressed me. One day, the
neighborhood women fired one up in someone's yard. I had wondered how
such age-old ovens would be heated ever since seeing them in the
villages of Spain. The cavity in the huge pile of stone was filled
with grape prunings. After the fire dies down, the heated stone
cooks the food without blackening it from smoke. The butter cookies
from this oven were perfect.
We
were virtually adopted by an unhappy woman with a house next to the
square. Whenever we came into town, Aspasia would come up and offer
us something, in order to talk to us. Aspasia had two mentally
retarded daughters, Katina and Papi, aged seventeen and fifteen. Like
her daughters, we were unable to talk, needing to be taken care of.
As time went on, we learned the language, showing the progress her
daughters never would. I tried to help her with the older girl, being
friendly and finding her simple projects, until Joe protested that I
couldn't babysit any more at the house. I had to gently try to turn
away Aspasia's troubled, friendly face, smiling through her tears. I
began to be busy mornings, unable to stop on my way to the square.
One
day, Katina's face appeared at our window, looking in, her short
curly black hair above a now sullen face. I was surprised since I had
never seen her without her mother, but said “Good day.” She could
talk, but wandered off without saying anything. When her mother
arrived, harassed, looking for her, I found out what was wrong. The
father, always out on a boat, had arrived home for a visit. Aspasia
invited us over to meet him in the afternoon, insisting so strongly
that I accepted in spite of Joe's reluctance. When we all sat
uncomfortably around the living room, it was obvious he couldn't
stand being in his house.
My next letter home spoke to my
father about this problem. I wrote, “It seems to me that this town
of 1,600 people has an abnormal amount of abnormal people. Our friend
Aspasia has two idiot daughters and is consequently slightly crazy,
but very nice to them. She wants to know if you have any suggestions
from America.
“There
are many more strange people than we saw in Spain or at home. There's
the voiceless man, the bearded cripple, the lady with one eye that
doesn't open, cross-eyed babies, and strangest of all, the ten year
old girl with 60 year old skin, very ugly. Does this seem like a lot
to us because in the USA the duds are sent someplace and we don't see
them, or is it island inbreeding?” His answer: “Probably both.
Explain to your friend that I really have no American Magic and I
can't help her from this far away.”
My
journal entries fell off except to record events of small-town
society. My usual diary writing tends to be of how things went wrong
so I can work things out on paper. My journal records the times we
were invited to dinner and arrived to find we had been forgotten. The
first time it happened, the wife of George the vegetable man quickly
served spaghetti. Our host made no moves to help. We felt
uncomfortable and left as soon as we could. As we walked home, Joe
told me he had heard our host called Turko. As he had always before
been perfectly pleasant to us, Joe had not understood how George had
earned the insulting name.
The
second time we were invited to a dinner and forgotten was to the
house of a well-respected fisherman. It may just be something Greek
men might do casually, but not informing the wife, perhaps not
expecting us to take them up on the invitation. The date is written
on the end paper of the little Greek phrase book that I still have,
“Dinner Saturday, Peter Minotes”. They tried to cover up,
figuring we might not know what was going on, and instead of the
boasted-of fish dinner, once again we had spaghetti. At this
spaghetti dinner, the hostess learned I was interested in sewing and
offered to let me use her sewing machine.
I
accepted the invitation since I had made a muslin dress to replace
the marimekko I had been wearing for six months. The hand sewn seams
could be reinforced. I wrote to my sister, “I made a muslin dress
with an embroidered yoke (I can add embroidery whenever I'm bored,
traveling) and hemmed it to a conservative length, 3½ inches above
the knee, but they all say it's a mini, so I'm still a style setter.”
Also, for our neighbor Limonia's wedding, I was making a long skirt.
My appointment to use the machine seemed easy enough; I had the
fabric all cut. What I didn't foresee was my hostess and her friend
grilling me as to how and why I didn't have any children. Trying to
explain an IUD in Greek to women who didn't approve of birth control
was exhausting.
Another
memorable dinner was at the house of a single woman. Maria Bitakis
was the shopkeeper who taught me the Greek gesture for “no”,
pronounced “nay”. In Greece, “no” is shown by a lifting of
the chin and eyebrows and a click of the tongue,“tsk.” Maria
liked to be subtle and sometimes simply lifted her eyebrows and
clicked her tongue to indicate she didn't carry the item requested,
thereby confusing me. I interpreted her expression as disapproval of
my request. I thought she didn't like me until she invited us to
dinner.
At
our dinner party, Maria served fried eggplant and offered to pour
more olive oil on if we wanted. I didn't believe it at first, but she
was serious, offering to enrich the dish as people in America will by
adding butter. After dinner she told us a joke and then repeated it.
I knew something was going on because her friend was protesting, but
I failed the test. Jokes are not my forte. I hadn't thought the joke
was funny the first time - often they lose in translation - so I
stopped listening, figuring it was a variation on a joke I didn't
like. Joe played the game, going through the joke step by step, and
gave her the punch line. Maria Bitakis pronounced Joe better than me
at speaking Greek.
A
more enjoyable social experience was going to an American movie in
the community hall. “Where Eagles Dare” was shown with Greek
subtitles, thankfully, not dubbed. During intermission, we noticed a
sign on a pillar and asked an English-speaking man what the sign
said. He translated, “Do not eat pumpkin seeds here,“ which was
just what I had been doing, throwing the shells on the floor as if I
were in Spain where trash is automatically consigned to the floor. I
told Joe we should move so I could pretend it hadn't been me.
Nevertheless, we thoroughly enjoyed the spy thriller with Richard
Burton as the brains and Clint Eastwood as a cold blooded killer, all
the more because we hadn't seen a movie in almost a year.
Our
usual social activity centered on the cafe nearest to the square. Joe
particularly liked sitting with the old men and their cups of Turkish
coffee in the afternoon, chatting with those who had spent time in
America and spoke English, checking out old American shows on the TV.
I would join them for a while before retiring to my usual pursuits,
reading English novels picked up in the capital and writing letters.
One
man in particular, George Leotsarkas, had spent a number of years in
Baltimore before marrying the boss's Greek-American daughter. His
fortune made, they had retired to his old home town. Now he was a
rich man in the frugal society, a respected landowner who could
afford to sit at the cafe and spout his philosophy, punctuating each
thought with, “You know what I mean? I hope you understand me now!”
or if he was talking to a fellow countryman, “Elpiso katalavenis
moo tora,” which means the same thing in Greek. The other men in
Nenita were not such philosophers and mostly listened in silence,
clicking their worry beads to the rhythm of their thoughts.
I
believe our landlady, Despina Bitakis, never regretted renting to us
although she was somewhat retiring and would never have come forward
with the house. She did her best to make us welcome and invited me
to her house to share a bit of the plentiful onion harvest she had
drying on her roof. The onion, as a vegetable that enjoys a moist
soil, is grown in the winter there. I admired her crop, took a few
onions, and we sat down to chat for a bit, until she realized I was
not good at chatting in Greek. All she could think of to do with me
then was to offer me something else. She offered me “trahanas”, a
food stuff not listed in our little phrase book/dictionary. It looked
like wheat germ cereal, so I tasted it. She looked worried and
explained that it wasn't supposed to be eaten raw. I should cook it
in soup.
I
took my leave happily clutching my onions and little bit of cereal,
just the thing to eat with the plentiful yogurt. We finished it off
in a couple of days, and I asked for more at the shop. The shopkeeper
offered me noodles to put in my soup, so I explained about eating it
with yogurt. He was shocked, and the story spread about town.
Trahanas was a local specialty, made by the women for winter soups.
Late in August, when all the tomatoes were ripe, one of the women
invited me to see it made. In a huge kettle, she had cooked the
tomatoes with other vegetables to render their juice. She strained
the juice into a huge bowl and mixed it with whole wheat flour. With
her hands, she rubbed the dough into small pieces and laid it in the
sun to dry.
The
farms of Chios produced all the fresh vegetables we wanted and all
the fruits in turn, starting with cherries and progressing through
peaches to plums and melons, ending with grapes. Our friend George
the vegetable man took us for a ride to visit the farmer who grew
“American” (round and striped) watermelons in the next valley. As
we drove along in the cab of his little pick-up truck bouncing on the
dusty dirt road, George told us he knew how to say water in English
as well as in American. From his time in Worcester, Massachusetts, he
had learned to say “Oowada” like an American, but on-board ship,
he learned “water” from an Englishman. The farmer must not have
been impressed with us Americans, for he gave our friend no deal on
the American watermelons from his pile.
Fig
and almond trees seemed to grow wild, at least we and some of the
boys treated them as such, picking treats from their limbs. I loved
the almonds before they were ripe, watery, crisp and light. From a
weed in our back yard, those same boys gathered flower buds to make
capers. I never did see the pistachio nuts as I had hoped, though one
bush was pointed out to me when it was in flower, the bright red
blossoms the color of the dye often added to roasted pistachio nuts.
Perhaps pistachios ripened after we left. Olives most certainly
ripened after we left. We couldn't have missed that harvest. The most
plentiful crop of Nenita came from the surrounding hills cowered with
carefully tended olive trees, hundreds of years old in their terraced
orchards.
Greek
history details the cutting of the olive trees around Athens as the
final act of barbarism when the Spartan War became fierce and bitter.
Olives are a staple of Greek life, and the slow-growing olive tree is
a treasure to be respected when civilized war was conducted. By June,
most of the Chios olives had been eaten or sold, so we only tasted a
few home-cured samples, richer and sweeter than the olives sold in
the stores. Our friend from the cafe, George Leotsarkas, claimed to
have been brought up almost exclusively on bread and olives, the
rich, oily fruit a meat substitute for the poor people of the island.
Besides
our ordinary excellent food, we could get specialties from the
capital. About twice a week, a truck came by with an amazingly loud
speaker on top of its roof broadcasting “YAWORTI MITLINI!” it
yelled, “TIROPITA ZESTI! YAWORTI PROVIDA! DEN THELIS ZESTI
TIROPITA?” Eventually the repetition of TIROPITA rang a bell. They
were selling the feta cheese pastry made from buttered filo dough
wrapped in the shape of a triangle. Joe ran to investigate and found
the town-to-town salesman sold tiropitas packed in a steel-lined
trunk so they stayed hot. But what did the rest of the announcement
mean? YAWORTI PROVIDA was rich creamy sheep's yogurt from the
neighboring island of Mitlini, otherwise known as Lesbos. Once we
figured out what was going on with the announcement, we never missed
a chance for a hot cheese pastry and often bought the special yogurt.
As
summer progressed, the invitation to come in for a sweet was
augmented by an offer of “Nero Vrohino” rather than the Turkish
coffee. As usual, we accepted before we really knew what the words
meant: perfectly pure cold water, rain water saved in a special well
from the winter's wet season. After a few rains had cleared summer
dust from the tile roof, a special run-off directed the rain water to
underground storage. I felt honored by the ceremony of perfect water
in a clear glass on a hot and dusty day. When the sweet offered was a
home-preserved cherry in a light syrup, I saw the true charm of the
short visit, which had not impressed me when we had been offered a
spoon of gummy mastika in the glass.
Mastika
merits a paragraph of its own. Chios is listed as the principal
producer of mastika, a high grade gum gathered from a bush and prized
in Turkey for gum and as an ingredient in the sticky “Turkish
delight” candy. We were offered a spoon of gluey white mastika
mixed with sugar, placed in a glass of water so that we couldn't even
enjoy the water. The other use for mastika was even more disgusting.
In early September when the birds begin to migrate, people in town
would get together and chew up the gum until it reached the right
sticky consistency. When they had spit out great wads of the stuff,
they would coat small branches with it and place them so little birds
would get stuck. They served up a stew of tiny whole birds. I thought
of this as I walked up from the beach, reaching the corner where I
sometimes sat watching the swallows playing with the wind.
One
day at the beach, a tugboat towed in a crane on a barge and anchored
it to the short pier. The next day, the tugboat brought a barge full
of rocks to be picked off and splashed into the water. By the end of
the summer, the pier had doubled in length. Strangely enough, we
never heard the plans for this project, even when the philosopher
from the cafe, George Leotsarkas, came down. George loved explaining
things to us at great length, but he must have been too busy
gathering and eating raw sea urchins. We spent most of July down at
the beach, swimming or reading. I did embroidery, and Joe went
fishing. In weather too windy for fishing, Joe became morose. Wind is
good for sailing, and he regretted the decision to sit still.
Once
again, the time for decision had passed. This time there was an
unexpected benefit. Taking advantage of our immobility, Joe's mother
wrote us she would visit in August if we could make plans. We
welcomed this visit, glad the families were interested in our
adventures.
In
July, we prepared for the social event of the season. For a month, we
had been hearing about our neighbor Limonia's wedding. I had sat with
her by the side of the road, chatting while she waited for her fiance
to take her for a ride on his motorcycle. Of course we were to come
to the wedding, she said. I made a long skirt to wear to the wedding
and a macrame bag as a gift. On the eighteenth of July, we walked
with our neighbors, the family of the bride. The rest of town was
already there, so we had to stand in back, next to George Leotsarkos
who knew the bride by sight and had come, dressed as always, to see
the show. Unfortunately, he knew little of what was going on, not
being a church-goer, and the service was conducted in Latin.
Down
at the altar, a canopy had been erected. Four Greek priests, “Papas”,
with robes, beards and sideburn curls like Orthodox Jews were
chanting in competition to the noise of the crowd. After half an
hour, the newlyweds emerged to a crowd throwing rice. The boys had
been waiting for this, to throw rice as hard as they could, as I
realized when some stray kernels hit me. The wedding party made its
way to the waiting cars. Then we all dispersed, back to our ordinary
lives, the lazy summer days at the beach.
In
August, Joe's family came. Unfortunately, Joe's father had to mind
the business, but his mother brought his brother and sister to
Greece. In preparation, we arranged for the rental of two rooms from
a widow lady and read up on the island's sightseeing. Would the far
side of this island be as different as the far side of Gran Canaria?
When the family arrived, Joe's mother rented a little car for a few
days. We visited the little towns and found a homogeneous culture.
The towns are not isolated by difficult volcanic ridges as in the
Canaries, and the Aegean is a gentler sea than the Atlantic Ocean.
Also, even in small villages, Greek people have inquiring minds. For
all their donkeys and old ways, the people of Chios have a
sophistication far above the tourist-oriented Spaniards of Gran
Canaria. In fact, as a shipping capital, Chios provides many of the
officers for the Greek freighters going around the world.
The
most interesting sight on the island was an old monastery set on the
highest mountain in the middle of the island, used as a fort in the
old wars with Turkey. The shrine to the dead slain in this age-old
conflict contains a pile of neatly arranged human skulls and bones.
Odd and gruesome as this Greek custom seemed to us, the bones of the
dead are cleaned and moved all the time. I thought the display would
keep the antagonism between countries alive and tried not to be
impressed since we planned to visit Turkey.
We
enjoyed the family vacation, lying on the sandy beach on the other
side of the island and trying the seaside restaurant's specialty,
fried kaseri cheese. Joe's fourteen-year-old brother didn't absorb
much. Re-reading The Lord of the
Rings, he was more interested in
Frodo's journey than his own. Joe's sister took beautiful pictures.
The Greek island people seem to be made for black and white
portraits. I hoped we set Joe's mother's mind at ease about us for a
while.
When
September came, the fig trees along the road to the beach stopped
bearing our snacks. The almonds in our back yard were acquiring
substance. The man who had been giving us grape wood for cooking gave
us huge bunches of grapes. Autumn had arrived. As we made plans to
go, some of our Greek friends protested. George Leotsarkos told Joe
he could get a job driving a truck. The ladies told me I should
settle down and have some babies, never mind that I thought I wasn't
ready. We went on with our travel plans.
We
had been gone for almost a year without encountering any serious
problems. The countries we stayed in were not too rich for our
budgets nor too poor to be uncomfortable. After listening to the
Greeks, we had our doubts about whether the barbarian Turks could
make the journey difficult, so we planned to take a freighter along
the Black Sea, skirting Turkey's length by water instead of
hitchhiking.
At
departure, we stripped down our possessions. Some ripe almonds joined
chamomile tea in my backpack. Sage tea was pressed on me as “Even
better than chamomile.” The neighbors took back their furniture and
went back to talking about each other.
From
the Greek village life in Nenita, we moved into an international
atmosphere without actually leaving the island. At the resort beach
of Karfas, an American friend's parents had rented an apartment and
left it empty after a week. Now the eighth of September, the wide
sandy beach was almost deserted, the restaurants' wide roofed
verandas empty. The weather continued perfect for our friend and a
few others who had stayed on until the university's fall term started
in October.
After
three months with Greek country folk, we were starved for
conversation. We discussed the route East and the books we had read.
Michener's Caravans
detailed some of the exotic life to expect in Afghanistan. Gurdieff's
mystical traveling saga of the Near East, recommended by
spiritualists, Meetings with
Remarkable Men, well thought of in
some circles, proved to be unbelievable and therefore boring.
Our
friends had a newsletter circulated from London called Bit
Information, put together from the gossip of the road. The overland
route to India constantly changed as a bus line folded, tribal unrest
broke out, or an epidemic of disease festered in some corner. Bit
Information advised travelers about these problems and rated the
hangouts in Istanbul along with the restaurants in Kabul,
Afghanistan, that served hamburgers. Our friends envied our planned
trip the freedom and excitement of the road.
Joe's
letter home detailed an afternoon's entertainment. “Went to see a
football (soccer) game in which Nenita tied Chios 5-5. It was a very
exciting game with the lead changing hands many times and the last
goal was in the last minute. Fred's cousin and a friend (Did you meet
Petro?) played for Xios. The sudden death overtime was canceled when
someone kicked the ball out of bounds and it smashed the bowl with
holy water which had been used by the Papas to bless the field!”
Before
we left, we got more immunizations in Chios' capital city. The gamma
globulin shot against hepatitis would have had to be ordered, cost
twenty dollars, and was only good for three months. We decided to get
it later. We wouldn't reach India, where hepatitis was a possibility,
for three months. We hoped to savor our journey, perhaps staying in
Afghanistan for a month as many travelers recommended.
Chapter
9: TURKEY
From the port of Chios, a Greek
trader's boat left for Turkey every week, Sundays. Although we
couldn't book passage, if we simply were there at 10:00 AM, we could
board. So on Sunday, September 10, 1972, we bought passage on a
cramped and dirty 100 foot vessel, stinking as usual of diesel fuel,
the Greeks on board upbraiding us: “Why would we ever want to leave
Greece to go to Turkey?” After two hours on rough seas, we arrived
at Cesme.
Customs
was non-existent for passengers. A policeman simply waved us on and
went to check the cargo. Joe went back to ask him where we could get
our stamp of entry. The Greeks on the boat translated and directed us
to the police station.
The
town seemed friendly with signs in English for restaurants and
souvenirs. In fact, this west coast of Turkey with good beaches and
large hotels was more like another Mediterranean resort than part of
Turkish culture.
Of
course, all of Turkey was somewhat westernized by Ataturk who decreed
in the 1920s that Turkish be rendered in Roman characters and that
women were forbidden to wear the veil that can shroud half the
population in Muslim countries. Instead, many women in Turkey wrapped
large shawls around their heads and upper bodies.
The
town seemed pleasant, if overpriced, as you might expect from a
Mediterranean resort. At the bus station, we were deciding where to
go when a swarthy, heavy-set young Turk approached wanting to
practice his English. He introduced himself as Seyet, part owner of a
discotheque. Unfortunately, he said, the disco was only open Friday
and Saturday, so we would not be able to attend unless we wanted to
stick around. Seyet treated us to a coffee at his favorite cafe, and
then, perhaps to show us how hip he was, produced some hashish. We
went to a corner of the beach to smoke and got pretty silly.
Now,
it seemed, we were fast friends, and he insisted we stay the night in
the extra room in the disco. We all walked down the road to see, and
it looked comfortable and clean. Seyet explained that this “office”
was really his cousin's “backroom” and laughed significantly. He
had to go on to explain his use of American slang. The “back room”
is a place to take girls, he explained. It was plain and empty, but
perhaps the music added to the atmosphere on weekends.
In
the morning, Joe returned the key to Seyet, and we took a two hour
ride east along an inlet of the coast to Izmir, where we could turn
north and be on our way to Istanbul for the boat on the Black Sea. In
Izmir, I discovered I didn't have my passport - not stolen,
forgotten. The night before, feeling strange from Turkish hashish,
and nervous about this much maligned country, I had put my passport
under the pillow for safe keeping, and it was still there.
Joe
was angry, feeling I should settle down and be sensible about the
dangers of this part of the world, so I took the bus back alone to
get the thing while Joe waited. Two hours on the bus, and then I
found Seyet at his favorite cafe. I explained my stupidity. He gave
me the key, and I walked out of town the half mile to the empty
discoteque. In the “back room”, my passport was still under the
pillow, so I put it under my jeans, in the pouch I kept tied to the
belt loops, and set out for town again. I gave Seyet back the key and
thanked him again. We had nothing to say to each other. I had my
round trip ticket, and went back to Izmir.
My
six hour tour took the day. Joe, of course, was impatient after
waiting all day. Talking to other travelers, he found an all night
bus to deposit us in Istanbul at six in the morning. We could sleep
on the bus and save a night's hotel fee. Turkish buses are good, and
this bus was almost as comfortable as an American Greyhound. Still
feeling guilty at my stupidity, I went along with the plan.
In
the morning, when I found out the going price for rooms in Istanbul
was more than Izmir - 42 cents apiece – I let my irritation show. I
told Joe I didn't want to be a “real traveler” if I had to go all
day and night.
Arriving
in a capital city, the first thing to do was to set out on official
business, getting visas for the trip east. But of course, the capital
of Turkey is not Istanbul, but Ankara. Ataturk had moved his capital
to the middle of the country years before. We could take buses
through this desert country, or we could take the boat on the Black
Sea and get the visas at the next capital, Tehran. We already had our
Iranian visa.
Realizing
Istanbul couldn't help us, Joe lay on the bed in our dimly lit room,
looking at his passport, checking out the visas and stamps. “Christ!
Ellie! This visa for Iran has expired! Look at this!” He showed me
the stamp filled out in Athens “validite 3 mois,” the date we had
gotten our visas at the Iranian embassy, written, with the day of the
month first, 30/5/72. We looked at my passport. Of course it was the
same; we had gone together.
“You
mean we have to go to Ankara after all?” I asked.
“We
could go there,” said Joe, “but suppose they refuse us? I'm
pretty sure you can't get another visa for Iran for a year.”
“What!
Why not? What does that mean?”
“It's
just a stupid rule. It means that we can't go through Iran. Unless
...” Joe studied the visa. “I could change this 5 into an 8.”
“They
wouldn't like that.”
“But
they would never know.” And he did it with an ordinary blue ball
point pen. “Here.” He handed me the pen. “Do yours.”
“What
will they do to if they find out?”
“They
won't find out.”
“But
what would they do to us if they found out?”
“Refuse
to let us enter their country.” That was what they were going to do
if I didn't change it. I wondered if I were committing an
international crime as I added a quarter inch of blue ink to the
Iranian visa.
Istanbul,
once Byzantium, still called Constantinople by the Greeks, is on the
great crossroad between the East and the West, captured by Darius of
Persia and by Alexander the Great, once capital of the Roman Empire,
a Christian holy city until 1453 when the Turks made it the capital
of the Ottoman Empire. With little thought to history, in the here
and now, we walked next to the water that the city straddles, the
straits of Bosporus, wondering where we would find the port for the
Black Sea.
Vendors
on the sidewalk sold sesame-coated over-sized pretzels. Turning in
from the water, we found a huge park where several men with pushcarts
sold the corn on the cob from a huge pot of hot water. Unsanitary
perhaps, but we had to try it. The corn was over-ripe and
over-cooked, tasteless and starchy. We threw it away.
A
tourist guide approached us. Would we like to visit the mosque at the
end of the park? This was the first mosque anyone had offered to show
us, and I remembered Istanbul is the site of beautiful mosaics, so we
went. At the door, when we had to remove our shoes, I was afraid they
might be stolen, but the guide brushed my fears aside. Inside, we
were in a huge circular stone room, light because of the windows
circling the dome. Worshipers knelt on mats on the dusty floor,
praying. That was all there was to that mosque. No mosaics after all,
so Joe paid our guide with a coin worth a dime and told him we were
tired. No, we didn't want to see any more.
The
hippies hung out in the tea shops in Calangute Square, buying and
selling hashish, an activity officially against the law, tolerated
within limits. We walked through the square and saw the famous
“Pudding Shop” considered by many hippies to be The Place. The
small, smoky rooms were crowded: you needed an insider to give you a
seat. These ex-pats were most interested in making an impression, in
being part of the In-Crowd. Our interest was in meeting fellow
travelers who would know about the route East, but we could hear
enough at the pension.
We
never met anyone as foolish as the boy “Midnight Express” who
tried to smuggle hashish out of Turkey. People often talked about the
official rules and harsh prisons. Anyone going East would be able to
find drugs even more easily than in Turkey.
From
Calengute Square, we moved on to the great outdoor marketplace, the
biggest we had seen yet. Here, under a striped awning, we sold the
radio Joe's mother had brought and bought two silver puzzle rings,
all the rage that year. Joe was advised to try exporting the rings to
sell for profit in India, but he decided it was too risky. Besides
the worry about theft, he knew nothing about a possible market for
silver puzzle rings in India.
A
couple of days in Istanbul showed us the city was not to our taste.
The third day in Istanbul, we devoted to getting ready to move on. We
went to the American Hospital to get any shots we might have missed.
Typhoid, the only immunization we didn't already have, cost 60 cents.
The stifling smells of disinfectant made me feel nauseous.
In
the same section of town, north of the Bosporous, we went to buy
tickets for a freighter to take us the length of the Black Sea. The
old-fashioned office was closed from 2:00 to 4:00, another scheduled
siesta that we couldn't foresee or plan for, but at least we could
wait in a pleasant deserted brick courtyard. Just outside, huge ships
towered over the alley, but the usual hustle-bustle of a
Mediterranean waterfront was lacking. Finally, the ticket office
opened. With my student ID, my ticket cost three dollars. Joe was
miffed at having to pay six dollars for three days travel to the
eastern end of the Black Sea, but he hadn't been a student for years,
and a black market ID was too much trouble.
The
next day, we passengers were loaded on the freighter last, so we left
mid-morning. There were about ten of us sharing the dormitory life,
men separated from women. I spent the day sleeping while Joe, who is
not bothered by the insistent rocking of the boat and vibration of
the engines, got to know his fellow passengers. Joe called me up to
see the sunset, the western sky full of the colorful pollutants of
the city we had left behind, magnificently red, orange and purple.
The seagulls following the boat provided black accents to the rich
color.
The
other foreigners on board were like ourselves, on their way to India
and the East. Some were Australians on their way home from England.
Pilgrims included Fred, a young Englishman who gave a birthday feast
for his god, Krishna, on the deck of the ship the next day, a perfect
Saturday, the sixteenth of September. Everyone went up on deck to
watch Fred chanting to Krishna, to whom he had set up a small altar.
The Turks watched scowling as usual, and we smiled. With our fellow
travelers to India, we talked about things spiritual. A Dutchman,
John, told us of his “most holy guru” in India who prepared
special pipes of ganga (marijuana) and scented woods. His girlfriend
Greta, traveling for the first time, spoke no English. After chanting
for a half an hour, Fred smilingly gave away sweets he had bought for
this purpose in Istanbul. The untrusting Turks wouldn't accept
anything, but we foreigners appreciated his transparent innocence.
In
the afternoon, we stopped in port and were allowed off the ship to
buy food. The others all took off for restaurants, but we had heard
the restaurants served only meals based on meat, so Joe and I looked
for groceries. Along the straight road bordering the water, giant
cranes dominated the skyline. This port had no harbor at all, no
encircling land to protect ships and machinery from storms. We found
honey, raisins and dried roasted chickpeas at the tiny shop with the
only open door in the block fronting the “harbor”. Around the
corner, a fruit store sold yellow watermelon, not as good as red, and
sweet grapes. By following our noses, we found the bakery and got the
wholewheat flatbread of the region. Turkey seemed peaceful, not at
all as bad as it had been painted.
To
travel hopefully is better than to arrive, as the saying goes. We
arrived on Sunday in Trabzoum, the end of the line. My journal was
written in a book that included a daily line of advice which I read
to Joe if I thought it had any significance. For instance “Visit
scenes of old enjoyment” was impossible. “Family annoyance
possible” was improbable, and “Buy something you've wanted”
could only apply to food. General advice like “Strength overcomes
troubles” or “Words have double meanings” I enjoy thinking
about for a brief inner council. On Sunday September 17, I saw
“Troublesome travel possible.”
Trabzoum
featured a hustling bus driver who wanted $2.50 for his mini-bus ride
south over the mountain into the plains where Turkey borders Iran.
“Hurry,” he said. “I have to leave right away and mine is the
only bus for three days. In three days, I come back to meet the boat
once again.” We wanted to look around and see if any other means of
transport was possible, something more in line with the prices we had
been paying. Joe ignored him and sat me with the luggage while he
scouted around the other transportation, trucks. One friendly truck
driver seemed ready to give us a ride until the bus driver, seeing
the loss of his passengers, yelled something in Turkish. The truck
driver shook his head at Joe. Joe was furious, and I certainly felt
cheated.
We
ended up joining the Dutch people and the Hare Krishna devotee in
that same bus going to Erzeroum. We rode gloomily past mountain
villages made of wooden houses. We hadn't seen a wooden house since
northern France, and these were of a unique half-timbered
construction. I hoped we would we stop for tea. The winding roads
were starting to get to me, but we sped along, our driver seeming to
be a demon hell-bent.
Erzeroum
that evening, a dirty colorless city, was not worth the ride. Another
traveler on the road, Phillip Glazebrook, spoke of Erzeroum thus:
“The town by these glimpses was one of the ugliest I have ever
seen. Dirty modern concrete masked any old streets it may have
contained and tower blocks of the same repellent grey overtopped any
domes or minarets or fortress walls that still remain.” (Journey
to Kars) All flavor of Armenia's
ancient capital was gone.
All
I expected was a cheap pension and some groceries. We found neither.
The dusty gritty hotel cost $3.00, and the only food to be had was
meat in a restaurant. As we sat with our glass of tea, fellow
travelers from the boat walked in. Alberto and Mari-Jeanne had been
able to get a ride from the truck driver Joe had talked to in
Trabzoum. The truck had driven much more slowly and had stopped in
one of the mountain villages. Mari-Jeanne said that unfortunately,
the mountain people had seemed suspicious and unfriendly.
One
night in Erzeroum was enough for all of us travelers. Together we
took another $2.50 mini-bus for the border of Iran. This route
involved plenty of local stops and took most of the day while we
watched Mt. Ararat grow closer, its snowy peaks a reminder this land
had been settled since the time of Noah. Two towns before the border,
our Dutchmen, John and Greta, realized they had forgotten their
backpacks at the hotel and left the bus to wait for a ride back. We
went on, looking forward to leaving this dirty, unfriendly country,
wondering if Iran had the flavor of old Persia.
We
were disappointed when our driver stopped in Degubayzit, refusing to
go on until six in the morning. We thought 6:00 AM. sounded like an
early call, and we didn't want to hire another dirty hotel for
another three dollars, so, with Alberto and Mari-Jeanne, we decided
to camp out by the bus in a fenced enclosure. Joe told the bus-driver
our plans, daring him to object rather than actually asking if it was
all right. The bus driver's response was typically short. “Do
whatever you want, but leave my bus alone.” To make sure, he locked
the doors.
Joe
and I offered to go look for food while Alberto and Mari-Jeanne
stayed with the packs. Once again we were able to find the bakery,
this time a huge room with men at long tables flattening the whole
wheat dough, readying it for the ovens in the back. “Loaves” were
much larger here in Eastern Turkey, the size of a cookie sheets
instead of the smaller “pockets” we had seen in western Turkey.
We were able to return with fresh bread, fruit and some cheese to
feast under a waxing moon. Nearby, Mount Ararat's snow-capped peak
shone with the reflected light of the moon.
Chapter XI
IRAN
At 7:00 in the morning of
September 19, 1972, the border crossing into Iran looked like a
military outpost. As we approached the cement block building
surrounded by fences, Joe said to me in an undertone, “Now we'll
see how our trick with the visas works.” I was silent. The
uniformed Iranian border guards escorted all of us into a large room,
and everyone in turn had to empty any bags onto a large table. They
looked at everything, opening my bottle of honey and tin packet of
aspirin, and then took the passports to another room.
One
by one, the other foreigners were called and given their passports,
free to go. We were last, cooling our heels for what felt like an
hour. On top of worrying about the altered date, I felt guilty, not
at fooling with their visa, but at being nervous enough for these men
to know that something was wrong. Joe assured me that they couldn't
tell, but they were just being mean and giving us a hard time. I said
he shouldn't have reminded me because I had forgotten. I told myself
that if they could really read character, they would know that we
weren't doing anything. Finally, for whatever reason, we were
permitted entry for the three months now specified on the visa as
starting 30/8/72.
Outside
the building on the Iranian side of the border, the same dusty road
greeted us. The Hare Krishna pilgrim had bought an eleven o'clock bus
ticket. Alberto and Mari-Jeanne waited by the road to see if they
could hitchhike saying, so far, the guards hadn't seemed to mind the
outstretched thumbs, and a truck had passed them by. We joined them,
figuring we would be second in line. Perhaps we would end up taking
the bus.
As
the sun began to get hot, a new car came through the border, a
middle-class Iranian businessman who stopped to pick us all up. I was
in front and the other three were in the back. Our driver spoke
little English and seemed most interested in driving fast. I read 120
KPH on his speedometer and translated the speed to myself as 80 MPH,
which was only a little better. The wind blew in at my hair, filling
it with dust as we passed the trucks.
The
driver turned on his record player, a tiny thing on springs in the
front of the dashboard. He pulled out a stack of 45's and leafed
through them with one hand, never letting up on the accelerator. He
shoved one into the slot in the dash. Surprisingly, the thing seemed
to work, though I could hear little over the wind, even if I could
have recognized a tune. I flipped through the stack to see if he
might have something like a Beatles record. They were all scratched,
and nothing I recognized. Suddenly, he ripped out the record he had
chosen, surely adding another scratch, and threw it out the window.
He ended up throwing half his records out the window before we
stopped for lunch.
Our
quiet roadside restaurant under the shade of a huge tree was a good
place for this businessman to practice his English, conversing with
Joe. The menu featured fresh yogurt, made there. Alberto was pleased,
explaining to us that he had given up all milk products, but he
didn't consider yogurt a milk product. Yogurt was milk transformed,
he said, as smoke from a fire is no longer wood. I wondered how the
macrobiotics would view the theory. The Iranian had lost the thread
of conversation.
After
a glass of tea, we were rushed back into the car, Joe in front this
time as the best conversationalist if not the most decorative person.
By two o'clock, we were in Tabriz where our driver left us at a
beautiful campsite. Alberto and Mari-Jeanne went on, anxious to reach
Afghanistan and its famous hashish. This country was fairly drug free
in spite of its long history of opium and cannabis. We figured that
the US had insisted on drug control in return for their military
support of the Shah. We were in no hurry, and I wasn't feeling
myself. My stomach was not adjusting well, and I wanted a quiet
afternoon.
The
state-run campsite inside a stone wall on a terraced hillside
overlooked a summer palace of the old kings of Persia. The northwest
region of Iran has a temperate climate, so we were again surrounded
by greenery. The friendly official in the guard house by the entrance
assured us that it wouldn't rain, so we put our things under a fruit
tree, and I stayed while Joe went out for food. In the morning, I
didn't want to leave and made Joe wait while I did Yoga exercises for
two hours. Before I felt ready to face the road again it was ten
o'clock, eleven before we found the way out of town.
We
got a ride right away, on a truck that didn't stop once all the way
to Tehran. I studied the picture of the handsome crown prince stuck
on the windshield. All the trucks had at least one picture of the
crown prince somewhere. The young man was about ten, but we saw
photos of him from every age. At the time I thought he was well
loved, but reflection leads me to wonder if these were tax or
inspection stickers. The Shah's picture adorned the coins, stamps and
even the watermark pressed into the paper of all the bills, his
hawk-like profile showing up if you held a rial note up to the light.
We
arrived in Tehran very late. The roads in the city were terrible. A
bus to the hotel section of town had no springs. The hotel had no
beds - a room with a rug would be two dollars. I was not feeling
strong. Joe was not feeling tolerant of overbearing hotel keepers. We
turned to the streets feeling, once again, lost in a big city and
very tired. We asked a policeman for advice to tourists, but he had
none. We went back to the hotel, and the man said the room with the
rug was gone.
As
we were wondering what to do, a student came up to us to offer a
place on his terrace for the night. He introduced himself as Darius,
and we all went to the police station so he could get a permit to
have foreigners stay with him. The police refused him a permit.
Darius took us back to the hotel, but the man insisted there was no
room. At that point, Darius decided to take us home in spite of the
lack of permit. It didn't matter, he said. It was just a stupid rule.
We would only be staying for one night anyway.
I
hated to do it, but it was that or asking the policeman for a taxi to
the American Hotel for twenty dollars a night. Darius had a nice
little place half-way up a high-rise building nearby. The elevator
worked and so did the bathroom. He had a living room/kitchen/bedroom,
a terrace, a hall and a bathroom adorned with a poster of Raquel
Welch in a red bikini. As has been the way of students in Iran for
centuries, he pulled out a hashish pipe and offered a smoke. We slept
very well on the terrace. For breakfast, Darius went out for fresh
bread and milk, the fresh milk being such a rarity in this part of
the world that I considered it a luxury. He must have heard that
Americans like to drink milk. Darius had classes to attend, so we set
out on our way.
It
took hours to find our way out of the city. Finally, at one o'clock,
we put out our thumbs on the road leading east. Thankfully, a car
stopped instead of a truck. A Baha'i pharmaceutical salesman who
spoke English was driving with his four-year-old daughter to the
family home in Babel-sar on the Caspian Sea. He gave us a business
card showing he worked for “Teheran Pharma” and had a very long
name. He said to call him Shoodan, and invited us to be his guests in
Babel-Sar, a resort town to the north-east of Tehran on the Caspian
Sea. We would be going a little out of our way, but the Caspian Sea
sounded inviting after traveling through deserts. Shoodan drove for
an hour until we reached the beach. We walked on the sand by the vast
inland sea. “That way to Russia,” said our host.
“Let's
not go.” I said. “Can we swim?”
“Of
course. This is where you can change.” We turned to the deserted
stalls lining the beach to change into bathing suits. Two women were
the only others on the shore and they went in fully dressed,
including shadri, the semi-transparent black veils covering them and
their other clothes from head to feet. I may have been the first
woman in a two-piece suit Shoodan had seen in the flesh, but my suit
had been quite modest on the tourist beach in Greece. Anyway, our
host's manner graciously allowed me to feel at home. The water was
warm and refreshingly half-salty. We went to dinner in a seaside
restaurant and then to the family home.
The
grandmother was obviously pleased to have visitors from a foreign
land, though she spoke no English. By now it was dark. She took out a
kerosene lantern to lead us down a walk to the guest bedroom, part of
what seemed to be an unused wing of the sprawling one-story
structure. Unlocking the door, she opened a crowded treasure room
full of chests and rugs. She motioned to a bed with four mattresses.
I felt amazed and unworthy of such attention. In the morning, the old
grandmother served breakfast, meeting us at our door with
hand-to-mouth motions of eating. She, of course, had been up for
hours, and fetched us tea and wholewheat flat bread. When her
city-oriented son got up, he took us and his daughter to the beach
again.
For
lunch, we went to Shoodan's sister's house. He explained we were not
meat eaters, so she cooked us eggplant. Afterwards we talked a bit
about her profession as a hairdresser and the Ba'hal faith. Our
friend explained their hospitality was an expression of their
religion: the whole world was to become one people, no more fighting,
all peace and brotherhood. I fear the fanatic Ayatollah Khomeni may
have wiped this family out along with everything progressive in Iran.
We
decided to move on and not prevail on this hospitality too long.
Shoodan drove us 20 kilometers to the intersection with the main
road. As we waved good-bye, I hoped to return to Babel-Sar someday.
The
journal mentions a Mercedes truck through mountains, a strange free
mini-bus, and a man transporting honey-bees to a fertile plain. As we
rode in his '56 Chevy pick-up truck, he explained in English about
this common practice, new to me. He stopped in irrigated farmland
with ditches full of stagnant water. The bees went within a walled
garden. We set up camp in the field only to be eaten alive by
mosquitoes, a plague we had not been bothered by since leaving
America. The flies had been much worse in Spain and in the near-east,
but the “mosca”, Spanish for fly, had not been joined by the
little fly, “mosqu-ito” in the dry places we had stayed.
After
the night with the mosquitoes, eight rides took us some two hundred
miles. Somewhere, as we stopped for lunch, the restaurant was even
hotter than outside. I took off my long-sleeved shirt and found
myself carefully avoiding the eyes of men most of whom seemed to be
trying not to look. There were no other women in the restaurant. I
felt rude, but the choice was physical or social discomfort. I
appealed to Joe. “I'm not supposed to have taken off my long
sleeves. Everyone's looking. But it's so hot.”
Joe
looked around. “It's safe. You don't have to put it back on if you
don't want to.” I kept a modicum of comfort in my sleeveless
blouse, and waited until it was time to leave before covering my
upper limbs again.
Meshad
was the last big city before the Afghani border. Here we could get
visas for Afghanistan, but we would need photos, and I was all out.
We were directed to a street photographer near the park. I liked the
idea of a no frills, no studio photograph. I didn't realize we would
become the subjects for a crowd of curious onlookers. Since eastern
Turkey, we had been fair game for any idle stare on the street, an
exotic sight for people with little variety in their lives and less
sense of privacy than we cultivate in the West. This time, quite a
crowd gathered for an unveiled woman having her picture taken. The
photographer tried unsuccessfully to chase them away. Luckily the
operation didn't take long. We left to find a carrot juice stand and
returned in a few hours for the developed pictures.
Waiting
in the park, we met a man who immediately wrote his name in Joe's
address book. Hasan Zamani followed us to pick up the pictures and
then back to the hotel, talking all the way while Joe made token
responses. He claimed to have a brother who was the chief of police,
connections for hashish and to want to send us a Persian rug when we
returned to America. Sitting on a bed in our hotel room, he began
relating the various high positions his numerous brothers held, and I
began to feel quite ill, so I asked Joe to shoo him out.
Lying
down didn't make me feel better. I was sure something was seriously
wrong. I had had trouble all along with my IUD, though the doctor had
given me the latest kind, touted as 90% effective, the Dalkon Shield.
For almost a year I had been suffering irregular and painful
menstruation.
When
I consulted a doctor in Spain the year before, he knew little of this
method of birth control. He had been able only to tell me I had not
been pregnant in spite of having missed a month's period. Now I had
skipped two months and felt sore and feverish.
Not
sure what to do, I threw the I Ching. When my three coins came up
each time as the same two tails, one head, something seemed to be
more drastically wrong than I had thought. I had never received this
hexagram symbolizing the passive principle, a generally favorable but
unbalanced hexagram, being completely yin, or “feminine.” I
received the only unfavorable line, “A willful dragon has cause to
regret,” with commentary saying, “It suggests the approach of
overpowering calamities.” Definitely wrong. We decided I should
consult a doctor in this relatively civilized country before moving
on wild Afghanistan.
As
a border town in a country with many ties with the USA, Meshad had an
American consulate, so Joe consulted them as to a good
English-speaking doctor. and took me to a clean, modern, suburban
clinic. After my examination, I joined Joe sitting in the glassed-in
hall that served as waiting room and reception area. By the time the
doctor came out with the results of the tests he had taken, I was
lying down on the cushioned bench.
“Congratulations.”
said the doctor as I sat myself up. “You are pregnant.
Unfortunately, you also have an infection from the IUD. This is
common and should not worry you, but you will have to take
penicillin. There is no reason to believe it will harm the baby.”
We were speechless, so he went on. “I can give you a penicillin
shot, or you can take it by the mouth. It might upset your stomach.”
I still had nothing to say to the doctor. I had too much to think
about, and felt feverish. “Why don't I give you a shot now, and you
can come back tomorrow when you feel better. If you intend to go on
traveling as you said, you will need to take a ten days supply of
penicillin.” After the shot and a rest, I felt able to move again,
and we went back to the hotel.
“Congratulations,
he said,” I said to Joe. “He knew I didn't want a baby. That's
what the IUD was for.”
“What
else could he say? There's no abortion In Muslim countries,”
“Well,
where is there abortion? Sweden.”
“India.”
“They
don't even kill bugs. What about their non-violence?”
“Be
serious, Ellie. Some religions don't let you kill bugs, but India has
a population problem. Of course there's abortion, the last-ditch
birth control.”
We
were in agreement right away that abortion was the best solution. I
did not feel ready for a baby. I did not want an unplanned-for baby,
a baby that shared an infected womb with an IUD. This was one reason
I had accepted the newest IUD, touted as more effective for women who
had never had children. By now, we know that the Dalkon Shield may
have been the worst IUD ever marketed. All my planning and care had
gone by the board as Nature exerted her sway over my body. I didn't
accept it.
Even
if I were to force myself to accept this fate, I would be unwise to
try to plan something with this man who had not even committed
himself to marriage. We would have to abandon this trip just as we
were getting started around the world, and who knew if we could ever
travel again, tied down with a baby. Certainly we wouldn't want to
take a baby to a country where it could get those diseases we had
been inoculated against. Finally, if I had gone so far as to think of
keeping the baby, I would have run up on the trauma of loss of my
independence. My self-image as a modern woman is not to be dependent
on a man, and I found this the most difficult thing to accept when,
years later, we finally decided to have children.
I
hated the hotel room, so we sat in the park, figuring how far along I
might be. In my journal, I recorded the menstrual periods, so the
last real period had started July 2. I figured the three month cut
off might be mid-October. It was September 25. I also had some blood
in the beginning of August, but I wasn't sure how significant it was.
We could not linger en route to India. As we sat in the park, we came
across our old acquaintances, Alberto and Mari-Jeanne. They had found
a pleasant official campsite just outside town. I preferred open air
to the small hotel room, so they helped us move.
Alberto
knew about abortions, He said they were free in India, if you had
been using birth control. I qualified and had proof. As I lay on the
sleeping bag waiting for the antibiotic to help, I wondered about a
young American woman I had met in Nenita. She and her friends had
been walking around the island and stayed with us for a night in
early July. She had stories at her recent trip to Jamaica where the
men smoke clouds of marijuana, but the women are more civilized: they
drink it as tea. Then, since I was getting my period, we talked about
birth control. She said she didn't use any. She believed pregnancy
wouldn't happen until the time was right, I had liked that romantic
idea as I had liked her tale of the young guru she had just met, the
thirteen year old “perfect master”, Guru Maharaji, who had made
her “see light” just before her trip to Europe. Now I wondered if
she was just infertile. Maybe she really wanted to get pregnant; she
undoubtedly had money enough to support a child. She had the look of
old money, the preppie look. Her connection with that guru might have
indicated the same. Guru Maharaji, I heard later, could convince
people that they didn't need their money and should donate it to the
most holy of causes, himself.
Remembering
my reaction to this woman's tales, I was ready to blame my romantic
notions, a belief that “it wouldn't happen until the time was
right.” Joe blamed the olive oil. Nature, acting through my body,
obviously thought the life we were living on a Greek island was right
to add another person to. As for our trip, a cloud hung over our
heads for many miles. Knowing we were not ready for children, I
closed my mind to the thought of burdening the world with something I
could not care for as I should. In gloom, we bought penicillin
against my infection and moved on towards the border. Our passports
were processed under a huge tent in Iran, and we moved through a gate
to the next country, Afghanistan.
Chapter
XI: AFGHANISTAN AND PAKISTAN
As
we entered the country of Afghanistan, I was still in a daze. The
antibiotic had not yet fully taken away the infection brought on by
the combination of an IUD and pregnancy. My world was not right, and
it couldn't be until I could plan my life logically again, until I
wasn't pregnant anymore. My usual style of accepting the changes as I
slowly try to understand them became even slower and more accepting
as hormones began dictating what I could and could not do. In fact, I
gave up trying to make decisions.
At
the border crossing, Joe let an energetic English-speaking hotel
owner organize a room and a ride to Herat for $1.50, hashish thrown
in for free. I was leery of the man's hustling manner and unshaven
visage, but Joe decided it was a good deal. The enterprising
businessman drove us to his brand-new, as yet unfinished cement-block
building and left us with his quiet young assistant. Our clean, empty
room held only two string cots. We would provide our own bedding with
our sleeping bags.
As
we were wondering what to do with ourselves in Afghanistan, the
dreamy assistant appeared, speaking good English, to offer us tea and
hashish. Taking out a giant cookie of pressed hashish, he apologized:
this year's crop was not yet harvested - not for another month would
we be able to get the good stuff.
He
rolled an enormous cigarette and sat down with us, cupping his hands
to draw the smoke through them instead of placing his mouth on the
cigarette. We took turns, copying the sanitary way of sharing a
cigarette. We had seen the same method in Boston, brought back by
traveling hippies, a way to avoid spreading colds there. Here in
Afghanistan, we wanted to avoid more serious disease. After a couple
of puffs, we were gone. The young man finished the cigarette of
“inferior hashish”, ambled off and made the tea, but we couldn't
even sit up to drink it.
In
the daylight, we ventured into the second largest city in
Afghanistan. Apparently, the main industry was hippie tourism.
Because of the availability and excellent quality of hashish, many
young people had chosen Afghanistan. Taking the cheapest route
overland through Iran, Herat was the first place most of them would
land. Even in the morning, the hashish salesmen would come up to us,
but we had had enough already. Planning to spend less than a week in
the country, we could never use the smallest quantity they sold, and
we wouldn't try to carry it across a border.
On
every street corner, unshaven men with turbans called out to us,
exhorting us in English to buy their goods. Some acted upset when we
walked past ignoring their calls, but Afghani clothes would be too
heavy to wear in India. Between clothes stalls, tiny tea shops were
frying potatoes and eggs for the foreign trade. We stopped for
breakfast at one, and then had to ignore the other insistent calls,
“Tssst, fried potatoes. Eggs here!”
In
the bazaar, craftsmen displayed their trades. Business owners would
simply remove a wall, cheaper and safer than a door, exposing the
small shop to the marketplace. Elevated somewhat above the filthy
street, the men would ply their trades: cobblers with an anvil and a
hammer, tinsmiths with charcoal brazier fires, and strangest of all,
a woodworker using his feet to power a bow drill, a tool dating back
to the 5th
millennium BC.
After
a morning of Herat, we took the afternoon bus south, skirting the
edge of the mountains before turning east to Khandahar, halfway
through Afghanistan. This city held few tourists, but did have a nice
quiet hotel.
Sitting
in a tea shop the next morning, I had time to write home, not
mentioning the major problem, but simply describing the scene. “As
I look out on the street I see two roads: the paved road built by the
Americans is for cars, and the dirt road alongside is for donkeys,
people, and horse-drawn taxis. The dirt road is full. Donkey team
follows donkey team. A herd of fat-tailed sheep are led by more
energetic goats. A beautifully painted horse-drawn taxi clatters by.
The people are mostly poor and dirty. The women almost all cover
their faces, some to the extent of “full shadri”, a tent over
their whole bodies with some netting in front of the eyes. A woman
with an uncovered face is an unusual sight. I am very glad the cars
have a paved road to use. If a car drives on the dirt road, it raises
a cloud of dust. The boy is watering the ground around the tea shop
to keep down the dust. I spend a lot of time wishing for the pure
water of Greece.”
Joe wrote. “ One advantage to
be noted about the type of water in Afghanistan, the same water you
see running in all the gutters in which you see people shitting.
spitting. peeing, brushing teeth, washing dishes, sheep or
themselves- well, if a child lives to 7 years old, he will be immune
to every disease known to science. They don't always live to 7
though.”
Afghanistan
continues to be troubled. This fiercely independent warrior culture
has great resistance to change. In the nineteenth century, the
British tried to civilize it, and old soldiers would tell tales like
Kipling's The Man Who Would Be King.
When we visited, Americans had built roads and a dam, written books,
and visited in droves, but few natives even went so far as to copy
the Western clothing style. In 1972, men wore their baggy trousers
with the crotch at the knees, a large untucked shirt and a turban or
a close fitting cap. The women stayed hidden in the Islamic way, in
full shadri.
I
liked the Afghani people. An old man climbed aboard the bus in the
middle of the desert with a World War I rifle slung over his
shoulder, ready for use on any of us. In Herat, three girls walked by
totally shrouded in pleated black shadri, close fitting caps holding
the garment in place, eyes behind netting made from pulled threads.
One said, “You are very beautiful.” How could she even see us? I
liked the patient men sitting by a pile of melons a cubic yard high
who would cut a piece for a taste before we bought. I appreciated the
relative lack of crowds too. A stop for tea in Iran or Turkey had
been an occasion for a crowd of onlookers to stop and stare. Perhaps
we weren't the novelty here: so many young Europeans came and stayed,
or maybe the proud attitude of the Afghanis held them back.
Sanitation
was a problem. We drank tea only from our own cups. Most Europeans
ate the meat. Broiling destroyed the germs. The grapes are famous,
but swarming with flies. If only the water had been safe for washing
them, I might have avoided one particularly bad bout with dysentery.
Bread
is safe to eat. In Khandahar, bakers on a side street used a narrow
pit lined with stone. After the camel dung fire has burned down to
hot coals, the flat bread is baked directly on the stone walls of the
pit. Men use a heavy piece of wood similar to the pizza peel to press
the sticky dough to the walls where it sags toward the fire. This
stone-age flat bread was delicious with roasted chickpeas and peeled
tomatoes.
After
two nights, we left Khandahar on a bus. Other vehicles were trucks
painted like circus wagons, all full, and a few cars that didn't pick
up hitchhikers. About an hour into the desert, we got a flat tire.
Our bus driver and his assistant took two and a half hours to patch
it. We waited next to the bus, brushing away flies in the shade,
eating roasted chickpeas and raisins, wishing the mechanics from the
Moroccan truck caravan would take over the route.
In
Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan, we had to get visas for Pakistan
and India. The Pakistani visa took all morning, which we thought
difficult, until we went on to the Indian embassy, only open for
applications until 11:00 AM. At 8:00 AM the next morning, we put in
two and a half hours waiting and filling out forms. Three days later
we would be able to pick up the finished document, almost a week of
our precious time.
With
time to kill, we looked at the marketplace and saw Skippy peanut
butter and Nivea hand cream. We checked recommended restaurants where
Americans ate the hamburgers they could get nowhere else, smoked
hashish and played chess with each other. Joe was disgusted at their
shallow existence, and I was tired. So we bought more wholewheat
flatbread and retired to our hotel room. There was a scorpion on the
ceiling. I shrieked. Joe called the manager who killed it with his
shoe and assured us it was nothing, not dangerous. Too tired to move
and having already paid, we stayed the night.
The
next day, Joe went out and found a hotel with a room-sharing
situation for only 15 cents a night. In the courtyard, a black
American had parked his van. That evening, we were all invited to sit
around a fire he had commissioned. Our host passed around the
chillum, a pipe perched on top of a stick, smoked through closely
cupped hands as the cigarette had been in Herat. Joe and I provided
some guitar music and singing, and then listened to our neighbors'
concerns. The black American spoke of how nobody could get him with
his van and his dog and his gun. His beautiful blond German woman
talked to her friend about the relative merits of the opium dens. No
one mentioned spiritual concerns.
In
the morning, I did Yoga exercises in the courtyard, feeling almost as
out of place as in Spain. Once the visas came through, we were on our
way. Rather than hunting up the bus, we just headed out of town on
foot, figuring we would try hitching while we hiked. When a bus came
by, we could catch it. We were not surprised when a crowd of boys
began to surround us, coming out of the shacks that formed the edge
of the city, but they were rougher than usual. This time, the boys
began grabbing at us. Joe yelled and brandished a stick, but the boys
began throwing rocks. Suddenly, a man who appeared to be crazy ran up
taunting the boys, dancing and drawing their fire. Was he a holy man,
the protector of the helpless? Or was he the village idiot, used to
the attention of the boys?
We
hurried up the road and got a ride in a car 50 kilometers to
Jalalabad, a beautiful city with palm trees where our bus to the
border cost 10 afghanis (10 cents). At this point, I wouldn't have
minded wearing a shadri. I placed a shawl over my head and looked out
the window listening as Joe talked with a man about the festival of
Ramadan, the odd Islamic fast proscribing food during the day for a
month, celebrated by eating all night. The man invited us to join his
family for that night's Ramadan feast. I was glad when Joe turned
down the invitation. I didn't want anything to do with Muslim
customs, and he doubted the people would understand our refusal to
eat meat. They might even be offended.
We
reached the entrance to the Khyber Pass in the evening and were
forced to halt for the night. At the Pakistani Tourist Bureau, a
landscaped one-story building providing service at the border, we
asked for advice. The Director of Tourist Information warned us not
to camp out. This border region was dangerous territory inhabited by
tribesmen who acknowledge no government. We remembered his warning
when, two years later, a young man who was walking around the world
for peace was shot down in the Khyber Pass.
The
Director of Tourist Information could not recommend any lodging in
the little settlement that served the truckers. Most truckers would
sleep in their vehicles while they waited for the road to be opened
in the morning. No one went through the Khyber Pass at night.
Desperate bandits would have seized any unwary trucker his vehicle
and cargo. After explaining the dangers to us, the Director offered
us as tourists, the use of his Tourist Bureau as shelter and water.
We camped out in the little conference room. In the morning, we
thankfully washed in the modern bathroom and went out to look for
breakfast. Several tearooms were serving white rice and dahl, a
heavily spiced lentil stew cooked over an open fire in a blackened
pot, not at all what I wanted for breakfast. I had tea and the dried
fruit we had brought along. After eating, we moved on up the road to
see about a ride. A huge line of trucks had gathered and more were
rolling in.
Worthy
of a photographic essay, these decorated trucks were resplendent with
curlicues, brasswork and bells. We especially liked the back of a
truck painted as the scene of a winding road seen through the
windshield of a truck. Walking up the line, Joe soon found a friendly
bunch of caravan tribesmen who were going all the way to Lahore. We
were offered seats in the front, better for my equilibrium on a
winding mountain road. The Khyber Pass is full of amazing scenery and
engineering feats, bridges and tunnels constructed by the Americans.
The
pass through the Hindu Kush was much higher than I had anticipated.
Our driver said anyone driving at night would be forced off the road,
and the bandits would plunder the wreckage.
After
hours of climbing, descending and turns, difficult even with the
modern road, we reached the fertile plains of Pakistan. I asked to
rest in the back on top of the cargo. Joe stayed with the friendly
men, teaching them English and smoking hashish. He found them to be
more independent than the Muslim city dwellers and consequently
easier with our strange ways. Also, large quantities of hashish made
the long ride seem more like a party.
At
sunset, we stopped at a roadside cafe for a meal in the open air. Our
hosts ordered a dish of curdled cream. Without being sweet, it was
rich like a dessert, fresh, thick curds unlike anything I had before
or since. I wanted to go on eating forever, but all too soon it was
time to be moving again.
The
city of Lahore at 4:00 AM was poor, dirty, crowded and huge.
Baksheesh, a word we had heard since Turkey, became a constant
refrain. Anything for free is baksheesh: a deal like a baker's dozen,
or a bribe, or a tip. Now, beggars and hustlers descended on us
immediately, hissing baksheesh. I can be softhearted, but I could not
feed them all. Any small coin offered would bring the whole horde
down, each crying and pawing for his fair share. The lepers, at
least, did not touch their victims, but simply crouched by the side
of the street wrapped in dirty rags holding out a tin can in a
deformed claw. By refusing to even look at the beggars, I gained a
certain measure of peace.
Because
India and Pakistan were at war, the border was open only one day a
week, Thursdays. We had two days in Pakistan. We figured the
countryside would be more pleasant than the big city, and there were
no stories of actual fighting to avoid. Leaving Lahore proved to be
as difficult as everything else. Walking down the street, we were
constantly accosted by rickshaw men dragging their carts who would
call to us, resenting our refusal to hire them, unable to understand
that we were trying to use our time and legs by walking out of town.
Young
men followed us offering their services as guide to the sights of
Lahore and translator for a block at a time, waiting for any sign of
recognition of their presence from Joe. Finally, Joe asked one if we
were going the right direction to leave this godawful city. He took
this as a sign that we needed his services. “Yes, yes,” he said.
“This is the way. If you will follow me, I will show you the right
way.” And he walked along with us chattering about the sights of
the city that we were missing. Joe never addressed another word to
him, so when we reached the road out of town, Joe felt the young man
had overreached his expectations in expecting a tip. As a major
route, it was full of wheels, and Joe decided to lose the fellow and
avoid the traffic by hailing a rickshaw. We left him cursing us by
the side of the road.
Joe
told the rickshaw driver to take us towards the border to India, and
we were soon out of the major traffic. Not until the border was open
would this road have more than an occasional car. Joe stopped the
rickshaw, and we got down to walk again, sharing the packed dirt with
other pedestrians and one or two bullock carts. We never reached open
countryside, just the suburbs of the biggest city in Pakistan, every
inch of land claimed in this part of the Indian sub-continent.
We
walked up to the border in Waheed, only to be turned back and told we
should not try to stay close to the border. As we walked back,
looking for some kind of a hotel, a group of men, schoolteachers,
hailed us, ready to speak English with those native to the tongue.
After a pleasant chat, they offered us a room in the school house to
stay in. The nearest hotel would be quite a distance, they said.
Having
noticed Joe's guitar, they asked for a song, and he complied. An
audience grew, as crowds will in that part of the world, but with the
schoolteachers there, the children were well behaved. Joe played a
few songs. After each selection, the people would clap politely for a
minute, and then silently wait for the next song. Joe told me I had
to help, so we sang together all the songs we knew. Then we declared
the concert over. The schoolmaster politely urged us to do an encore,
but to my relief, Joe declined.
Ramadan
still ruled this Muslim land, so when the sun set, it was time for
dinner. Too tired to go out, I offered to stay with the things. For
privacy, I shuttered the windows and locked the door of the little
room in an outbuilding away from the courtyard where we had given our
concert. Joe took a meal at a tea house with the friendly men and
brought me a chapati, the wholewheat flatbread of the region. In the
morning, we were up early to give the classrooms back to the
schoolchildren who started their lessons soon after dawn.
Eating
that day was a problem since restaurants were closed for Ramadan. We
were able to get some milky tea, the national drink of India and
Pakistan, a nourishing beverage made half from tea and half from
milk, always with sugar, prepared at every street corner by a man
with a tin pot over a tiny fire. The schoolteachers had delegated a
young man to guide us through the day, not really something we would
have chosen since I had no desire to chat and even the more sociable
Joe felt the need for a bit of time to think. At his insistence, we
followed the young man to his house, a tiny stone hut in the midst of
other dwellings, its bare yard and one tree fenced in. His mother had
gone out and locked the door, so we went on, asking the young man to
show us just some place where we could rest and write home.
We
ignored the gaping crowds as much as we could, our guide acting as
guard for the day. In the evening, back at the school house, some
other Europeans had arrived, but were not all favored with rooms.
They were allowed to stay in the courtyard camping out. One woman was
obviously pregnant, so I stopped briefly to talk with her about the
troubles of being pregnant and traveling. I retired, pleading
exhaustion while Joe was invited to spend the evening with the
schoolteachers. Thoroughly worn out, I lay down until disturbed by a
great deal of noise. I went out to investigate. A crowd gathered
around the travelers was getting wild. I asked what was wrong, and
one of the men said that the Pakistanis were sex-mad. The pregnant
woman had been hit on her belly, so I took her away to the safety of
our locked room.
Meanwhile,
Joe had not heard a thing. In another of the closed rooms, the
schoolteachers had decided to teach him the Koran. The basic precepts
are simple: pray every day, journey to Mecca: and death to the
infidel. Death to the Infidel was the subject they decided to
address. Specifically, a heated discussion arose about how good it
was that the Israeli athletes had just been killed in Munich. Joe
kept quiet about his Jewish heritage. In the little locked room, I
lit a candle, only to have the shutters banged upon. I blew it out,
and they went away. My guest was anything but calm. Finally, Joe
returned, and I sent him out again to check on the situation in the
courtyard. All was quiet. The pregnant woman went back to her
friends. I tried to tell Joe how horrible it had been, but he was not
impressed with my fears, having had his own experience of violent
threats from people he had thought of as civilized.
We
got up with the dawn to leave Pakistan for what some of our fellow
travelers had described as the holiest of lands, India. At the
border, the Indian and Pakistani soldiers stood all day beside each
other with rifles on their shoulders. Joe wondered, if the order
came, would they turn on each other and fire?
Chapter
XIl: DELHI
We
had hopes for India. We wanted to be realistic, but we did hope the
country, though at war, would be more peaceful than Pakistan had
shown itself to be. We knew disease was rampant in India, but we
hoped the sanitary conditions would be better than Afghanistan. We
hadn't done our homework. Relying on hearsay from travelers, many of
them pilgrims with religious rose-colored glasses on, we hadn't
imagined the overwhelming life on the teeming sub-continent. The
Hindus believe the material world is illusion; perhaps this makes it
easier to endure.
After
the border, we moved right along. In a war zone, these Indians could
erupt into violence at night as the Pakistanis had done. We took a
bus for the holy city of Amritsar where everyone said to
visit the Golden Temple of the Sikhs, but I was in no state for
sightseeing or anything.
We
found a tea shop where Joe struck up a
conversation with a Brazilian who had traveled in India many times
and knew all the ropes. He was going to Delhi and offered to take us
to the right train and help us aboard and into the best seats in the
very cheap third class. We thought Delhi, as the capital, was likely
to have the best medical care, so we set off immediately, following
him. Moving at his speed was difficult, but I went along without
protesting.
Sharing
a rickshaw, Marcos got us to the train with plenty of time to spare.
He helped us push our way into the compartment ahead of the crowd and
showed us what he meant by the best seats. Above the wooden benches,
metal bars formed the luggage racks, a space where we would be safe
from crowding and thieves. We climbed up, each taking a rack and
arranging our packs as a cushions. The ride took six hours and what
breeze came in the tiny train windows didn't penetrate up to the
luggage racks. I gazed on the people below who were eyeing me
balefully back. I felt I had no right to be there, taking up their
luggage rack, but no official told me to get down.
Disembarking
in Delhi, Marcos told us to go to the Old City for the cheapest hotel
- any rickshaw could take us there for less than a dollar. He had
some business to transact in Connaught Circus, but he'd see us
around. He walked off quickly, and we followed the path he had taken
through throngs of travelers and beggars to the street. Outside the
train station, traffic boiled. Every variation on the car and bicycle
filled the streets. The three-wheeled bicycle rickshaw, three-wheeled
Sikh-driven motorcycle taxi, horse and cart, as well as cars,
bicycles and people all madly fought their way down boulevards, past
cows, through intersections and around rotaries like Connaught
Circus.
Joe
hailed a bicycle rickshaw and we went to Old Delhi, the narrow
streets here completely jammed. The rickshaw stopped, unable to move,
so we climbed off in spite of the protests of the driver that he was
taking us to the best hotel. Any nearby hotel was good enough. We
collapsed on a mattress in a room on the roof.
In
the morning, I realized the room had no windows and would stay dark
unless the door was open. The air vents letting in the noise of the
streets had woken me. Joe slept on. I did Yoga exercises on the roof
and thought about breakfast. I wanted to follow a healthful regime
our Yoga teachers in Spain had suggested, eating live yeast alone for
breakfast, dissolved in water, to provide D vitamins and a tonic to
keep favorable stomach bacteria in the ascendancy. I had been
carrying yeast since Afghanistan. Of course, the water wasn't safe,
so I went out to get some tea to bring back and dissolve the yeast
in.
The
old city of Delhi is set up like a bazaar, except that the buildings
rise up above the small shops lining the narrow streets. I passed
vendors selling flowers, fruit, fried snacks, jewelry, soap, books,
painted plaster Hindu gods, sandals, and every other necessity of
Hindu life, crowding the sidewalks in front of the sari shops. I
stopped on the street corner where the “chai wallah” sat with a
fire of dried cow dung and a pot of “chai”, half milk and half
strong tea. I had him fill my little bottle that had once held honey,
and went back.
Joe
slept on, the troubled sleep of dysentery. I offered him a bit of tea
to wet his lips, but he wanted nothing. Our friends in Spain had
recommended fasting as the best cure for any disease. Certainly
fasting is the easiest course to follow with dysentery.
I
dissolved my live yeast in the tea, wondering if all the benefits
were available in conjunction with tea. Since I was experimenting
with this technique, I noted in my journal each time I managed to
take the time for yeast. I also noted sometimes if I got gas as a
result of what I thought might be too much yeast: however, gas often
accompanies pregnancy. The yeast might have helped me avoid
dysentery, or perhaps being pregnant gave me extra immunity. As with
most diets, changes in mood or health can be attributed to so many
variables that I now only believe in moderation.
Out
on the roof, I found a place to wash. A cold water shower seemed like
heaven after days of travel, washing clothes a joy to accomplish. I
congratulated myself on accomplishing karma yoga (useful work). Joe
was awake but unable to do anything. After the hour for the yeast to
work, I went out and found a fruit and yogurt shop. Here they mixed
up bananas, yogurt and ice in a blender and served it as a drink
called “Lahsi”, lunch. For dessert I had a milkshake. I brought a
Fanta back for Joe, but wound up drinking it myself before it got
warm.
Next,
I set out to find a hospital and find out if abortion was actually
free in India, as everyone had said. Tourist Information provided the
names of the hospitals and suggested that the Ladies' Hospital would
be the best, for women only and specializing in family planning. A
rickshaw got me to the hospital at 5:00 PM, but, of course, the
family planning clinic was held from 8:00 AM to noon.
The
next morning, I was up at 7:30 in spite of the lack of windows in the
room and at the Ladies Hospital at 8:30 to join the roomful of
waiting women in saris. The only other westerner there had a problem
quite unlike mine. She was infertile, never had menstrual periods and
was unable to get pregnant. I listened to her troubles, but felt it
would be tactless to speak of mine.
I
waited two hours before meeting Dr. Walla, a brusque woman wearing a
white coat and a red caste mark. Examining me, she felt the string
from the IUD and confirmed that I could get an abortion. All medical
care would be free because I obviously had birth control that had
failed. The pregnancy could be treated as a disease. Dr. Walla
estimated I was about 8 weeks along - a bit of bleeding that I had
experienced in the beginning of August would have been my last
period. We could do nothing without the confirmation of pregnancy
from a rabbit test taking ten days. I should come back in ten days. I
accepted this bureaucratic red tape with good grace. It seemed I had
plenty of time, and I didn't want to argue and make trouble for a
system that was going to give me what I wanted.
By
the next day, Joe had recovered and found us a new place to stay, a
tourist campground right in the middle of the city. On the modern
avenue connecting the old city with the new, a wide median strip
separated the two lines of traffic. The land on the median was dry
and packed, bare except for eucalyptus trees. The tourist campground
had been fenced off and landscaped with tenting sites on one side and
a parking area for camping vehicles on the other. There were
platforms built for big tents, but we just constructed a shelter from
peering eyes with our waterproof ponchos. We were safe from any rains
until the monsoon season in six months, and beggars could only come
up to the chain link fence and hiss for baksheesh. To the rear of the
area, a modern bathroom complex was clean, white and well plumbed.
For sixty-five cents a day, we felt we had the bargain of the city.
Sleeping with our own bedding in the open air suited us much better
than the windowless room on the roof for a dollar. Very few people
were taking advantage of the campground, so we were welcomed. A few
travelers had vans in the parking area, but we were the only guests
in the tenting area.
Across
the street from the entrance to our tourist campground, on the side
of the street leading towards the old city, a large hospital was
fronted with a wide sidewalk. A vendor of fried foods in an open air
shelter managed to keep going all day selling fried white bread
dipped in batter made from half flour and half powdered chilis. The
Indians would buy one to eat with a raw chili pepper. I went over for
tea, and Joe would invariably succumb to the smell of fried food. He
would take tiny bites of the fiery fried dough, conditioning his
taste buds.
The
rotary of Connaught Circus held most of the foreign businesses
including American Express, the safest place to pick up mail. To get
there, we took a motorcycle-taxi, riding in a cart behind a turbaned
Sikh, beard in a hairnet, sitting in the saddle, cursing in Punjabi
at the traffic jam. We looked up at a poster stating “COCA-COLA:
one kilometer in any direction.” With refreshment stands running
two to a block, the poster's boast was an understatement.
After
picking up mail, we changed money in the Bank of India there and were
appalled at the forms we were required to fill out, as well as the
rate of exchange. Behind Connaught Circus, a huge bazaar thrived
where changing money on the black market was commonplace,
uncomplicated, and offered 35% more rupees than the bank. We felt we
would be cheated if we changed money legally, paying the oppressive
banks for their unnecessary, pretentious institutions.
Rather
than staying in the city, we decided to use the week's wait for a
side trip. We would check out a lake we saw on the map and then visit
the Taj Mahal. Joe went for mail and to exchange money. At the
campground, I wrote home promising my family I would be here for
their letters. The plan was to leave at noon, so when Joe wasn't back
by 3:00, I began to worry. I threw the I Ching, asking what had
happened to Joe, and was given a bit more shape for my worries. I
read number 56, The Traveler, with lines saying, “Trifling with
unimportant matters, the traveler brings upon himself calamity. The
traveler reaches an inn with his valuables still resting safely in
his bosom. Owing to the traveler's lack of caution, the inn is burned
down.” The commentary notes the traveler is “a stranger in a
strange land.” I was not surprised when Joe came back at dusk
looking wild and exhausted.
Outside
American Express, Joe had met a westerner who said he was Canadian
and knew of a good deal for changing money. An Indian who wanted to
leave the country would buy all of the checks for 40% more than the
official rate. Joe was tired and accepted a cup of coffee and
listened to the scheme. First, the Indian had to ascertain that the
checks were all right, so they took a taxi to a big hotel where the
Indian would have them checked at the front desk. Joe knew his checks
were all right, so he wasn't worried and sat back in the taxi
chatting. Then the Canadian disappeared “to make a telephone call.”
Joe was left alone to realize that the Indian was long gone out the
back door of the hotel with Joe's seven hundred dollars in traveler's
checks. The rest of the time had been spent reporting the theft and
obtaining a notarized seal. Hearing the story, I was glad I never
tried to be clever. Surely my slow questioning would have turned the
con man away.
This
disaster did not endear the city to us. Now the plan of leaving for a
few days and getting away from it all seemed like an even better
idea. Finding the southbound bus and waiting two hours was worth it
to leave Delhi. But it seemed the city never ended. Everything was
fully populated. The lake we had seen on the map was a reservoir
surrounded by a chain link fence and signs “No swimming. No
camping”. When we sat down in a small grove of trees, we were
immediately surrounded by curious Indians trying out their schoolroom
English. We had not managed to get away from anything. We got up to
leave, and the crowd followed us.
One
especially persistent young man said he was English, not like these
ignorant Indians. He lived close by and would be honored if we would
be his guests. He looked exactly like the others, with a dark
complexion and western clothes, but he claimed his name was Princeton
Gardner and pulled out his wallet to show us the coat of arms of the
Gardner family. Joe was intrigued. Since we were both interested in
any shelter from the curious crowd, we followed him to a nearby
housing project.
Princeton
Gardner brought us up to see his sister, Mary Starr, who looked even
more Indian than her brother, dressed in a sari with a red caste mark
on her forehead. Mary welcomed us and insisted we stay to meet her
husband, Hubert, and the children who would be home soon. She made
tea.
Hubert
Starr was delighted to see Westerners, people he could really talk
to. Princeton, Hubert and Mary called themselves Eurasians,
descendants of mixed marriages, people who didn't really fit in with
Indian society and felt themselves to be a cut above their neighbors.
We didn't ask what fraction of English blood they boasted. Hubert
Starr's genealogy book on the history of the Starr family had come
all the way from England. We looked it over and gravely nodded our
heads, remembering the slick, colorful fliers our families had
received in the mail offering such books written by
pseudo-historians, mass-produced for the gullible. Here was the
perfect market for the genealogy book. These people could never check
up on the research and would pay exorbitant prices for the impressive
looking volume.
Mary
offered to make enough curry for all, vegetarian and only mildly
spiced, so we stayed for dinner and tried to entertain them with news
of life in the West. The Beatles were a successful topic of
conversation. Hubert and Mary had named their son Ringo after the
famous drummer, Ringo Starr. We didn't tell them Ringo Starr's real
name, Richard Starkey. We slept in our sleeping bags on their living
room floor, waking to a breakfast of leftovers, washing at the
dripping communal water faucet, and said good-bye.
Hitchhiking
worked out. A long truck ride took us to Agra, the home of the Taj
Mahal. Tourist information was centrally located and directed us to a
private home set up as a pension where seventy cents bought us
shelter in a converted stable with a lovely yard to ourselves. We had
bought fruit and yogurt for supper and all was idyllic until, over
our heads, we heard someone walking on the roof. From the yard we
could see nothing, but the owner pointed out monkeys in the trees
saying they had smelled our fruit. We had nothing left to feed them,
so they left.
We
thought we had planned things just right when we realized the moon
was nearly full. The Tai Mahal by moonlight – what could be better?
We were prepared to be bowled over by the beauty and symmetry of this
small building, built in 1653 as the tomb for Shah Jahan's beloved
wife Mumtaz-i-mahal. By moonlight, the white marble was supposed to
be especially impressive, unearthly, floating above the gardens and
the reflecting pool. What impressed me that night was the hustling of
the would-be guides, rickshaw drivers and beggars surrounding the
entrance, a maze of alleys both dark and threatening.
We
paid our entrance fee and went in with the crowd. For the purpose of
contemplating such timeless and static beauty as architecture, I need
relative silence, a commodity lacking in the jostling night crowd at
the Taj Mahal. The reflecting pool was empty, the building small.
Children ran and shouted. Graffiti scratched the marble. We walked
back in the moonlight, still wishing for peace and quiet as a
rickshaw driver followed us, wheedling to be hired.
In
the morning, I felt ill and spent the hot day doing nothing. As it
cooled in the evening, we went out for tea and met old friends from
the road, Alberto and Mari-Jeanne. He had just bought a sitar and
brought us to the shop that would be shipping it home for him. Music
is one of the attractions of India, but Indian salesmen were so
persistent, we had avoided stopping where we knew we wouldn't buy.
Having a friend who had just bought was a passport into this
interesting shop full of exotic instruments. I was able to get a note
out of the Indian flutes, and Joe was intrigued with a little,
primitive, one-stringed instrument called the Gobi Krishna. An
arrangement with bent wood altered the tone and produced a peculiar
twanging effect. However, we couldn't take on any more weight of
possessions, so once again we left empty handed.
The
memorable purchase that day was mosquito repellent. Joe found
“Odomos”, a tube of menthol smelling just like Vicks Vap-o-rub,
complete with directions written in eight Indian languages as well as
English.
The
next day was the true full moon standing high in the October sky, so
the tourist town of Agra filled up. Before leaving, we went to take
another look at the Taj by daylight. The faults of the surrounding
environment were even more glaring by day. I wondered which was the
worst omission: the empty reflecting pool and dry lake behind the
building, the lack of peace in the surrounding town, or the lack of
space around the tiny building which originally been planned to
include a matching tomb of black marble facing it across the lake. We
left Agra and set out to hitchhike again back to Delhi.
A
truck with a huge cab picked us up. The driver already had three card
playing friends with him. Joe joined in, gambling for a rupee a hand,
not minding that every time he thought he had won, they pulled out
another rule and he had to pay up. He figured he would make friends
and sort of pay for the ride. Unfortunately, when he got to the
driver's village and all piled out of the cab, Joe's wallet was gone.
I was stunned, but Joe, acting quickly, took the keys to the truck,
and we went to the police station.
What
a scene we created! Our mere presence was a spectacle in that eternal
circus mentality, as we termed Indian public conduct, and here were,
asking for attention. The policeman's English was not up to such an
occurrence, so he took us to the doctor. The doctor said we should go
to the Magistrate. So we all walked, the truck driver, the policeman,
the doctor, us, and the crowd to the official building where,
thankfully the crowd was not allowed.
Upstairs
in the magistrate's office, court was held. The truck driver got down
on his knees, pleading that he hadn't taken the money, begging that
he not be made to pay, calling for mercy on his wife and children.
Joe insisted that he get his money back, some two hundred eighty
rupees or twenty-eight dollars, before he would return the keys. In
fact, Joe said to me, the truck driver was the only one who couldn't
have taken the wallet because he had been driving, but he could
handle whoever had actually stolen it. The magistrate ruled in our
favor and the truck driver came up with, not the wallet, but two
hundred eighty rupees. The doctor offered to put us up for the night,
but the policeman decided to send us out of town right away, for fear
of reprisals. He personally conducted us to the night train to Delhi
and put us on an empty second class car furnished with wooden
benches.
We
rode through the dark, warm Indian night completely exhausted, unable
to take any more sensation, silently meditating on an overwhelming
reality. “Go on with life day by day.”
“All is illusion.” “Be here now.” In fact, we wished to be
anywhere else than India.
Our
fellow travelers had agreed that Delhi was a likely place for good
medical attention. I have no way of judging the quality of medical
care, except that I did fine. I expect I would not choose the capital
again simply because of the bureaucracy, a formidable presence in
India and, in Delhi, “a monstrous behemoth of authority slumped
movable among its files and tea-trays.” (Jan Morris, Destinations).
I
returned to the Ladies Hospital October 23 for the results of the
required rabbit test, a diagnosis already given by two obstetricians.
However, while we were waiting for the results of the rabbit test,
the infection caused by the IUD had flared up again. I couldn't have
the operation until that was cleared up again, another seven days on
penicillin. The hospital provided daily shots of penicillin. I had to
show up every day. This gave the medical students some practice in
giving injections. One day, it seemed the needle was too blunt to
pierce the skin. I could have complained perhaps, but the easiest
course seemed the best: wait and endure, like the Indian women around
me.
Another
problem was that the cord to the IUD had disappeared. Dr. Walla asked
me if it had come out. It didn't seem possible that I wouldn't have
noticed, though I was unsure of myself. Could I have missed that
strange piece of plastic? After considering the pain the thing had
caused going in, I told the doctor it couldn't have. My proof of
birth control had disappeared. However, the doctor had seen the cord
herself in her first examination, so I was scheduled for November 1.
On
October 31, I was admitted to the hospital. The operation would be
first thing in the morning, and they wanted to have me ready. My bed
was in a large, dark room with about twenty other women, none of the
whom spoke English. The attendant communicated by signs. For visiting
hour at four, everyone else had visitors, but since Joe had just left
me at noon, he didn't come. I could at least eat their food: it was
bland enough and there was no meat. Most of the women gave me their
hard-boiled eggs because they were strict vegetarians. I didn't like
to refuse, but I really didn't want more than one hard-boiled egg
without even a salt-shaker nearby. For reading material, I had
Dickens Hard Times,
suitably depressing.
I
slept badly and was woken up at 6:00 AM for an enema and to be
shaved, but Joe was supposed to be there and he didn't know it. The
telephone didn't work, so nothing happened. At visiting hour, he
found out the operation was rescheduled for the next day when he
would attend. The good news was that he had thrown the I Ching and
received a favorable hexagram. He had brought Koestler's book on
India, The Lotus and the Robot,
an improvement over Hard Times,
though I would have preferred something lighter. He wouldn't take
five hard-boiled eggs I had saved for him and left at five o'clock,
At dinner time, I had to refuse the offerings of my fellow patients.
No more hard-boiled eggs.
At
6:00 am the next morning, I got another enema. Adjoining our large,
dark room, a small hall held two windows lighting the walls with the
morning sun. I had to run to one of two cubicles, wet and smelling of
disinfectant, each with a hole in the floor and imprints for feet to
mark the proper place to squat. The attendant mopping the floor must
have been of the untouchable caste, therefore without the caste mark
on her forehead.
The
abortion scheduled for 10:30 was the simplest kind, vulgarly called a
scrape, medically called a D and C, dilation and curettage. Joe
arrived on time, and they began injections and the intravenous. Each
time, I hoped the shot would be an anesthetic. Just as I began to
feel really strange, a medical student came to take more blood. My
veins are not prominent, and, after jabbing me several times, she
decided to take the blood from a vein in the back of my hand. I began
to cry. She couldn't stop. Joe felt awful. Finally, something took
effect, and I was out.
I
woke to find Joe by my side in the recovery room. He told me the
operation was over. Yes, the IUD had been there, but Dr. Walla had
been angry, Apparently, the fetus had been developed more than three
months. I had lied to her, she had said. Joe had rejoined with anger
that I had asked her, and that she was the doctor and supposed to
help me. I don't know how unsafe it really was because I had no
complications. Dr. Walla never said anything to me. I felt they had
put me off with their red tape just to see if I would go away, and
could have done it almost three weeks
earlier. However, I was delivered of my burden safely.
At the 4:00 PM visiting hour, we
were back in the dormitory. The husband of the woman next to me
struck up a conversation with Joe about how his wife had just had her
tubes tied. They had decided she would have the operation because he
had to do a lot of walking for his work. She was in pain and could
hardly talk, so he chatted with Joe. I thought his reasoning
spurious. Either way, the operation was free. In fact, any man
electing to have a vasectomy was offered a transistor radio. Family
planning posters plastered the city exhorting the people to “Take
care of the ones you have.” In the morning, I felt fine. Dr. Walla
said I could leave at 4:00 PM and get penicillin injections for the
infection at any hospital.
I
went to the hospital right across the street from the campground,
first at 6:00 in the evening and then at midnight, following the
pattern set in the Ladies Hospital. At 6:00 am, I went again for the
shot and was told I had overdosed on penicillin. For outpatient
shots, the dose was set at one shot per day. I went to the Ladies
Hospital to check it out. Sure enough, I had taken three times too
much penicillin, and, just to prove it, when I got back, I came down
with a rash and a fever.
I
recovered overnight. Joe, however, was in bad shape. He had just
gotten word that the American Express Company considered what he had
reported as a theft was a black market deal, and he wasn't entitled
to get his checks back. He decided to see if anyone at the American
Embassy could help. I went along, always interested in such a place,
officially belonging to the United States and its citizens.
The
embassy section of town had large gardens and green lawns around old
buildings built for the British Raj, as clean and empty as a suburb
of Washington DC. I wondered at a country watering the embassy lawns
twice daily and yet letting the Taj Mahal, one of the Seven Wonders
of the World, go dry. Here was the unreal vision of life as lived by
the upper class of India, totally removed from the crowds. I hadn't
brought the wardrobe to dress for the occasion, but considered that,
as a citizen of the United States, I had every right to go there and
be treated well. I checked the tourist pamphlets and used the
incredible bathrooms. No one could help Joe, so we didn't stay long,
but even a short visit brought culture shock at reentering Indian
street life.
November
5th was ushered in by fireworks, The Hindu festival of Diwali,
celebrating the inner light protecting us from spiritual darkness,
had already started. For a week, we had been hearing intermittent
fireworks and by Sunday night, they were constant. I went to sleep
anyway, but Joe stayed up playing chess with Australians until
midnight when smoke filled the air until you couldn't see the neon
lights across the street. Some festival of light.
The
campground had filled up during these three weeks of our stay.
Perhaps the mountains of Nepal had become cool. The officials at the
Tourist Campground were no longer as friendly. I was ready to travel.
We threw the I Ching, and it said southwest was a favorable
direction. Fellow foreigners recommended Goa, the former Portuguese
colony on the west coast, saying it was different from the rest of
India. I wrote home, asking them to write me there, saying, “We
definitely expect India to improve. I wouldn't recommend New Delhi to
anyone.”
CHAPTER
XIII: HINDU RELIGION IN VRINDABAN
We
had been a month in India, mostly in and around the capital city, and
it was the worst place we had ever stayed. However, we figured the
more rural states would be nicer; we never really enjoy cities.
Finally able to leave Delhi, we were ready to look into Hindu
religion, the great drawing card for many travelers.
Not
far south of Dehli, the holy city of Vrindaban held a very intriguing
ashram. We could visit the guru from Be
Here Now, a mysterious and powerful
guru who demonstrated his siddhis (telepathy, imperviousness to LSD)
and helped the seeker to find himself. Baba Ram Dass never mentions
the guru's name and discourages the reader from trying to find him.
Joe and I were therefore surprised to hear that there was no mystery:
Nim Kiroli Baba was widely known and easy to find.
November
6, 1972, we left New Delhi hitchhiking south. Thinking back on it
now, I am surprised that we went on hitching after Joe's wallet had
been stolen in the cab of a truck. I guess Joe was feeling really
strapped for money, living off my traveler's checks, hoping for the
$700 refund. I had changed money more freely and only had five
hundred left. Though worried, I comforted myself that we still had
enough to fly home, and, if all else failed, could ask our parents
for a loan.
Hitchhiking
took us to within eight kilometers of Vrindaban, and then we were
content to walk, as true pilgrims might. The wide dirt road was lined
with regularly spaced trees and, beyond them, a dry ditch. After we
had walked half the distance, darkness fell, and we went to sleep
away from the road, under a tree.
We
woke with the sun and the sound of Indian cattle bells from the ox
carts on the road. We walked the rest of the way to town for our tea.
At the edge of town, a tearoom had tables on a small raised porch.
Looking down at the packed dirt yard, sipping my tea, I saw a
middle-aged woman in a bright sari squat to the ground and raise
herself from a puddle of pee. I had never seen it in Delhi. Was this
country manners? Was this a good reason for wearing an otherwise
inconvenient garment, the long skirt, for an acceptable way to pee in
public as men can do simply by turning their backs? For my peace of
mind, I always had to find the stinking outhouse. Was she a crude
character, or innocent? I never saw the performance repeated.
The
streets held many Westerners, some in the saffron robes of Hare
Krishna, some in blue jeans like Joe. I had modified my dress to
loose pants, an overblouse, and a scarf, acceptable dress for a
modern young woman in India. We asked directions of a young American
in blue jeans, and he sent us on the right road, three kilometers to
Nim Kiroli Baba's ashram; we should ask again on our way. Eventually,
someone pointed to a large square of buildings surrounding a packed
earth courtyard.
Morning
breakfast was over, but people were still sitting around chatting.
These young Westerners dressed colorfully, some in traditional Indian
dress, some in jeans and t-shirts, others in combinations to
emphasize their taste. One talkative young woman's head was strangely
bound up with mud in a style similar to Jamaican dreadlocks. I
wondered if this were a religious style or simply a cure for lice,
but I didn't dare ask. I should already know, and didn't care to
display my ignorance before this homogeneous group. I retreated to
the kitchen, but they needed no help. The woman in charge said we
should get ourselves settled and come back for lunch. She appointed a
guide to conduct us, as fellow pilgrims, to the best accommodations.
Our
young American guide was happy to take on a little karma yoga (Hindi
for useful work) and show off his knowledge. If we could afford 30
cents a day, he said, a lovely hotel nearby was being run as “duram
sala” for holy merit by a disciple of Nim Kiroli Baba. A five
minute walk down a dusty road took us to a large white building. The
owner of the airy stone structure welcomed us as pilgrims come to pay
our respects to the Baba (father), and gave us a key to a room on the
second floor. The stairwell walls used concrete blocks with holes in
them that form a flower shape. Halfway up, next to the landing, a
large open space was framed with monkeys swarming out as we came
near. “Are they friendly?” I asked, looking out at the opening
into the courtyard to see which way the monkeys had gone.
“Those
pests! They're thieves. Be sure to lock everything up or the monkeys
will steal it.” exclaimed our guide. “Of course, the Indians
think they are holy and feed then, so they're bold enough. That's
what makes them so dangerous. They bite, too.”
At
the top of the stairs and down a long open walkway we found our two
large, cool rooms. There were no beds, but we had our own bedding. We
unpacked a few things and went back to the ashram for lunch. After an
enormous vegetarian feast, we were favored by the guru's presence as
he appeared to give us dessert, fried dough dripping with sugar
syrup, just the sort of Indian sweetmeat I loathe. I tried to refuse,
but the helpers pressed it on me. The Baba, they said, liked to give
his followers little sweets. The man was a kindly father figure, and
we were as his little children. I tasted the gift, and hid it in my
bag so I wouldn't have to eat it. The guru blessed us all and left on
the arm of a beautiful Western girl in a sari. The disciples said he
wouldn't appear again that day, so we went back to the hotel for an
afternoon nap.
In
our cool, dark room, we sat by the open window and talked about Yoga
and plans for a serious fast, eating nothing at all for perhaps three
days. Some observance seemed proper since we were in the seat of
Hindu religion, accepted at a well-run ashram with friendly
Westerners. Perhaps the magical powers ascribed to this guru would
help show us our potential. For supper, we ate up what fruit we had
left.
In
the morning, I woke up from a bad dream in which we were home in the
West, a place changed, overrun with illegalities, confusion and lack
of privacy. I decided against the Eastern discipline of fasting.
Since I had just had an operation, I wanted to find my balance within
normal life. I was healthy, but not ready for another change. Joe
began his fast, but I went to the ashram for some chanting and to
break the fast of the night, eating breakfast with them.
Instead
of fasting, I did karma yoga. The year before, in Massachusetts, I
had made Joe a shirt of strong chambray that had survived the year.
We went out to the bazaar for material. Naturally, I couldn't find
anything like that chambray, so we chose a thinner blue stuff. After
our purchase had been wrapped in newspaper, we walked around town,
noticing the shrines lining the walls of the streets, deep shelves
decorated with flowers and containing a bowl for offerings.
Attendants sat in the street in front of the holy places, but they
were not pushy, as the religious beggars in Delhi had been, demanding
offerings. The cries for “baksheesh” were gentler here.
As
Joe talked to one such attendant, finding out the attributes of the
monkey god, Hanuman, a saffron-robed Englishman with a shaven head
greeted me - Fred from the Turkish boat on the Black Sea. His
pilgrimage had taken him to his guru, the leader of the Hare Krishna
movement, His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta, Swami Prabhupada. Fred
invited us to the Fogel Ashram for Krishna Consciousness. We hadn't
realized Vrindaban held such status as a seat of Hindu religion.
That
evening, we found the Hare Krishna ashram without much trouble. Any
saffron-robed devotee was going that way. We entered a courtyard and
were shown where to sit in the section for visitors, women separate
from men, crosslegged on the ground. Chanting started the service,
the chants we had heard in Boston, “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna,
Hare Rama, Hare Rama.”
After
a long time, the guru appeared. He sat down on his throne in a small
pavilion covered with flowers. The chanting stopped. Then, while two
disciples fanned him gently with peacock feather fans, he began to
speak. From his sour, heavy, sagging face and scornful mouth issued a
long sermon. Hare Krishna was the only true religion. Hare Krisha
followers were the only pure devotees. Every other ashram was full of
those who would attend and then go off and drink liquor, eat meat and
have illicit sex. He repeated this message, discoursed briefly on
earthly life as illusion, and then read from his book, The
Only True Translation of the Bhagva-Ghita.
Chanting
ended the long service. The guru left. When we all stood up, Fred
came over to ask us to join them for a light repast. I wanted to see
what they would serve, but when I looked at Joe, he refused politely.
He was, of course, still fasting. I didn't want to stay alone.
It
had grown dark out in the narrow street and was lightly raining, but
there were gas lamps to light the shining stones on our way back. We
walked the cool streets, and Joe talked about the aversion he felt
for A.C. Bhaktivedanta and his teachings.
In
the morning, we did Yoga exercises for an hour. Then Joe said he was
done with fasting, glad to have tried it after hearing so much about
it, but he didn't enjoy being hungry. The meditation he had done
instead of eating had opened no new avenues in his mind. Too late for
breakfast at the ashram, we went out for tea. When we got back, we
had a visitor from down the hall, a thin, pretty, young American
woman, one of Nim Kiroli Baba's followers, Saraswati, Sara for short.
Saraswati is a minor Hindu goddess whose picture I bought and framed.
My print shows a Hindu woman with four arms, a crown, a halo, a
sitar, pearls, swans, a peacock, and something that is maybe soap.
Sara had a message for us.
“The
Baba,” she began breathlessly, “but it's not really the Baba
because nothing bothers him; his Hindu followers, really, are
bothered by all us Westerners. Especially the high caste Brahmins.
They tend to be shocked by pants on women and dirty blue jeans on
anyone. So what we all have to do is wear Indian clothes and wash
every day.”
I
assured Sara that washing every day was no hardship in the heat. I
had forgotten Baba Ram Dass writing, “This is clearly not a Western
scene. The few people (Westerners) who have figured out from clues in
my speech where he was and have gone to see him were thrown out
immediately ... ”
Saraswati
gave me a sari to wear and showed me one way to wrap it. I had a
simplified Indian-style long skirt made from a bedspread my mother
had sent to Greece, but I like to try new styles.
Joe
wasn't pleased. He would have liked to go back to the ashram for
lunch, but he wasn't ready for a dhoti, the Indian man's length of
cloth wrapped for free leg movement. He would eat in the bazaar. I
wore the new sari to lunch at the ashram just because the food was so
good. I didn't see the guru. They announced that he had gone to a
town fifty miles away, but was expected to return the next day.
The
next day, I wore the sari to the big town, Mathura, to get live yeast
for my dietary experiment. The sari gave me trouble. Its gauzy
material was supposed to go over a special petticoat that I didn't
have and didn't want to own, so I wore it over baggy pants made of
embroidered material from Afghanistan, and the sari rode up between
my legs making it difficult to board the bus. When I got back from
Mathura, Saraswati had given Joe the news that the guru had sent
everyone away to Dehli where Krishnamurti, the intellectual Hindu
philosopher, was giving a lecture and everyone should go. Really, he
just wanted a rest, she had explained, but it would be good for us.
Joe
and I weren't going back to Delhi for a lecture, but we felt that we
might leave too, and continue our journey. The sight of the guru had
not evoked a response. The supercool people sitting around chatting
had aroused in us no longing to join the group. And finally, we were
being told we were in the way, exhausting an old man.
Before
we left, I gave the sari back, “Thank you for the loan, but I won't
be needing it anymore. We're leaving.”
“But
you'll be coming back? You're going to see Krishnamurti?”
“No,
we're not. We couldn't stand Delhi. We were there for a month. We're
going on.”
“Well,
if you're really going, I'm sure you could get an audience. Just go
down and ask.”
“Thank
you. Perhaps we will. I can wear what I have on?” She nodded at my
long skirt. “But Joe doesn't know how to tie a dhoti.”
“I'm
sure it will be all right.”
“Thank
you. I'll tell him.” Joe didn't want to go. The ashram scene
disappointed him. The pilgrims we had met along the way had been good
people, friendly and ready to talk, but here at their destination, as
followers, they were not as free. Now they obeyed their guru and
worked on what discipline was given. This Hindu holiness began to
look like any religion, with politics mixed in. I agreed that I did
not want to join any ashram, but still wondered if the old man was as
special as he had been described. I thought about going alone, but I
decided I had no problems to ask the guru about, that the guru's
never speaking to us must be of no importance - or perhaps the best
thing.
Wondering
if fate would have guided us if the time had been right, I now feel
the time will never be right for me to meet such a guru. I am too
independent to hand over my life to a leader, too self-reliant to
want to depend on another, too solitary to join a communal following,
and finally, too stable to need to give up everything for another's
vision. Some people need to give more than is reasonable, to
experience love as an overwhelming emotion that only a religious
leader can accept.
Before
setting out again, we used the I Ching as a guide. Throwing three
coins six times gave us a reading of Modesty and Good Journey.
Modesty certainly applied as a mode for our relations with Nim Kiroli
Baba. Our reading before leaving Delhi had indicated the southwest as
a favorable direction. Several acquaintances had recommended the
small Indian state of Goa, formerly a Portuguese colony on the west
coast of India south of Bombay.
Our
purpose in traveling was not clear, as was often brought home by the
constant question of curious Indians, “What is the purpose of your
visit?”, but certainly, we were not on a pilgrimage in order to
sequester ourselves from the world. We left, following the promptings
of fate, perhaps the Tao, to see more of the world.
Chapter
XIV: RAJAHSTAN
On
our way out of Vrindaban, we stopped at a teashop, gathering strength
for a day on the road. A local man dressed in a dhoti, came in
moaning and rocking his head from side to side. The proprietor
obviously knew everything about everything, including teeth, and
immediately took charge. From his experience, it would have to be
pulled, and he was prepared to do it. He reached in and gave it a
tug, but it was still firmly attached. He took his handkerchief out
of his pocket, wrapped his fingers to get a better grip and tried
again. His patient continued to moan while the proprietor of the tea
shop forced him down and placed a knee in the patient's chest for
greater power. Finally the amateur dentist admitted defeat, and they
both sat down for further discussion.
I
had had my teeth checked in Delhi. The Ladies' Hospital had a free
dental clinic, so one day I had asked directions and found a large
empty room. An Indian woman in a white lab coat turned from her
reports to ask, “What is it that you want?”
“I
think I should have my teeth checked. It's been over a year since I
saw a dentist.”
“Is
anything bothering you?” She asked irritably.
“No.
But you're supposed to see the dentist every six months.” She
wasn't impressed. “It might even have been two years.”
“Well,
all right then.” She wobbled her head sideways, the characteristic
Indian expression for acceptance, usually accompanied by a smile, in
this case by a frown. “Sit down.”
I
sat in the dentist's chair and opened my mouth. One look was enough
for her. She didn't even get out the little mirror on a stick. “These
teeth are all filled. There is no room for decay. You have no need
for dental help.”
I
left vaguely reassured and relieved that she had found nothing,
though not impressed with her skill, and certainly not believing
there was no room for decay. An Englishman in our Delhi Tourist
Campground had work done at a dental school. It seemed every day he
came back minus two more teeth. To endure an abortion in India was
one thing. Abortions were illegal at the time in the USA. Dental work
would be another thing altogether.
Shaking
our heads over Indian dentistry, we left Vrindaban for Agra, early
enough to get errands done in this city set up for tourists. “Duram
sala” got us free lodging this time. Our host, Mustapha Ali,
earned holy merit and since he was a rickshaw driver, we hired him to
help get around.
Joe
was sick of carrying his guitar around. He had brought it from Spain,
sometimes cursing its weight, but usually happy to have it to make
music, to pass the hours of waiting involved in traveling, and to
make and entertain friends along the way. Now in India, the heat made
the weight less bearable, and the interest of the locals no longer
seemed desirable - they constantly stared at us no matter what we
did. Joe wanted to send the guitar home. He and Mustapha Ali went off
to have a box made, and then found out that the post office only
accepted packages up to a certain size. Joe knew the music store sent
instruments to the USA: they had offered to ship purchases when we
had visited the shop before. However, when asked, the proprietor
refused to bother with anything not purchased there. Joe was stuck
with the guitar.
I
visited the bazaar and found small exotic gifts to send to our
friends in Spain and Greece. We made up little packages, the right
size for the post office, and sent them out. To my parents, we sent a
box as big as possible, filled with whatever bargains we found plus
clothes I couldn't part with, too heavy for that climate.
The
next morning we left Agra and the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh to
move by bus into Rajahstan. We had to change buses at the border and
wait next to a pile of rocks with the other travelers, all native
Indians. Sitting in the hot sun with nothing to do, Joe struck up a
conversation with a group of men who decided to have a smoke. They
laughed very hard as they passed the pipe to Joe. I stayed straight,
playing the quiet, modest woman. When Joe could hardly talk, I
continued quiet, though upset and angry. We missed the bus, but, to
my relief, the men left on it. In the afternoon, I got us onto the
next bus into town, Bharatpur.
Once
there, ten young men appointed themselves as free tourist guides.
First, they asked, had we eaten lunch? They knew just the restaurant
for us, one that served meat. They used us as an excuse to show off
and live dangerously, eating the meat their religion prohibits. To
their surprise, we ordered the vegetable dishes, with plenty of rice
to dilute the chili.
After
lunch, we were taken sightseeing. Bharatpur holds a beautiful bird
sanctuary featured in television nature specials. The young men hired
a horse-drawn carriage to drive us to the museum in the heart of the
sanctuary, a palace reached by a causeway through a lake. Twelve
wouldn't fit in the old carriage, and the driver protested against
any more than eight as too much for his horse. He wanted more money,
so several boys jumped out to run alongside. I tried to look out the
window at the beautiful lake, but one of the boys was always trying
to capture my attention, asking a question or making a comment on the
carriage.
The
museum, empty of visitors, held almost no furniture and a few dusty
exhibits. The young men knew no history. The caretaker had no
knowledge, but simply followed us around with warnings not to break
or steal anything. I tried to be polite while enduring the solicitous
inquiries and repetitious explanations in sing-song English, but I
couldn't enjoy myself or smile. After the tour, I refused to get into
the carriage again, disappointing the young men terribly. I insisted
on walking the short distance along the beautiful causeway. Joe was
still feeling strange, but he agreed. Several of them went off in the
carriage, but the rest had to keep us company.
The
picture of a huge, peaceful, light blue lake with birds swimming on
its surface remains. I am standing looking down the causeway lined
with tall trees leading to the museum we have just visited.
Unfortunately, instead of a quiet-voiced knowledgeable commentator
telling me what type of rare bird I am seeing, there is an impression
of an officious person making sure I am not bored, asking me how I
liked the museum, and shouldn't the museum be better kept up?
Back
in town, we parted ways. We turned down the halfhearted dinner
invitation. Some of the young men said they had to get back to their
families. I knew we had disappointed them. Saying we had to be on our
way, we walked out of town.
Not
far down the wide tree-lined dirt avenue, we reached a small temple,
and the guardian called to us. We accepted his offer of duram sala in
one of the two small stone rooms on either side of a stone courtyard
surrounding a well. The ground sloped downward behind the temple into
a clearing of packed dirt - no bushes, no sticks, no grass. The
white-haired man who lived at the temple had studied in Cambridge,
England and spoke excellent English, but he didn't talk too much. We
enjoyed his company, sitting around a small fire, sharing the fruit
we had brought. He asked us to call him Baba; perhaps he was an
undiscovered guru hoping for Western followers.
In
the morning, we washed at the well and met the temple peacock
strutting around the cleared area behind the temple courtyard. We
also met the Baba's Indian followers, or perhaps these were his
students of English. The young men asked, as did many Indians, “From
which country do you belong?” and “What are your qualifications?”
Joe's reply, “Cultural Anthropologist,” had a nice ring. We had
met one in Yugoslavia. The title seemed to describe some of our
occupation in traveling and observing different societies.
As
we were chatting with the young men, the Baba gave Joe the keys to
the temple, put him in charge, and left. Joe, completely taken by
surprise, was flattered, and accepted the responsibility, but it
didn't take long before we wanted to leave too. Rather than fielding
questions all day, I retreated to a laudable occupation, writing home
to my family. I wrote, “Right now time is dragging a bit due to the
irritation of the constant presence of many flies and 7 (oops-8)
Hindu followers. Joe says he feels a bit like the holy man we were
visiting (Nim Kiroli Baba). They wish to wait on us, i.e. buy me
soap, wash my pots, make us tea. and draw water from the well for any
purpose we may have. They just doused Joe with water for the heat,
and Joe says, 'That wasn't so great, but they seem to think it was.'
They also can't believe he doesn't speak Hindi. Mostly they use
broken English, but occasionally slip into Hindi and expect an
answer. They just came out with it. “You are a holy man, Sir.”
Now an attempt to involve me. “Indian woman is very bad, Sir. They
is not reading.”
Joe
points out Indira Gandhi, and they all laugh. “But Indira Gandhi is
very high family!” I do not rise to the bait and simply continue
writing with a modest demeanor. A good woman, eh? Reads and writes.
15 years of schooling, after all. There is no privacy in India. Many
more have shown up to stare and some do wash at the well. Children
are being shooed away, but return with gifts of fruit and sweets. Oh
no, Joe has acceded to popular request and taken out the guitar.
Making me get the flute so I'll have to give a tune. Until Bombay,
adios.”
The
long day was punctuated by statements from the most forward of the
young men, generalizations in the form of “Indian ____ is very
_____” I remember clearly his exhibitionism, frequently stripping
to the loincloth to douse his well-muscled brown body, explaining,
“Indian weather is very hot,” and “Indian man is washing very
much.” Just to keep the conversation going he would begin another
statement, but break off when he couldn't find a suitable adjective.
“Indian man is very.....”
We
were bored and irritated when the Baba returned late in the afternoon
with preparations for dinner. He shooed the boys away and wouldn't
let them help. They went home for a while but trickled back after the
Baba had made a vegetarian feast, mildly spiced subghee with real
butter and chapatis baked on a stone by the fire. A hungry dog hung
around waiting for scraps, prompting the comment, “Indian dog is
very skinny.” We didn't stay up for more of this conversation and
retired to our little stone room on the side of the courtyard.
In
the morning, the Baba seemed to expect we would stay, but we really
couldn't stand being on display. Besides the tiring young men, we had
endured being stared at all day by the other visitors to the well.
Later, I was told of a Hindu idea called “Darshan”, a belief that
in the process of staring, one can pick up some of the spirit of
another person. To me it seems like another enshrinement of a
cultural trait like the Muslim tribesman's tendency to war turned to
a religious battle cry, “Death to the Infidel.” We left in spite
of the Baba's protests.
We
tried hitchhiking, but we had to pay for our ride. A 10 rupee truck
took us to Jaipur, a Sikh desert region. The Sikhs, the best
organized of the Indian religions, are known for their fierce
fighting ability, neat turbans, and their use of the same last name,
Singh. I thought of the religion as a cross between Hindu and Muslim
without the Hindu oppressive caste system or the Muslim ideas of
aggressive war. With a majority of Sikhs, Jaipur might have been
pleasant except that the garbage men were on strike. We had caught
the turn of phrase and said to each other, “Indian city is very
dirty.”
Joe
waxed philosophic in a letter home. “This guy in Dehli learning new
expressions (always says 'far out' and 'groovy') well, he asked me to
explain “Bullshit”. Now that is a difficult concept to explain to
an Asian. Here, a man's wealth is shown by the size of his dung pile.
The women and girls walk around in cities and country with baskets on
their heads and their job is to pick up fresh dung off the ground and
plunk it on top of their heads. Later it is made into paddies and
dried for fuel. It adds to the sacred uses of the cow or water
buffalo. Bullshit?”
My
birthday was coming up. I had read about a holy lake in the
mountains, not too far out of the way, where we could stop for a
quiet time, I thought. At the tourist information bureau in Jaipur,
the minor official seemed pleased to be able to disappoint us. Many
Indians in positions to help prefer to exert a kind of power play.
Putting others down raised their status/caste. This man seemed to
feel we should have known that the lake was dry until monsoon season.
So we went on.
Indian
trains go everywhere and are incredibly cheap. Everyone takes them,
unlike American trains, so we would see a cross section of all the
Indian people. The ride in the luggage rack from Amritsar to Delhi
had not been fun, but we decided to give the rail system another try.
We left Jaipur by train, going west, third class into the Great
Indian Desert. This trip to Ajmer was our last attempt to endure
third class. Even this relatively uncrowded line through the desert
was packed with incredibly rude and dirty people. To fight for a
place on a hard wooden bench pushed against a sweaty laborer while
dust billowed in the windows was more than I was willing to endure.
Every
stop at a station signaled the swarming of food and drink vendors to
the windows of the train. Joe was a pushover for spicy fried noodles,
heavily seasoned “chow mein”, served from newspaper cones. I
bought tea until I began to long for cool fresh water. I finally
threw caution to the winds and tried the water at one station - warm
and impure - I spat it out.
Going
through the desert as we were, I began to feel my skin and hair were
in need of some lotion. All the women here obviously oiled their
thick black hair before braiding it down the back, and it suited
them. The little girls with shoulder-length hair had it oiled too,
though they looked monstrous with that hair and heavy black paint
around the eyes. During a lengthy stop for refueling at a desert
station, I decided to try hair oil for moisturizing and control.
Immediately, I felt dirty and longed to remove
the heavy sticky weight. I would have to wait for an opportunity to
wash.
In
Ajmer, a cattle fair had filled all available accommodation. Tired,
dirty and discouraged, we found the road out of town and stuck out
our thumbs. Nobody stopped. Luckily, we were hitching next to what
turned out to be a schoolyard. In this small agricultural school, the
head teacher and gardener experimented with more efficient production
of grains. Looking up from his garden as dusk fell, he saw us
standing in the road and thought to offer a schoolroom. The next day
was a holiday, he explained, so we would not be in the way at all.
There would be no lights, he worried, but we assured him we carried a
candle. I asked him about the well. Proudly, he showed me the pump
with a tap in the courtyard. Unfortunately, there would be no power
until the morning when he would be coming to tend the garden. He
laughed when we reminded him he would be earning holy merit.
For
breakfast, we got something different - the school grew millet and
corn which our friend had made into chapatis. Finally able to wash, I
had to use detergent to get the oil out of my hair, thereby erasing
any good effect it might have had as a conditioner. When I was done,
we met some of our host's friends. They only spoke a little English,
so Joe and I took out our instruments and played music. We left
before lunch. Hitchhiking worked better, though the truckers all
seemed to drive slowly. We got to Udaipur late and found a large
hotel run by the government as a Tourist Bungalow, reasonably priced.
We would stop here for my birthday.
In
the morning, we went to see the Maharini's stone palace, now a museum
on top of the hill in the middle of the old city. The building was
immense, but not full of treasures. In fact, there was little to see,
and once again, a few young men decided to be our guides on the tour,
though they knew nothing.
The
Maharini's toilet was a huge wooden carved throne, a throne with a
chamber-pot beneath, like an enormous potty-chair for toilet
training. We were roped off at the door, and I couldn't understand
what the piece of furniture was, sitting by itself in the middle of
an empty room. Our guides explained, and I still didn't understand
why anyone would want such a chair; moreover, the thought of filling
the chamber-pot for a servant to take away was quite beyond me.
At
the exit, the young men were still following, offering to guide us
through the narrow stone streets leading down the hill. To escape
them, we took a rickshaw to the other tourist sight, a puppet
folklore museum set in a tropical garden. Here the people had taken
some pride in showing the traditional craft, shadow puppets. The
gardens were well kept, and somehow, there were no young men to
follow us around. The best restaurant in town, Kwality, was part of a
chain. For two dollars, we ate very well. Joe gave me a ring with my
birthstone. For dessert, there was only pudding, so we had a
chocolate bar instead of cake.
From
Udaipur, we hitchhiked to Rickabdeo where we somehow managed to sleep
out by a river. Early in the morning, we were discovered. To be
surrounded by a staring crowd as you wake up is terribly unnerving.
The people in Rickabdeo were especially curious, and our usual
protectors, young men who studied English, were absent. We left as
soon as possible. I quote the journal, “Harassed by idiot natives
into taking a bus for Dungarpur hoping for a train from there.”
The
bus over mountainous dirt roads with people riding on the roof was
quite enough for one day. The train connection would take seven hours
to go 100 miles. We decided to wait another day for the express
train.
Dungarpur
sits at some altitude among grassy hills. Just downhill from the town
is a large lake for swimming and washing. I washed near the
washerwomen who had claimed an area with large, flat rocks where they
could slap colorful lengths of cloth. Laid out to dry on other rocks,
the bright saris were ten feet long. The man's dhoti was shorter, a
six foot length of duller color.
When
I had finished, Joe had already found the duram sala, a small room
kept for pilgrims, where we slept for free, three nights, the limit
for the little room. Somehow the people here were able to leave us
relatively alone. I made a little blouse and basted it together. The
tailor sewed on his machine while I watched. Joe was able to rent
bicycles. Sadly, they were so heavy I couldn't pedal up the
hills. India was becoming tolerable. We thought things would continue
to improve as we moved toward the sea. Ahmedabad, a seaport and
Gandhi's birthplace, was to be our next stop.
Chapter XV
INDIA'S WEST COAST
Third
class railway tickets were out, no matter how cheap and authentically
Indian, so we took second class tickets to Ahmedabad, Gandhi's
birthplace, a seaport on the Arabian Sea with no beaches. Though hot,
overcrowded and dirty, the city had a good marketplace, and we wanted
to learn about Gandhi, so we took a room for overnight. Gandhi's
birthplace was open to visitors. We entered a plain, empty hallway
made of bare wood and walked down to a room with a roped off display
of the great man's things. Naturally there wasn't much to see because
Gandhi had renounced earthly possessions. A table holding his glasses
and a small book gave little food for thought. Near the rope, a post
held up a sign closely covered with some Indian script. I asked the
attendant what it said.
“It
is a brief history of the Mahatma,” he answered.
“I'm
surprised there isn't an English translation,” I commented.
“Usually I see an English version alongside.”
“This
is because there are too many Indian dialects. English is the
language everyone can understand. Everywhere you will see English.
But not here. This time, it was felt that it would not be right, to
put the Mahatma's life in the language of the oppressor.”
“But
surely he's a universal saint now, for Indians and English alike,
setting an example for the world,” I protested.
“This
may be that Westerners try to claim him for their own, but here he is
ours, and we do not write in English.” I had no answer. I felt
funny being classed with the oppressor. My generation believed in
revolution. I was never an activist, but I thought my sympathy with
civil rights and non-violent resistance might count for something. We
left Gandhi's birthplace unenlightened.
Over
tea, we looked at a map and found the coast road down to Bombay where
we could check in with American Express as to the fate of Joe's
stolen traveler's checks. If we found a nice beach on the way, we
could stop for a while. As usual, to leave a city, we had to take a
bus ride before we could hitchhike.
Hitchhiking
this time yielded a ride with an English speaking Zoroastrian truck
driver, ready to chat with Joe about fire worship. This sounded
exciting, but the driver's description of the established religion of
the Parsees was staid. Zoroaster (also called Zarathustra) believed
in one God, holiness, righteousness and heaven after death. Joe asked
about the woman's place within the church, attempting to draw me into
the conversation, but it seemed hardly worth talking about to our
driver, except as a chance to put women down. In spite of his lecture
on Woman's Place, the man was pleasant and helpful, offering to let
us off at Balsar, a town he thought we would enjoy.
Balsar
was a medium sized town, population 37,586, where a pleasant hotel
cost only four rupees (forty cents). In the morning, we walked two
miles, farther than we had thought, to an empty, rocky seashore.
Swimming looked difficult. The rough shingle dropped off rapidly, and
the waves seemed to make a powerful undertow. Since the beach was
deserted, there would be no help in case of trouble. We simply
enjoyed the solitude and found some rocks that looked like unpolished
agates, gray with translucent stripes. The sea breeze made life seem
more tolerable.
Back
in town in the evening, we met a young Sikh who offered to treat us
to dinner. His reason for choosing us became clear when he began
talking about drink. Gujarat is a “dry” state where alcohol is
forbidden, but he knew a restaurant with boot-leg liquor, Once again,
we were thought to be wild westerners always ready to drink, eat
meat, and party. We went along to the restaurant, but the liquor was
poisonous stuff, “white lightning”. I wouldn't drink, and Joe
couldn't; he had just recovered from another stomach upset. The young
man drank and was quickly overcome, lolling his head on the table.
Disgusted, I insisted we leave. Joe protested. He hadn't quite
finished, and the dinner was good. The management didn't mind. The
drunken Sikh had prepaid, so they waved us out the door happily.
The
next day stands out as the most physically wearing day in all our
travels. It started innocently enough with a decision to do some
hiking along the shore. The empty beach had been so pleasant that we
thought we would hike south following the coast. Packs on our
backs, we set out, first the two miles to the Arabian Sea, and
turning left, down the rocky beach. After a few hours of difficult
walking on the stony beach, our packs were getting heavy. Joe was
cursing the weight of his guitar.
Then
we hit a fishing village bordered on the south by a muddy river. The
boys of the village surrounded us and decided to start a game of tag.
We were It. Exhausted already, I began to feel trapped as well.
Trying to escape and continue our journey, we took off our shoes and
waded into the river, only to find squishy mud covering a layer of
sharp rocks. It looked a few inches deep, but actually, only the
free-flowing water was shallow. We went hip deep into the ooze. On
the shore the boys were laughing and pointing at us as the whole
village turned out to see the crazy foreigners. We couldn't turn
back. Those boys had been rough.
The
young men of the village who spoke English took it upon themselves to
help us. Several waded out and tried to persuade us to turn back,
telling us not to mind the poor ignorant people. Joe insisted on
going on, so the young men offered to help us carry our things across
the river. Neither of us wanted anything to do with any of them, but
they were insistent.
We
wore almost worn into acceptance when one of them said, “Look!
Look! Wait! He is coming to help you!” A small sailboat was heading
our way. A brown man wearing only a dhoti, his skin leathery from his
years in the weather, was steering with his feet as his hands guided
the sail. He sailed straight up beside us, and the young men asked
him if he would take us across. His assent was clear and the young
men put our packs on board.
We
climbed onto the small boat and dangled our legs to rinse off the
ooze. Only then did we notice that the river was running red, a
strange, bright, clear color, not at all like red mud. I thought of
blood, except that these Hindus wouldn't have a slaughterhouse
upstream. “Why is this water red?” Joe asked the young man who
had handed him his guitar. “There is a factory for cloth,” said
one. “This is making the river red,” added his friend.
When
we turned to the ferryman, his eyes were staring at the sky. At our
greeting of “Namaste”, his head turned, but the eyes didn't
focus, nor did he speak. “This man cannot see,” said a young man.
“But he can sail a boat”, laughed another. “Not to worry,”
they added.
We
had seen him sail to us with no trouble. There was no doubt in my
mind that this ferry ride was the right thing to do. We waved
good-bye to the young men with relief. Harassed as we had been, we
now felt in an oasis of peace. The blind ferryman handled his boat
smoothly, keeping his face turned in the direction he wanted to go.
The ride across was quiet, breezy, and all too brief.
Disembarking
on the other side, we waded through the mud to shore and were
surrounded again. The village on the other side of the river had
noticed the hubbub across the way. It was getting late, but we still
hoped to escape. We rinsed off our legs and asked the way out of
town. We set out, and they followed, the crowd of boys shouting words
of English and a few young men shushing them and attempting to hold a
conversation when all we wanted was quiet.
We
tired out before they did. We had to stop, and the crowd stopped with
us. We made camp by the side of the road among the rocks and built a
fire. I heated up the food we had brought. Our audience left when we
began to eat. Just a couple of boys seemed to be hiding behind some
rocks. As it was getting dark, an older man came to plead for the
honor of his town. “Please to accept hospitality!” he said
fervently. “It is not right strangers should sleep out in cold!”
“We
are not cold. Look. We have blankets. We like to sleep outdoors. What
we want most is to be left alone. Can you leave us alone?”
exclaimed Joe.
“Oh
no. It is not right. There are snakes and thieves out here. We cannot
allow you to place yourselves in this danger. Please to come with us
and accept a bed for night.” They wouldn't give up, so we had to go
along with their ideas.
Escorted
by a crowd, we made our way back to the village and were taken into a
large dirt-floor room with curtains hung to divide the sleeping
quarters. The lady of the house motioned us to two charboys, bed
frames strung with rope. We sat down, and they all remained standing,
watching us. When a young man asked about the guitar, Joe took it out
to play. I reluctantly accompanied him on the flute. After three
songs received in silence, he quit. Concert over. We were tired.
Goodnight all. Nobody left. I decided to lie down. I turned around
and pulled my blanket out of my pack. Then I took off my long-sleeved
shirt, When I turned back, the crowds had melted silently away.
Everyone was gone.
“Good
trick, Ellie,” said Joe. “You really scared them off.” I was
past caring if I had shocked them, and fell asleep, relieved to be
left alone.
In
the morning, our hosts, the villagers of Umarsadi, gave us a place to
wash, three soft boiled eggs and tea. They insisted we take the bus
instead of walking the two and a half miles to Pardi, and bought us
tickets and cookies for the ride. They seemed genuinely kind, so I
gave them a small remembrance. My mother had sent thin rice paper
Japanese napkins, printed with designs of birds. I presented this as
a token of thanks and waved good-bye.
In
Ruth Prawer Jhabvala's Travelers
I read of this taking in of the stranger as a common experience for a
single woman in India. I am not actually sorry that it happened to us
only once. The poverty in India is such that taking charity would be
an uncharitable act on our parts. We were the poorest we had been,
having lost half our money in Delhi, but, simply by giving up the
journey, we could return to the lap of luxury in one of the world's
richest countries.
Another
consideration in accepting friendly hospitality would be that one
should accept a way of life before entering a home as a guest. Human
excrement comes very close in Indian daily life. The city toilets
usually had a hole in the bathroom floor with two foot impressions on
either side for squatting. There was seldom paper, but instead, a can
on the sink to fill with water to pour over one's parts. In the
country, Indians simply take themselves to the fields early in the
morning carrying a can of water by a wire handle. Everyone is
expected to wash each time using the left hand only. The right hand
is reserved for eating throughout the Arab countries and a
thief may have his right hand cut off and be forever banned from the
communal rice dish. We tried to live like the Indian people, but we
never could accept their lack of sanitation. Instead, we became
terribly sick.
As
we neared Bombay, my journal records more stomach troubles, dysentery
again, this time so bad that I visited the hospital in Bombay. My
comment on the hospital was “unhelpful”.
American
Express, too, was unhelpful. Back in Delhi, Joe had asked the company
to review his refund on the stolen checks, and to send any news to
Bombay. In Bombay, they claimed to know nothing. They would find out,
but we would have to wait. Waiting involved great difficulty in
finding a hotel room. We ended up paying in advance at the only place
we could find with a vacancy. The rate was more than twice what we
had been paying, and the room was hardly clean.
The
only positive aspect of Bombay was the food. The variety and quality
was measurably better than what we had been getting. Peanut vendors
sold unspiced peanuts hot from the oven. Water chestnuts were roasted
on the street, the blackened husk easily peeled off to reveal the
white, crispy, sweet meat, Milk flavored with ginger came in bottles.
Best of all was a vendor with a selection of fruits and vegetables
for squeezing. Oranges, grapefruits, lemons, pineapples, melons,
tomatoes, guava piled high at the peak of tropical ripeness. Standing
there drinking our juice, we saw an Indian get a glass of fresh
squeezed orange juice and cover the top with black pepper.
We
went down to the harbor to check out the boat for Goa. It left once a
week, on Fridays. Tickets were sold only on the day of departure.
This was Tuesday, so we would have to stick around for a few days.
American Express would have something by then, Joe felt sure. We
weren't sightseeing. We particularly avoided temples. Walking past
one by accident, I couldn't bear to look at the hideously deformed
people, even lepers who might try to scare us into giving by
threatening to touch us.
Down
by the port, we couldn't miss the Gateway to India, a monstrously
large arch built by the British Raj for ceremonies of considerable
pomp when arrivals from England disembarked. Now the massive stone
monument overlooking the harbor is nothing more than a resting place
for a few beggars, only a few because the pickings are better outside
a temple.
The
only other Indian near the Gateway was an ear cleaner leaning on his
haunches against the inside of the arch. For a rupee, he would take
his wire loop tool out of a small glass presumably filled with
alcohol, and clean out the ear canal. The man hardly noticed us.
Perhaps he knew foreigners looked down on such practice.
Bombay
was overcrowded even for India. Whole families live on the street in
Bombay: a hundred years ago, Mark Twain wrote that every night in
Bombay, bodies lined the sidewalk, each wrapped in a blanket. As Paul
Theroux commented in The Great
Railway Bazaar, now they don't even
have blankets. To escape Bombay, we took a three hour bus ride to Ali
Bag, just south across the Bay of Bombay.
In
a small hotel in Ali Bag, dysentery struck again. This time, I became
terribly ill and spent days lying in bed under mosquito netting. I
wrote home, “Hotel is 60 cents for a room with three windows, fan,
table, chair and mosquito netting over the beds, A great invention,
mosquito netting. I've been in bed with a bad stomach. I went to a
hospital, but the doctor just said it was dysentery which I already
knew. Wait for it to go away, he said. I've been fasting, a course
highly recognized by many health food people. It's easy because I
have no appetite. And I've done a lot of sleeping for three days.
They are really concerned about TB here. Dysentery is nothing.
Everyone at the hospital started their questions with “Do you have
a cough?” There were posters everywhere. I bought their TB seals.”
My
parents must have been really depressed after getting that letter. My
sister probably tried to get my father to go and bring me home. My
mother telegraphed the American Embassy in Delhi to try to get some
news. Their telegrammed response was, “Bombay advises Joseph
Brodsky registered at Amconsul on December 8. Appeared to be in good
health and gave local address as Asara Lodge, Ali Bag, Maharastra.
Have sent telegram Ellen Northrup care of Poste Ristante, Calangute,
Goa requesting she contact parents and notify consulate.”
My
letter went on with the news. “It's better today, so we're planning
to cook out. It seems to be the only way to get anything we can eat.
All the restaurant food here is too full of chili peppers. Even if
our mouths could stand the heat, the chilis drown any other taste in
the food. We mix the hot curry vegetables with the tasteless white
rice (brown rice is totally unavailable) and
the taste is still only hot pepper. For the cookout, Joe is frying
vegetables in ghee. I must find out how to make ghee. It fries better
than oil with less. A bargain at 60 cents a pound.” Ghee, clarified
butter, enriches many a curry.
Still
sick, I wrote again a few days later. “I remember an
anthropology/psychology lesson from Dad. Shame Culture vs. Guilt
Culture. The shame culture, like India, keeps its members in line by
means of ridicule when they misbehave, instead of internalizing
controls as our culture does by means of guilt. Around here, we are
definitely different and to be watched. It forces one to conform
superficially much more quickly, as witness my change to conservative
Indian dress, and Joe's trimming his beard for the first time since
I've known him. I drew pictures of me in Proper Town Dress, sari, and
in Mod Travel Dress, pants, long sleeves and a scarf. I did not adopt
the Maharastra State fisherfolk style of sari, writing “sari is
such an impractical garment, these women wrap it as pants, only they
wear it so tight it looks even more uncomfortable than the sari.”
While
I was sick, Joe went back to Bombay to check on American Express, to
no avail. Their story held that he had made a black market deal and
wasn't entitled to get his checks back. He could apply to the New
York office, they suggested. Joe decided to try the American
Consulate in Bombay, just to see what could be done. This was when he
checked in as reported to my mother.
On
the way to the consulate, Joe spotted a shop selling American canned
goods and bought a can of Heinz beans. As usual, the shopkeeper
wrapped it in newspaper. When Joe arrived at the Consulate, people
looked at him strangely. He was granted an interview quickly. The
fellow behind the desk began by asking, “I wonder if you would mind
telling me what you have in that package.” Joe felt silly
unwrapping the can of beans, but apparently they had feared he was an
anarchist with a bomb. Our American representative in Bombay was
relieved and pleasant, but could do nothing about American Express.
I
was feeling better after Joe got back, so he decided we should rent
bicycles and pedal out of town for a picnic. He could heat the can of
beans over a little fire. I believe this experience was a turning
point in our understanding of India. We discovered there is no
getting away from the people. We pedaled to a quiet spot, only to be
surrounded by the curious. We went on for miles in the countryside,
stopping several times, finally giving up and resigning ourselves to
a picnic lunch with an audience.
An
old Indian folk tale begins like this. “The poor man walked through
many villages and across the countryside, but everywhere there were
too many people, and he could not be alone. At last the poor man came
to the edge of the jungle where he would find a quiet place to pray.
When his prayers were answered, he had a Magic Cooking Pot with an
endless supply of rice.” This, of course, would be no solution to
India's long-term problem of overpopulation.
I
was sick a week, and we missed one ferry to Goa. On Friday, the
fifteenth of December at 8 AM, would be another. Determined to catch
it, we left Ali Bag Thursday even though we would have to spend a
night in the city. Joe decided we should camp out in the bus station
as so many Indians did, more than just people staying overnight to
catch the 4:00 AM bus. Whole families seemed to live in that urban
village, somehow staking out territory as others did on the
sidewalks. The bus station was bright and noisy all night, but at
least the people ignored us. Country folk would have gathered to
stare.
We
were up and out early, at the docks at 6:30 in the morning. The
ticket office would open at 7:00, only then selling tickets for the
scheduled 8:00 sailing. We had been afraid of a long line and the
possibility of a sell out, but we were almost the only ones there so
early. An Israeli named Avrim waited with us. He lived in Goa and had
taken this route many times. He told us that they never sold out and
usually left late, but it was good to be early to get the best seats.
We could sit together, he suggested. We could take turns standing
watch against thieves.
I
couldn't picture, from his description, the best seats on the boat,
so I was surprised when he led us to the front of the boat where a
platform jutted out from the enclosed cabin. There were no seats, but
we were ahead of all of the smells of the boat, out of the line of
traffic, with a good view and a protective canvas overhead. The boat
ride took twenty hours, all day and all night. We shared our food and
had a pleasant ride steaming south through a calm ocean with a waxing
moon lighting the first part of the night.
The
boat arrived in Panjim, Goa, in the early morning. Avrim said most
Westerners stayed in Calangute because it had the best beaches, and
we could visit him there. We stopped for mail at American Express in
Panjim. We hated to patronize American Express at this point, but we
had been using their offices as a mail drop. I went out of my way to
change money elsewhere, even though I had their checks.
After business, we moved on to
Calangute. The one-story thatched hotels next to the beach were,
naturally, overpriced, and we were feeling penniless. Also, though we
were tourists, we tried our best to live like residents. In a switch
of roles, the hippie scene made this beach town a tourist attraction
for middle class Indians on vacation.
We
went to see Avrim for advice. Asking around, we found his house, a
small thatched building with three rooms and an outhouse where he
supported himself making and selling leather crafts to his fellow
Westerners. I was not surprised to see another fellow traveler from
Bombay, a young American girl who had been traveling alone. Our host
made Indian spice tea with cardamon seeds, demonstrating the best way
to crush them: by chewing them and spitting them into boiling water.
I wondered if that would sting the mouth, but the girl assured me
Avrim's mouth could take it. He had told her he liked to eat raw
garlic sandwiches.
While
the spices steeped, and Avrim showed Joe his workshop, I asked the
girl why she chose to travel alone. She had no reason. She just liked
to. She was happy in India as was the woman I had sheltered in
Pakistan, here with her baby. I felt something was missing. Was it in
me for not accepting a way of life? Was it in them for ignoring the
misery and filth around us? The Westerners in Goa seemed to be mostly
the partying kind, in India because it was cheap to live and drugs
were readily available. As well, more meat was available. The main
difference between this Christian state and the rest of Hindu and
Muslim India was that they kept pigs and ate pork.
We
left Avrim's house and stayed at the easiest place for a night, the
beach. Unfortunately, the next day, Joe woke with a high fever. I got
rickshaw taxis and got him to the nearest doctor. Tropical fevers
should pass quickly, the doctor reassured us. Joe should rest and
drink plenty of liquids. I was in charge of finding a place.
Rather
than a hotel room, I looked for a weekly rental at the same price as
one hotel night. Joe sat in the shade while I looked at three
accommodations offered by locals. The most expensive one was a
separate house with a yard and a huge mango tree. Inside, furnishings
were included, a wardrobe, bedstead, table and chairs. The high
ceilings and shaded yard made the place seem airy and cool, but we
were on a strictly limited budget. The other two were half the price,
two dollars a week. Joe said to take the closest one, and we moved
in.
We
took a room in a small, four-roomed wooden house. Our new landlord,
an old man named Tony, promised to be helpful. He showed me where the
well was and sold me a bucket and a rope. We thought a week would be
plenty of time for Joe to recover. The beaches in Goa were nice, but
the water of the Arabian Sea was too warm to be refreshing. We were
tired of India and wanted to leave soon, perhaps for Australia.
I
wrote home. “The hippies all like it here because Indians don't try
to impose restrictions on them. Loose and easy. This means these
tourists are at ease and friendly which is nice. They do some strange
things like loincloths, Lots of men walk around almost naked. Men and
a few women swim nude. Public beach with lots of people around. And
of course, drugs, but we're staying away from that scene.”
We
expected to find friends, but the party atmosphere among our peers
was not to our liking, especially with Joe so sick. Discussions of
traveling in India were no longer interesting. I wrote home, “I do
my best not to give any advice because, as Gandalf says, 'advice is a
dangerous thing, even from the wise to the wise,' and Nash in
Marrakesh Express,
'Listen not to what's been said to you,' because everyone's trip is
different. I have quite stopped passing on any second hand
information, and telling my own experience, I try to tag on, 'Of
course it may be very different for you....'”
Joe
didn't recover after a week, so after a dismal Christmas, he went to
a hospital to be given a diagnosis of hepatitis. The treatment was
total bed rest for six weeks, I was still somewhat sick with chronic
dysentery, but now felt I must get better. I went to another doctor,
recommended by Av rim. His diagnosis of amoebic dysentery was based
on the length of my illness and cured with Flagyll. Now, I could take
care of Joe.
Diet
came first. The diseased liver is given a rest and not required to
handle oils or alcohol. The doctor recommended a high protein diet,
especially liver, and prescribed sugar pills. Our dietary ideas wore
in opposition to meat and sugar, but I filled a prescription for
glucose and levelose, a waste of money. The pills upset Joe's stomach
and he refused to take them. Instead, I did my best to cook
nutritious meals with plenty of grains and vegetables. The illness
went up and down.
One
day, Joe ran a fever again, so I sent to the nearest doctor. The
doctor made a house call, driving to our room on his motorcycle with
me on the back. He pronounced the fever
not important and charged a dollar. We just had to wait.
After
we settled in, the interval in Goa turned out to be not so bad.
Having the decision to stay taken out of our hands made it possible
to relax and enjoy what we could. Every morning, I did Yoga and then
went to draw water at a community well not far from the house. I
remember the scene vividly. Dressed in a long green skirt and
sleeveless yellow blouse I am alone, standing while my bucket fills.
The local women have already drawn their water and, in any case,
avoid me. The day is hot already though it is mid-winter and early in
the morning. The well is just a hole in the ground, lined with rock,
surrounded by packed earth and palm trees, and I feel healthy again,
doing useful work.
The
outhouse arrangement in Goa was bizarre. Here, a privacy fence
surrounded a small raised cement platform with steps on one side and
a slide on the other for the excrement. The pigs ran free and would
eat anything as soon as they found it. To keep the swine away until
we were finished, we would carry pebbles. One year, the story went,
the pigs all got hepatitis and had to be slaughtered.
Tropical
nights were not peaceful. Nocturnal creatures went their rounds, huge
cockroaches made clicking noises. If they woke me, I would try to
kill them and record my success. A rat lived in the thatching and
would come down to check for any improperly stored foodstuffs, He
lost his footing one night. I noted in the journal, “Rat fell on
Joe's head during the night. Joe didn't sleep well. I did.”
Another
night, a wedding nearby was incredibly noisy, so Joe decided to try
to make them stop, a mistake for which he paid when some of the young
men decided to take some of their aggression out on him. His letter
detailing the arc of sickness included a mention of that. “My
abdominal pain, mostly due to a beating I got, disappeared after a
few days.”
During
the day, we worked on macrame projects or read. The large foreign
population meant a number of English books were in circulation and
could be traded. Speak Memory by Vladimir Nabokov held
polished gems of experience, an inspiration.
In
a visit from Avrim we discussed money. Joe's trouble with American
Express was followed by other tales. Joe wrote home, “You just
would not believe the number of thefts and robberies and crimes
committed by both Indians and foreigners. Fortunately, I am in the
house 24 hours, so I keep watch. New Years Eve there were 22 houses
broken into around here!”
We
followed Avrim's lead and offered our macrame for sale to our fellow
Westerners. My wire hair clips covered with knotted string sold for
thirty cents apiece. Joe worked on commission, making a large bag for
a young German. He also sold the guitar, having tired of carrying it
hundreds of miles before, and with no energy for playing.
Food
and lodging were cheap, but medicine was expensive. I decided to get
the gamma globulin shot against hepatitis. I had to have it ordered,
prepay, and then go to the capital of Goa, Panjim, to have it
administered. While there, I took care of visa forms. We had been in
India three months already, hardly enjoying any of it.
After
three weeks of eating whole grains, vegetables and goats milk (less
fat), Joe decided he needed to get moving again. He said he would get
better faster by leaving and taking the train, second class, to
Madras where we could find a ship for Australia.
Chapter
XVI: MADRAS
To
leave Goa, we bought mid-range train tickets, no longer trying to
live the cheapest way. In Europe, we had loved the solid life of
peasants with traditions that keep them healthy and self-sufficient.
The way Indians deal with their bodily wastes may be called childlike
and innocent, but our psychologically repressive Western ways have
set up a healthier way of life. After three and a half months in
India, hepatitis and amoebic dysentery, we were longing for the
safety of a cleaner society. The train would take us quickly and
cheaply to Madras, the southernmost large city in India where we
hoped for a connection to Australia.
The
only drawback to our second-class seats was half-educated teenaged
Indian boys trying out their English on us. At one point, a line
formed to speak to Joe. “How are you? From which country do you
belong? What is your occupation? What is the purpose of your visit?”
The same questions were repeated as a speech with little regard to
the answer. Joe lasted longer than I ever could have. I retired to my
guise as a modest woman, pulling my scarf over my head, seldom
meeting an eye, embroidering a small cotton bag with pictures of the
exotic fruit it would carry or looking out the window at the changing
scene as we went through hills overlooking jungle and across endless
cultivated plains.
About
halfway to Madras, in the middle of the lower third of the Indian
sub-continent, we stopped in Bangalore to change trains. Instead of
taking the noon express to Madras, we would take a sleeper car.
Sleeping on a train should be more restful than chatting with silly
boys all day, and we could avoid the trouble and expense of a hotel.
Since crafts had been occupying much of our time, we visited the
bazaar for macrame string, silk rope at a penny a meter, and colored
glass beads strung on wire. We drank yogurt shakes, bought fruit, and
retired to the train station.
The
huge train station, an example of grandiose Victorian architecture
dominated the poor, dusty city. The center of the building opened
four stories high, with skylights for a roof. Here, a stroke of luck
gave me 25% off the regular ticket price, student rate in the state
of Mysore. In addition, our second class tickets would entitle us to
the use of the upper-class waiting room, a holdover from the British
Raj.
The
third class waiting room was part of the tumult of Indian life
filling the central chamber. Through the open door, a constant stream
of beggars and hawkers tried their luck. A businessman stretched out
for a nap on a wooden bench was nudged awake by a small boy selling
peanuts. We walked past and up the metal staircase to balconied halls
and into a room with a door that could be shut against the noise. The
upper-class waiting room was empty except for some antique polished
wooden wardrobes and comfortable chairs. The Victorian English for
whom it was built have departed. When traveling, upper-class Indians
surround themselves with servants, cushions, blankets and dinners.
Between trains, they must not feel the need we did, to escape the
crush of life surrounding them.
Next
door to the upper-class waiting room, the upper-class dining room was
similarly deserted. The menu was limited, seemingly left over from
the British Raj like the rest of the train station. The choice was
chicken, canned ham, or eggs. Our waiter understood nothing of our
inquiries as to how the eggs would be cooked, so we just ordered
them. Our meal arrived - plates of buttered white toast and perfectly
soft-boiled eggs in egg cups. I was charmed by the presentation and
found it delicious. My family didn't go in for soft boiled eggs, and
I never mastered the art. “This is wonderful,” I said to Joe.
“Let's get another one.”
“Go
ahead.” Joe doesn't much care for soft-boiled eggs.
“Don't
you want one too?” I asked.
“No,”
he said, cleaning his plate.
“I
guess I shouldn't then,” I said, disappointed.
“Go
ahead. Have another one.”
“Well,
I don't want to be greedy, and it is two and a half rupees. You'd
have to wait,” I objected.
“I
can wait. If you want it, get it.” He sat and waited while I ate my
second perfectly soft-boiled egg on toast. Observing the conventions
of the restaurant, he paid.
As
we left, he announced, “I'm going downstairs for some fried
noodles.”
“Do
you think you should?” I asked, referring to the dietary
restrictions for hepatitis: fried and oily foods wore forbidden while
the liver healed.
“It's
fine now,” he said shortly. I didn't argue. If I could have changed
his mind, he would have been sulky. He was hungry, he didn't like
soft-boiled eggs, and the fried noodles cost less.
We
boarded the train at eight o'clock, feeling quite at ease. The
sleeper car to Madras was empty except for us. Unfortunately, after
we had pulled away from the station, Indian bureaucracy, embodied in
the person of the train conductor, reared its head with another rule
to plague us. The berths in the empty car were only available at a
surcharge of six rupees. When we offered to pay the six rupees, the
conductor would not accept our money. He had to have a chit from the
ticket office. We were to stay in the upright chairs next to the
windows all night. The chairs were uncomfortable, so I slept on the
floor. Joe returned to a berth whenever the man left the car on his
other duties. I wonder if we could have offered to pay double in
order to sleep easy.
At
6:00 AM in Madras, we couldn't appreciate the train station, another
monument to Victorian architecture. The ornate metalwork wasn't
really out of place - India goes in for lots of decoration, but
somehow the heat outside made English architecture look strange,
surrounded by palm trees and rickshaws. Joe wasted a few hours filing
an official complaint about the sleeper car. By 11:00 AM it was too
hot to go far looking for lodging. Nearby, the Palace Hotel was clean
and cost 8 rupees (80 cents).
After
a rest, we went out to find food. Here in southern India, the milky
tea was made with a lot of spices. I could taste the ginger: in fact,
the spices were so strong that the tea tasted hot even after it was
cold. Ginger ale was similarly overdone, becoming torture to drink
instead of cool refreshment. The coconut became my source of cooling
beverage. Throughout the city, pushcarts full of coconuts were
attended by a man with a machete. One could choose a green coconut
and simply drink the rich milk, or, a slightly ripe coconut could
hold a thin layer of soft, sweet meat the consistency of pudding.
In
the marketplace, we found the more exotic fruits of south India.
Described as a fig/strawberry, looking like a kiwi fruit, the chikoo
scored high. At first, the vendors would give us free tastes, but
they soon came to know Joe as the one who bought chikoos by the
dozen. Pomegranates were in season, and another fruit we had met in
Spain, the custard apple, made an appearance. Fresh lichee nuts
reminded me of sweet grapefruit. For a finale, jackfruit came on
stage. The soft, thick yellow petals of fruit must be impossible to
transport, as I have never once seen them in North America,
where pale, tasteless versions of the rest are sold.
Once
settled in Madras, we began at once to look for the best way to
leave. Tourist information disclosed, to our surprise, that there
were no boats to Australia. We would have to go to Singapore second
class for over a hundred dollars to make such a connection. We were
done with India, but the tickets to Singapore would take all our
money. One more hope for this port would be to find free passage on a
freighter. Our Greek friends in Chios had often spoken of their
relatives working the ships as officers, so we went down to the
harbor to investigate.
A
guard at the harbor gate gave us a pass for the day, and we walked up
to the towering, massive white freighters. We walked past the Russian
freighter with incomprehensible writing on the bow, the longest of
all and perfectly silent. From the Polish ship, sailors whistled and
yelled and waved their arms to invite us on board. Though we shared
no language, they were hospitable and produced black currant juice
and chocolate. When they brought out a guitar, Joe played and we all
sang along, whiling away the hour on an empty ship in a guarded
harbor. By naming all the ports in the world, Joe found out their
destination was back in Europe. We wanted to continue east, so we bid
them farewell.
At
the Greek ships, Joe called out to the men in Greek. “Kalostes!
Isthe ine Chios?” On the first ship, the men yelled out that the
steward was from Chios, but he was busy cooking and couldn't talk.
The next ship, the Eurytan, had two Chios natives, both the first and
second mates. The friendly second mate said both Greek freighters
were awaiting sailing orders. He offered to see if he could get us a
free ride on the Eurytan and said we should come back next week.
We
were cheered by this visit to the harbor, feeling quite able to wait
for such a possibility. In the meantime, we had an acquaintance to
look up. At the home of a Norwegian macrobiotic in Spain, we had met
an Indian prince, and Joe had carried the man's card for 2,000 miles,
almost a year. When he pulled it out, we read “Raj Kumar Vish ...”
and remembered the man who had asked us to call him Vishy. He had
made extravagant claims for Indian cheeses, describing them as varied
and wonderful. We had actually found almost no cheese at all in
India, but perhaps Vishy had his own sources. A telephone call
resulted in an invitation to dinner at his home the next day.
In
the evening, we dressed in our best and took a rickshaw; otherwise we
never would have been able to find our way into that section of town
with empty streets and walled compounds. A servant met us at the door
and showed us into an empty parlor. After a few minutes, Vishy came
in the door and announced we would be eating with his wife and
daughters. He seemed uncomfortable, perhaps he thought we would
mention the reason he had been visiting Spain, a woman named Maria.
He hurried us right in to the table, giving the impression we were
late, though we had been on time.
Over
a meal of unpolished “red” rice and lightly steamed vegetables,
our host lectured didactically as to the correct manner of eating. He
inveighed against hot curries, directing his criticism at his wife.
He went on to advise strongly that we all chew each bite twenty
times. No animal products appeared at all, so our hopes of a good
cheese were dashed. The fruits were quite good, of course, but Vishy
found no pleasure in them. He praised only the mango, then out of
season. I ventured that the papaya was said to be good for the
digestion. “In the summer when mangos are ripe, we do not eat the
papaya at all,” he said.
My
gravest mistake was in asking for a glass of water. I had been
thirsting for cold pure water ever since Greece and all through this
hot country. I hoped this Raj Kumar, concerned with health, would
have good water. Unfortunately, Vishy had decided drinking water with
meals was one of the worst things one could do. He informed me in no
uncertain manner that it diluted the digestive juices. Perhaps he was
covering up for the fact that he had no good water. I tried to
recant, but, since I had asked, our host had a servant, equally
disdainful of the task, bring me a glass of lukewarm water. It tasted
no better than the water anywhere in that country. A small dish of
honey ended the meal, and we left as soon as possible.
We
walked back to the hotel, letting off the steam that had built up
from our frustration at sitting through such a meal. The connection
in Spain held a memory of better times, so it was depressing to have
it turn out badly.
The
next morning, another blow fell. I woke with symptoms of hepatitis. I
had been watching for yellow eyes and orange pee ever since Joe had
come down with his case six weeks before. I was tired, but not
overwhelmed, as Joe had been. I decided against seeing a doctor. All
the help Joe had been able to get was advice to rest and to watch the
diet. I didn't want to get a prescription for sugar pills or liver
pills. I also felt sure the gamma globulin shot I had gotten for
twenty dollars would do some good.
All
I really needed was reading material, and the American Consulate
actually had a lending library. Faced with enforced leisure, I read
Thomas Wolfe's The Web and the Rock without getting impatient.
The Autobiography of a Yogi was so full of accounts of
miracles that I decided it must be considered myth.
Gandhi's
Truth by Eric Erikson gave me a psychological explanation of the
Indian “baseline of truthfulness” within “a spacetime so filled
with visual and auditory occurrences that it is very difficult to
lift an episode out of the flux of events, a fact out of the stream
of feelings, a circumscribed relationship out of a fusion of multiple
reviewers.” Erikson goes on to say, “Westerners believe truth to
be the sum of what can be isolated and counted. It is what can be
logically accounted for, what can be proved to have happened, or what
you really mean at the moment you say it, while keeping it somehow
consistent with what you meant earlier or expect to say later.
Deviation from such truth makes you a liar, and I have heard it said
often enough that Indians, because truth means something different to
that, are habitual liars.” Gandhi himself tried for a fusion, “to
erect a bulwark based on radical factualness, obsessive punctuality
and absolute responsibility, all within a meaningful flux which he
called Truth.”
After
a week of rest and good food, I felt normal. Of course, “normal”
at the time was low. We were short of money and unhappy with the
society we had found in India. We had both been seriously ill. I
would be prone to stomach ailments for a full year after the amoebic
dysentery.
Meanwhile,
the Palace Hotel had been getting on our nerves. Our room on the
second floor shared a bathroom. Probably because of our proximity to
the railway station, the hotel catered to businessmen. In the
morning, they would clear their throats and spit for about five
minutes altogether. It seemed like a contest they held. Each in his
turn in the bathroom would try to go the deepest into his throat,
retching in order to bring up the phlegm. Somehow, the acoustics at
the Palace Hotel made the noises, unpleasant to wake up to,
impossible to ignore.
Of
course, we should have been used to spitting by now. Throughout
India, gobs of red spit on the ground attested to the betel nut
habit. The main attraction in chewing betel nut is a mentholated
numbing of the mouth, a counterpoint to the burning sensation of
chili pepper, but part of the pleasure must be the production of red
saliva. Even men dressed in immaculate white seemed unembarrassed by
the stains of red drool.
Joe
explored town and found a quieter hotel. As soon as I felt better, we
moved to the Shri Pankaja Lodge where we had a fan and more privacy
for 5 rupees. Our room opened to a walkway. To the right, the gate
went to the street, to the left, the gate to the outdoor bathroom, a
stone courtyard with a well, fenced off so the men could bathe in the
open dousing themselves with a bucket of cold water. I used a small
stone room like a shower stall. Around the corner was the outhouse. A
servant for the hotel, a young man named Hyatt Bashar, spoke English
and was both friendly and helpful.
Our
new neighborhood was like an Indian village with small colorful shops
lining the streets. On the corner, a fruit stand held hanging bunches
of bananas, red, yellow and green. Next door, open bins displayed
wheat berries, two kinds of dried beans and three colors of lentils.
The beans and lentils I had seen throughout India, but the wheat
berries especially interested me. I bought some to cook like rice,
and the shopkeeper pointed out a mill where I could get them ground
right across the street. Fresh flour seemed worthwhile. I could make
a loaf of bread to eat instead of those everlasting chapatis. I
bought a liter of wheat berries for ten cents and took them home to
sort out the small stones. Grinding cost a penny and a half. I had
the yeast for my dietary experiment. I thought of rigging up a dutch
oven, but our young friend, Hyatt Bashar, said the bakery would only
charge five cents. I achieved a loaf of delicious bread, all the
better for being the first loaf we had eaten for five months.
I
wondered about the small stones that always had to be picked out of
the foodstuffs, Sometimes, the threshing process can leave stones,
even in the United States, especially in beans. In India, stones are
added in to boost the weight, memorably a brown sugar adulterated
with fine gray gravel. Finding the residue at the bottom of my cup of
tea, I gave the sugar away to the next beggar.
Our
quiet neighborhood in Madras kept up the southern Indian tradition of
chalk designs on the front steps to decorate the early morning hours.
Traditionally, the designs were made with lines of flour to feed
small insects and birds, but these were made with chalk. I copied
some of the designs for my letters home.
At
certain hours, the corner lunchroom would serve dosas, a sourdough
rice pancake. Once, I brought in a jar of jam. Of course, everyone
noticed. We were on display constantly anyway and the wooden benches
offered no place to hide my luxury, a jam jar. Joe thought I
shouldn't have brought food into a restaurant, though they didn't
seem to mind. It was a lesson to me in conformity, managing my sweet
tooth, and that jam doesn't go very well with unbuttered dosas.
One
Saturday, we set out early to investigate the municipal pool, men
only, hours 9 to 3, set in a park next the ocean. Naturally, the
ocean was unsafe because of raw sewage. Since we had inadvertently
picked a weekend, all of the buses to the park were more than full.
We let two go by before a “Women Only” bus came by. There was
plenty of room, so I went on without Joe, taking my place among
colorful saris and long black hair, all oiled and braided with
flowers woven in.
At
the park, I waited for Joe's bus to pull in, so overfilled that men
were hanging onto the door handles. Joe paid his rupee and went into
the pool for a swim. I went down to the beach, but it was filthy and
hot. Across the street from the pool, the park was at least shady,
but full of people wanting to talk to me. I just wanted to read, but
an older man, a teacher, continued to ply me with questions and
invitations, always in the politest manner, except that he ignored my
only request, to be left alone.
Finally,
I gave up on the book and fielded questions while watching Joe swim
in the pool across the street. With my glasses on I could distinguish
his hairy form among the slighter, darker Indian bodies. Joe seemed
to be enjoying himself, but, when he came out, his report wasn't
good. The water was warm and the air still, so he didn't feel
refreshed. We had worried that the pool wouldn't be clean. He said
there was enough chlorine to kill a cat, but there was also a half
inch of hair oil floating on the top. He didn't think there was a
ladies day, but he also didn't think I would like it, nor would he go
back.
After
waiting ten days, Joe went back to the port to see if the officers on
the Greek ships had received sailing orders yet. The second mate on
the Eurytan, Michaelis, was optimistic. Their sailing orders had come
in and he expected to know them by the next day. He invited us to
join him at a restaurant the next evening, Monday. Our friend in the
hotel, Hyatt Bashar, was excited to hear that we would be going out
to dinner with a ship's officer. The restaurant, he informed us, was
one of the best in town. In honor of the occasion, Joe went to the
tailor in the marketplace to have a new shirt made. To be sure it was
done in two hours, as the tailor had promised, Joe waited in their
extra chair.
When
Monday evening came, Michaelis was there already, waiting politely,
dressed in his uniform. He agreed with Hyatt Bashar, but went
farther: this was the best restaurant in town, he said. And we should
not be worried at prices because this was his treat. Joe and I were
underdressed, but Michaelis didn't seem to mind. The maitre d' was
polite, and no one insisted Joe wear a tie. As Americans of our
generation, we were able to pretend everyone else was overdressed.
By
Indian standards, the food was expensive, but our vegetarian
specialties were the cheaper meals. Michaelis went all out, ordering
the sizzling lobster steak for $10.00. As we sat, the first mate
arrived with the captain. We looked around to
see the handsome young man we had met walking in with a short, fat
man with white hair and a red, lined face. “I'm lucky to be only
second mate,” said Michaelis. “Yiannis was going to join us, but
I guess the captain decided to keep him. Our captain is a bastard. He
still hasn't told us where we're going. Maybe he's telling Yiannis
now, but I wouldn't bet on it. The old man has been in a bad mood
lately. As usual.”
The
news was not good, but it didn't seem to matter much in the face of
the wonderful food. We spent the rest of the meal talking about
Greece. As we left the restaurant, we walked past the captain holding
forth while the first mate listened attentively. For dessert, we all
walked down the street for the best ice cream sundae in Madras, We
said our good-byes, and Michaelis told Joe to drop by the port in a
couple of days for the final word.
On
Wednesday, Port Authority provided another glitch, a rule that
strangers to the port could only visit once a week. Luckily, the
guard decided to be nice, and Joe went to visit the Eurytan for one
last time. The ship was going to Bangkok, the right direction, but we
were not invited to ride. The other Greek ship anchored nearby was
going back to Europe.
We
were back to two options. The boat to Singapore for one hundred
dollars, or try to save money by going the overland route through
Calcutta. From Calcutta, the cheapest transport was a plane to
Malaya. The eastern border of India, Burma, was closed. South of
Burma, Thailand took up a short distance before war-ridden Cambodia
and Vietnam. None of this seemed wise or enjoyable, and to cap it all
off, just north of Madras, one of the Indian states was fighting for
independence and tearing up railway tracks. To leave India as soon as
possible, we opted for the boat across the Bay of Bengal.
Money
was low, so Joe wired his parents for four hundred dollars. We hoped
this would take us to Australia where we had friends working. The
money came in record time, the next day, and we bought tickets for
the Rajula, sailing on February thirteenth.
The
night before we left, we celebrated by going out to the movies,
Rampur Ka Lakshman. Glossy posters outside the movie palace showed
that no expense had been spared in bringing this epic to the screen.
Lakshman was played by a man whose face graced the ubiquitous Indian
movie magazines. Inside the huge theater, hawkers brought food to
your seat. They must have been limited by having to pay the theater
concession. After a suitable time for everyone to have bought, the
lights dimmed.
Indian
movies wouldn't do as a steady diet. A realistic beginning showed
violence on a train erupting to wrench families apart. An immediate
cut to the future showed our hero grown to be a plump fellow
particularly good at wagging his head from side to side, a common
Indian gesture that looks foolish to a Westerner. His head seemed to
be on a special joint like a dashboard ornament. The heroine played
an undiscovered singer needing to be rescued from Bad Men, easily
recognized by their Western origin. Soon enough, our hero found his
true origin, heir to a fortune. All in all, a colorful, vivid show,
and easily understood, being almost entirely in English with
subtitles for the few words of Hindi.
In
the morning, we were ready to leave. Saying good-bye to Hyatt Bashar,
Joe presented him with a royal tip, ten rupees, more than he made in
a month. The young man was thrilled, and immediately ran out to buy
us a gift, sugary grape soda. We had to smile and drink while he
watched, in spite of personal preference and dietary rules we had
set. He had been a pleasant helper, always seeming genuinely happy to
be useful.
February
13 (lucky Tuesday) was our last day in India. We didn't know how they
would feed us on the boat so we filled our large string bag with
food, tinned ghee on the bottom, chikoos on the top. When we saw the
accommodations, we knew why we hadn't been allowed, as Westerners, to
buy third class tickets. Third class went below with a load of
onions, and we never saw them again. We set our belongings in our
second class cabins, women separated from men, and sat down to relax
on the deck chairs and watch India fall behind.
In
fact, we need not have brought any food. The Rajula was set up like a
cruise, serving five meals a day for the whole nine day voyage. At
6:00 AM, a waiter brought coffee and dried biscuits to the room.
Breakfast was porridge at 9:00 in the dining room. Lunch at noon was
served as a cold buffet. Tea and cookies came at 4:00. Supper at 7:00
was on the lines of chicken pie, tinned peas and bread pudding. A
chance to gain back the weight we had lost.
The
Rajula provided one shuffleboard court for daytime activity. As the
cabins were much too small, we did Yoga exercises on deck in the
evening. This was accepted as normal by our fellow second class
passengers, a California craftsman who had been buying beads, an
older Italian woman who had been visiting Sri Aurobindo's ashram
south of Madras, and a pleasant young Indian man who had gone to
school in England. The first class passengers included an English
family with two friendly children. In the afternoons, Joe and I did
our crafts. February 14 being Valentine's Day, I cut and painted a
few cards for fellow travelers away from home. The English children
were interested, and the Californian seemed quite touched and
presented me with a large bead. The ship's movie was “The Love
Machine”, edited for India, from a trashy book by Jacqueline
Susann.
Our
destination, Singapore, had laws against long hair on men. Joe hadn't
cut his hair for three years and only wanted to visit the city state
for as short a time as possible on the way to Australia, so he didn't
want to submit.
After
talking to a Sikh from first class, Joe decided a turban was the
answer. In fact, the man offered to give him one and to show how to
wrap it. I was detailed to come along and learn how to help. In the
first class stateroom, the man took out a length of thin maroon cloth
about two feet wide and six feet long. He and Joe each took two
corners and pulled opposite corners to stretch the material along the
bias of the fabric. The process seemed to iron the folds out of the
thin cloth. When it was smooth, they pulled straight along the length
and folded the cloth in half lengthwise, ready to wrap.
Joe
stood in front of the mirror with his ponytail tucked up, holding one
end at the nape of his neck with six inches hanging down. The Sikh
arranged the cloth carefully over his arm and began winding the
turban around Joe's head. The first fold crossed the left middle of
the forehead diagonally and continued over the right side of the
head. The folded cloth was pulled tight around the back of the neck,
over the tail, and continued to the left side of the head. The Sikh
positioned the second fold to mirror the first, pulling it down over
the right middle of the forehead. A neat peak formed in the middle of
Joe's forehead, surrounded by successive layers until the cloth was
used up, some eight folds on each side. The last layer was tucked in
at the nape of the neck while the tail came up the back, over the top
of the head and into the folds to form a smooth hat. The process took
a full half hour and looked great. The interweaving of the folds made
the turban strong enough to keep its form so Joe could take it off,
pack it carefully, and use it whenever needed. He kept it for six
months until it finally got dirty. Once I washed it, we never rewound
it.
After
seven days of calm steaming across the Bay of Bengal, the Rajula
stopped in the port of Penang to unload some of its cargo of onions.
When they opened the hold, the stench was enough to keep us on the
other side of the ship. We were looking forward to Singapore, a city
described as the cleanest in the Orient.
CHAPTER
XVII: SINGAPORE
In
order to enforce Singapore's law long hair on men, officials brought
a barber on board before the Rajula could dock. Joe had his neat Sikh
turban and was ready to swear by Guru Nadak that he was not to cut
his hair or beard. The officials looked at our luggage, stamped our
passports without comment, and went downstairs to third class.
We
disembarked wondering if it would be like a Chinese Bombay. But
Singapore had done everything possible to make itself clean and
modern. After India, we felt we had advanced a century in time. Dazed
from culture shock and dizzy from sea legs, we sat by the harbor and
looked around. Joe noticed a number of long haired men walking by, so
he took off his turban to show his neat pony-tail. Leaving the
harbor, we ended up riding a bus in a tropical downpour. People were
not as officiously helpful as in India, but when we asked, English
speakers directed us to a cheap hotel, $1.60 per night. We
dropped our luggage and went out to the bazaar district to sample the
local foodstuffs.
We
were as close to the equator as we would get, at two degrees north,
and the February day ended quickly. The rain had stopped, and night
fell as we wandered through the narrow streets of the busy
marketplace, brilliantly lit with bare electric bulbs strung
everywhere, over the streets and between the little shops and stalls.
An
open room under the corner of a building housed a restaurant selling
fried noodles. Out in front, the cook tended a huge wok set over hot
coals. The tantalizing odor of frying meat brought in a constant
stream of customers. We watched people come, choose their selection
of vegetables and meats and wait for their meal to be cooked before
their eyes. The cook poured in a generous amount of oil and added the
meats to sizzle before adding the cooked spaghetti noodles and
vegetables.
We
chose a vegetable and noodle dish that was delicious until Joe
started to wonder what type of fat the man used. Probably rendered
lard, he decided, and suddenly the meal seemed heavy. Was the grease
thicker than vegetable oil? We hadn't eaten meat for two years and
wondered if the change might affect our systems. These were not
spiritual or religious qualms: Joe has more of a physical horror of
the thought of eating a fellow mammal, while I took on vegetarianism
as a discipline and a healthier way of eating. Without any proof that
we had been eating pig fat, we decided to
ignore our doubts.
The
next day, visiting the post office, we saw the first evidence of
Singapore's policy against long haired males. On the wall above the
counter where we would be waited on, a huge sign declared, “LONG
HAIRED MALES WILL BE SERVED LAST”. Under the statement were
drawings of exactly what long hair was. The first drawing showed a
young Chinese man with hair over his eyebrows, the second showed a
side view with the tops of the ears covered, and the third showed the
back of a head with hair coming over the collar. All the hairstyles
were very neat. Joe left me to do the mail and went out to look for a
map of the city.
Back
to our hotel by noon, we found a lunchcart in the little park across
the street. As big as a hot dog wagon, it held glass tanks filled
with what we thought were soybean products in water lined three sides
of the cart: cakes of tofu, soft, medium or firm, and beanstarch
noodles in various shapes, but the vendor spoke no English, so we had
to guess. In the center of the cart, a mixing area held raw chopped
onion and another container of something fried. We reasoned it had to
be tofu, so we bought a bowl of noodles with onion and the fried
item. The noodles were tasteless, even textureless. The onion was
hot, and the fried something tasted just like chicken skin, Joe said.
My family never ate the chicken skin, so I couldn't say. Probably it
was some sort of thin tofu, fried in chicken fat, eroding our
standards of vegetarianism again.
Having
gotten the mail, the next order of business concerned plans to move
on. Money was running low. Australia was supposed to be a good place
to find a job. Our friends had found plenty of work there the year
before, so we went to the Australian Embassy for visas. Since Joe was
officially in Singapore in a turban, he decided to wear it.
Australia
kept a suite of offices in an official building downtown. Our
applications for the only visas available, for six weeks, were
immediately refused. Americans like us were only allowed in if they
had enough money to get home. Our penniless friend had been allowed
in Australia because he was Canadian. The first man we spoke to
explained that unemployment had just risen to 4%. Joe argued that we
were not planning to take the choice white collar jobs or to apply
for unemployment, but the policy held. We had to have enough money to
support ourselves and to return home.
After
we left the embassy, Joe felt we were being discriminated against, so
he sent me back in alone to see if they would let just me into
Australia. They seemed willing to discuss that possibility. I wasn't
really interested, but I listened for a while. Traveling alone, I
could have gotten a visa more easily. When I reported back to Joe, he
was furious and went in to tell them off. He came out just as angry
as he had gone in.
I
felt a bit lost at such a momentous change of plans and just wanted
to sit in the park opposite the hotel and digest the news, but once
we got back, Joe couldn't sit still and left to walk his anger away.
After a couple of hours which I spent writing, he was back with a
sleek head. The shoulder length hair was gone, only about a half inch
remained near the neck. “It's too short, I know,” Joe said.
“Yeah,”
I agreed, completely surprised.
“But
I couldn't talk to the barber. He didn't speak English. I walked, and
I walked, and when I got down by the harbor I saw this old Chinese
barber, so I went in.”
“But
when did you decide to cut your hair?”
“I've
been thinking about it. Are you going to leave me now?”
“No.
But it is too short.”
“It
was only fifty cents. You know what my last haircut cost?”
“Five
years ago, you mean? Didn't they just go up to two fifty?”
“Make
that four dollars.”
“But
it shouldn't be that short.”
“It
lasts longer this way. I'm lucky it's even. The barber's hands were
shaking so badly, I almost left halfway through. He gave me Playboy
to read so I wouldn't notice how much he needed his opium fix. I just
sat very still.”
“Are
you going to trim your beard too?”
“Yeah,
but I can do that. Where are your scissors?”
So
I watched him trim his beard, staring at the newly revealed shape of
his head. He didn't want to talk about why he'd done it. I waited
until we saw the other Westerners in the hotel and let them ask him.
He said that long hair wasn't worth all the bother it had become.
With
Australia off the table, our fellow travelers could only suggest
Japan. After a $200 flight, we might get jobs teaching English, but
Japan was an expensive country. We could go to London for the same
price on a charter, and from London, get to New York for only $79.
Tired of hassling with money, we bought two tickets for London on the
cheap charter in two weeks, March 11.
We
had only $100 left, so I telegraphed my parents asking for $200,
saying I would be coming home. Meanwhile, Joe was still wondering
about the money he had lost in India. American Express owed him a
refund of $700. In fact, he even wondered if the $400 he had received
at the Bank of India in Madras had been a partial refund. It had come
with no cover letter only two days after he had asked his parents to
send it.
At
the plush offices of American Express in downtown Singapore, Joe was
ushered into a private, carpeted room to tell his story and then wait
while the agent left the room to make some calls to find out about
this refund. The man returned saying American Express, Delhi, said
that the refund had been a mistake. Joe should give back the money.
This Joe was not going to do. He telegraphed his father, and got an
answer right away. “I sent the money. Do not give American Express
$400.”
Now
we had two weeks left of our grand tour, two weeks in Singapore,
duty-free port, buying capital of Indonesia, with no money. Of
course, we had found the cheapest hotel possible, in the Indian
section of town. Our unpainted wood room had a high ceiling but only
one window, above the door to the hall. We didn't spend much time in
it. Singapore is clean, by government decree, so the cheap little
restaurants in the open air were pleasant. We could make a meal of
tropical fruit, sitting in the little park across the street.
As
it sank in that we would really be going back, we talked about what
to do when we got there, deciding it would be easier all around to
get married. The people we had liked best on our travels had been
married. We had been living as a couple for two years now and were
cautiously confident we wouldn't break up, certain a break-up would
hurt. It seemed natural. My mother was to be most disappointed at my
lack of romantic notions.
The
fellow travelers in the hotel had some advice on how to live in
Singapore. The young American woman in the next room, Ursula, advised
me to join her at Pang's Escort Service. Ursula got $8.00 to be
entertained and taken to dinner, and she said she had no trouble with
her dates. Joe asked me if I could handle it, and I felt sure I
could. I can easily assume a distant air that, coupled with my
height, seems to turn men away. It certainly seemed better than
working a clip joint, the job foreign girls could get in the Canary
Islands, drinking for a percentage of the bar's profit on overpriced,
watered “champagne cocktails”. I had to buy an outfit, but Ursula
told me about a place where I spent only $6.00 on a dress. I also
needed make-up, she said, which I could get cheaply at the bazaar.
She took me to Pang's Monday afternoon. Pang was a very short Chinese
man, somewhat misshapen, with dark black hair and a wrinkled frowning
face. He said I could come with Ursula, to be there at about 7:00.
Monday
evening we all sat in a row of metal and plastic chairs. The Chinese
girls sat together quietly. The Malayan girls chatted and giggled.
Ursula and an English woman named Edwina told me not to worry.
Everything would be fine. They never had any trouble. The men always
acted like gentlemen. My first trouble was in getting a date at all.
Ursula was gone by 7:15. Edwina went next. The Chinese girls all went
out. I was left sitting with a few Malayan girls. At 9:00, I asked
Pang if I should go home, but he said to wait. At 10:00 a Malaysian
tire company owner came in and chose me to go out for drinks. I
hadn't eaten much before coming in, but I was not going to get dinner
at that hour. I don't remember the man, I hope he was satisfied with
his English lesson and being seen with a tall American woman. Tuesday
I went by the agency at noon and collected my $8.00. Tuesday night
was really dead. When not even the Chinese girls had gone out at
10:00, Pang gave me $4.00 and sent me home.
Joe
and I visited with Ursula Wednesday. Hearing about Pang's consolation
prize, she exclaimed about what a sweet guy he was. I had noticed
that Pang liked this short, pretty woman. His face softened when he
talked to her. She was the perfect date, the right size and
personality, loving to meet people and to talk. She told me not to be
discouraged. Some nights were just like that. We sat in her room
while she went on with stories about dates. A young American she had
met at the local opium den came by and listened too. She regaled us
with a tale of how she had once gone on a date stoned on opium. She
claimed to have been quite aware and to have talked normally, but
with her eyes closed the whole time. The date had been with two sweet
young American boys, and they had not seemed to mind.
Wednesday
night, my journal records a date with an Indonesian government
official and his guide. Only the guide spoke English, He took my part
to explain to the man what I might be expected to do. As I recall,
the date was very short.
Thursday's
date was fun. Once again I waited until 10:00 when Mr. Alex Lee
brought two young friends, a Chinese and an Australian, to the
agency, and they took a Malaysian girl and me. Mr. Lee was efficient.
The taxi was waiting, and we all piled in. I was in front with Mr.
Lee, and the Malaysian girl was in back with the younger men. At the
Shangri-La Hotel nightclub, we took a table not far from the dance
floor.
The
Australian was extravagantly interested in the pretty Malaysian girl,
plying her with a drink and then taking her off to the dance floor.
The tall Chinese boy was really only interested in drinking. I asked
Mr. Lee where he had learned his very good English and found he had
an English grandfather. He called himself Eurasian, a mixed breed, at
home with neither culture. He had a company in Kuala Lanpur, the
capital of Malaysia, importing art materials. He asked about my
travels, and, when I praised Singapore, gave his criticism of its
stultifying government.
Mr.
Lee must have noticed I was listening to the music and watching the
dancers, and he apologized for not dancing. When the Australian took
a break from dancing with the Malaysian girl, he suggested the man
take me on the floor.
We
were neither of us trained dancers, but he took me in dance position
and rocked back and forth. His idea of conversation was to try out a
few set lines, delivered quickly. “I thought we'd never get
together. We 're the two Westerners here. We could really get along.
I'm glad I'm tall enough.” I smiled at the mention of the height
that had been giving me a few problems getting dates. “Hey, that's
good. You're very pretty when you smile. You should do it more
often.” I didn't know what to say. I've never been a flirt. I knew
he liked the Malaysian girl better.
“The
other girl smiles a lot,” I said. He was embarrassed by my
forthrightness, but at least he quit feeding me lines. Instead of
looking at his red, pitted face, I looked over his shoulder at the
band until the song was over and the charade could end. We were both
relieved as he escorted me back.
When
the dancing was over for the night, the Chinese boy had disappeared
and our Australian was sure he had a lady love. He looked lost when
his girl hailed her own cab and bid him good-bye, her face serious
for the first time that night. Mr. Lee had asked me to join them in
his taxi, so I listened as he reasoned with his young friend. “You
know I told you so. Remember I told you not to choose a Malay girl.
They are just flirts. They will never be serious. They will just
smile and laugh. Anyway, you shouldn't expect anything from an escort
service. But luckily, you are with me. I will take care of you.”
Mr.
Lee made a phone call while I sat in the taxi with the chastened
Australian. Then we drove off to the suburbs to a quiet looking house
and let him off. “Now,” said Mr. Lee, “Perhaps you will
accompany me to a late meal as part at your evening's duties.” I
agreed readily. “Perhaps something near your hotel. Where do you
stay?” I told him the street, and we were on our way. Driving
along, thinking about the evening, I began to wonder about the quiet
house in the suburbs.
“What
was that place you took Jim to?” I asked.
“They
will take good care of him there,” Mr. Lee said mysteriously.
“Is
it a massage place? He seemed awfully tense,” I said.
“I'm
sure they will include massage if he asks for it. But, no. Since you
ask, it is a house of prostitution.”
“Oh.”
I was surprised and disappointed. “That's not nice.”
“Why
do you say that? It was the nicest thing I could do for him.”
“A
prostitute was the nicest thing you could do for him? That isn't what
he needs. A man needs a relationship. He needs more than just to pay
for sex.”
“Well,
in principle you're right,” Mr. Lee agreed. “But this man had
worked himself into such a state. He had been off in the Australian
bush country mining for months. He was feeling his time away from
women was so intolerable, he couldn't function normally. You danced
with him. What did you think?”
“He
was pretty awful. He didn't talk. He just fed me some lines.”
“You
didn't like him. These women don't have to like him. They will take
care of him, and maybe he will see straight tomorrow.”
I
still disapproved, but held my peace and said, “Maybe you're right.
It's too late to do anything anyway.”
When
we arrived at my street, Mr. Lee seemed quite at home in this modest
neighborhood. I would have thought all the restaurants would be
closed at this hour, but he went right to an unobtrusive door that
opened into a courtyard where the Chinese rice soup, congee, was
served.
When
I admitted I had never tried congee, Mr. Lee was surprised. “This
is the national dish of these Chinese. You should eat some of this
rice gruel as part of your tour.”
“Rice
gruel doesn't sound too appealing. Why don't you call it rice stew? I
never tried it because most of the things to mix in are meat. I don't
eat meat.”
“You
don't eat meat? We will find you something suitable.” He spoke to
the old man behind the long pane of glass that separated us from the
condiments, and we watched the choices deftly spooned onto our bowls
of rice stew.
“Were
you in India?” he asked.
“India.”
I let my shoulders slump and put the weight of my despair with that
country show in the word.
“India
was not to your liking? Certainly there are many vegetarians in
India.” We took our bowls and moved towards a table.
“Singapore
is a lot better for me,” I said. “It's clean.”
“Singapore
is very clean. It is government policy. They are very restrictive. I
like Kuala Lumpur better. Have you visited Kuala Lumpur?”
“No,
I came on a boat straight from Madras.”
“Have
you been traveling alone?”
“Well,
to tell the truth ...” I looked at him realizing it would be a lot
easier to talk if I could say 'we'. Most of my decisions were not
made alone. “I'm traveling with a man. We've been together for two
years now.”
“Traveling
the whole time?”
“Traveling
for a year and a half. Now we've run out of money, and Australia
won't let us in. We had hoped to work.”
“You're
not married to this man?” I was impatient with this question, I
would have said so if we were. I had said so many times to less
sophisticated people around the world. Nevertheless, I answered
politely. “We have a good relationship. We were too young, and we
weren't ready for marriage.” I paused. “But things are changing.
We might be getting married.”
“So.
Now you've been together for some time. Maybe you're engaged. How
does he feel about your going out on dates?”
“We
need the money, and he trusts me.”
“Is
he right to trust you?”
“Oh,
yes.” There was no doubt in my answer, no smile on my face. I
looked down, and there was a little silence while we sampled our late
meal. Mr. Lee had managed to get a lovely selection of crunchy
vegetables mixed with the thick, salty rice stew, making a perfect
meal for the late hour. Then Mr. Lee continued. “You're a nice
girl, and Australia should let you in.”
I
looked up. “Australia would let me in, but not him.”
“Does
he have long hair?”
“He
did. He's just cut it. He had put on a turban for the Australian
Embassy.”
“I
expect that didn't help.” We laughed. “As a salesman, I have a
lot of connections with Australia. Maybe I could help you. This is my
card. You should come to Kuala Lumpur. It is lovely. Look me up, and
I'll see what I can do.”
I
was pleased with the offer, took the card and thanked him. Our meal
over, we walked the short distance to the hotel and said our
good-byes. Joe was asleep and didn't wake to hear the news. In the
morning, I slept late, but found him having tea in the park across
the street.
“I
had a fun date. Look.” I handed him Mr. Lee's card. “He's nice
and says he can get you into Australia maybe.”
“Maybe?
What maybe? I wouldn't go to fucking Australia.”
“You
wouldn't go to fucking Australia? Why not?”
“Fuck
it. Australians are assholes.” That shut me up. Maybe he was a
little upset with me for going on dates after all. The Australian
Embassy had been stuffy, but the country was probably fine. If he
hadn't lost his money, we might have gotten visas. We had planned for
a long time to go to Australia. However, if he didn't want to travel
any more, that was fine with me. I'd seen enough of the world for a
while.
He
sat for a while in silence until I said, “Okay, no Australia. But
do you still think I should go on dates?”
“Sure,
go on dates. I'm not mad at you. But I don't think this card is much
of anything. The address is Kuala Lumpur.”
“He
said I would love Kuala Lumpur.”
“Just
forget it.”
That
evening, Joe felt ill and took to bed. I went off with Ursula. As
were waiting at Pang's, the tall Chinese boy from Mr. Lee's party
came in and motioned to me. He didn't talk to Pang, but I thought
maybe Mr. Lee had arranged something, so I followed him outside. The
young man took my hand to walk me across the empty street.
“Where
are we going?” I asked.
“Come
on,” he smiled at me.
“Where's
Mr. Lee?”
“No
Mr. Lee. Come on.”
“Where
are you taking me?”
“Come
on,” he urged.
“No.”
Halfway into the empty street, I freed my hand and asked, “Are you
going to pay?”
“No
pay. Come on.”
I
realized now he was drunk. He seemed pretty sure of himself, probably
because he was as tall as me. “I'm not coming,” I told him. “If
you want a date, you can see Mr. Pang”. I turned to see Pang
watching from the doorway. I walked back. My non-date left, and Pang
told me I was a good girl.
A
little later, Pang got a phone call. It seemed the customer didn't
want to come into the agency, and he asked Pang to just send someone
to his hotel. Pang looked doubtful, but I guess he decided I could
handle it. Pang put me into a taxi, and I went off. I thought I would
be met in the lobby, at least, but I was sent up. I left the door
open, standing just inside to announce, “I'm from Pang's Escort
Service.”
Looking
up from the desk, the young man was startled into saying. “I didn't
know you would be so tall.”
I
sat down in a chair by the open door. “If you didn't want a tall
Western girl, you should have gone in to choose for yourself.” I
sighed. “You could have asked for a Malaysian or a Chinese. They're
all short.”
“I
have dates with Malay and Chinese girls all the time. I don't need an
escort service for that.”
“Well
... There are a few short Western girls, but they are very popular.
They're probably gone by now. You really should have gone in.” I
didn't know what to suggest.
“That's
all right.” He had recovered from his shock. “You're fine. I like
you. We won't go dancing. What do you like to do? What's your name?”
“I'm
Ellen. I'd like to go out to eat. How about pizza?”
“My
name is David. I don't know about pizza. What is it?”
“It's
Italian bread with tomatoes and cheese. Americans love it. If you
want a typical American date, we should have pizza. And Coke.”
“I
know Coke,” said David. So we looked up in the Yellow Pages where
the pizza places were and had a quiet evening. He wondered why I
didn't wear make-up. But I was. I pointed out the eyeliner, and told
him I worked very hard to keep the make-up from showing. Singapore
style is much more painted, but I had to enjoy looking at my face,
too. I told him the natural look was the fashion in the United
States. By the end of the evening. I had invited him to visit us in
the USA, and given him an address, but I never heard from him.
The
climate of the city changed quickly when the enormous nuclear powered
Navy aircraft carrier, the Enterprise, docked for a week of “R and
R”. Sailor boys on leave crowded all the shops. My date was with
two navy men, nice boys who had joined up because there wasn't
anything else to do in their small towns in Minnesota. At the
nightclub, I was amazed that suddenly the dance floor was full of
beautiful young black women. I couldn't understand it. My next date,
a black officer from the ship, was able to explain it easily. Those
were men from the ship.
I
wrote home. “Until our charter flight leaves, I have a job. Just
talking to men in nightclubs. Western girls are very popular. I make
eight dollars a night, but Singapore is expensive (cheap for an
international city), and I had to buy some clothes, so working eight
days, I've only saved $40. It's easy work, but bad hours: 8:00 to
1:00. I discover how much shyness I've lost in a year and a half.
It's easy to make conversation. Don't worry. I don't drink. Believe
me this isn't the first job I would have picked, but it's the only
one available. I'm happy to be making money after all this time. A
huge American aircraft carrier, biggest ship in the world, the
nuclear Enterprise, just came into town for a week. These sailor boys
are rich, lonely and very unsophisticated. They are easy to talk to
for my job, and half of them don't drink either, but they are a bit
boring. My last date fell in love with me.”
Sandy-haired
John was the tallest but most insecure of a group of navy men who
came in and swept away all the English-speaking girls. John's buddy
drew me aside to tell me they were worried about him. The boy was
depressed. I was nice to him and listened to his troubles. The ship
was so huge; he worked below decks and never saw the sunshine;
nothing was interesting, and he wanted to go home to Mississippi. We
all had dinner in a restaurant's private dining room, and then sat
around with drinks. As the evening wore on, the guys made plans for
their next day off. They were going to rent rooms in the biggest
hotel in town on Thursday, and spend the day at
the pool. We girls were invited. I promised to go.
I
took Wednesday night off, and when Thursday came, I kept my promise.
John was still depressed. He cheered up a bit in the brilliant
sunshine on the roof of the hotel. I took a short dip in the crowded
pool, and then we had drinks poolside. When it was time to go, John
showed me a room to change in and made a clumsy pass which I turned
down. Then he complained about my going to work. “I shouldn't have
to pay to take you out,” he said.
“Look,”
I said. “You haven't. Here I am. But I'm short of money, and escort
service is the only job I can get. You don't have to take me out.”
He backed down. “Oh, all right, I'll get you tomorrow night, and we
can go to a movie.”
Pang must have been pleased with
me when John showed up to take me out for “The Poseidon Adventure”.
I let him hold my hand. This empty charade was not my style, so I
told him I was leaving town, but would write. We exchanged addresses,
and I kissed him good-bye. I wrote to him for a while, finally
saying I was engaged. I offered to continue the correspondence, but
never heard from him again. I never went back to be an escort again
either. I also stopped writing in the journal. We would leave in two
more days. Somehow, knowing we were going back made the record less
important. Also, the book was filled. The 1973 entries would have
overlapped with the previous year on Gran Canaria.
The
day before we left, we took a harbor boat trip out to a tiny empty
sandy island for a picnic lunch. We didn't go so far that we couldn't
see the huge oil refineries, but the water was as clean and clear as
we could wish. Diving with a mask, we could see exotic fish that
brighten aquariums flashing about like flowers blooming unseen -
except that the fish see each other, just as insects see the flowers,
the colors broadcasting clear messages.
After
a morning in the market, we had more than enough to think about
carrying. I bought batik sarongs and t-shirts, export quality,
unique, of a style I have never seen again. Joe found the right price
for a guitar and a cassette recorder from Japan. We boarded our
plane in the tropical night of March 11. The flight to London was
broken by a midnight fuel stop in Bahrain. We got off to stretch our
legs in an empty desert station with an incredibly expensive snack
bar patronized by a few men in turbans.
I
can't recommend England in early March. We went from sweltering heat
to a definite chill, starting with immigration. The English officials
wanted to know our plans and were not thrilled to hear we were
planning to take the $79 flight to New York, saying it was illegal,
but explaining no more. And we had only one hundred dollars apiece,
plus a few trade goods. They were doubtful what to do with us.
Meanwhile,
I was freezing in my sleeveless traveling dress, so I excused myself
and changed in the Ladies. New Singapore-tailored black pants, a
clean blouse and a little make-up may have helped decide our fate. I
certainly felt more able to face England. It may be, as Joe said,
that they had been giving us a hard time on principle. Finally,
rather than make a scene, they gave us seven day visas.
We
had two addresses in England. One was the office of Bit Information,
publisher of a traveler's newsletter, helpful hints about the
overland route to India. We figured we could exchange hints about how
to get along in Singapore for hints on how to get along in London. We
were pleasantly surprised to find they kept a free dormitory, a room
with cots. We could only stay one night - their rule kept the place
from being overrun. In fact, we had the place to ourselves.
The
people writing Bit Information were able to send us to the travel
agent for the $79 flight to New York, a tiny office up a long flight
of stairs. The travel agent explained why it was illegal and how it
worked: our tickets were made out to an imaginary airline, but a
company with empty seats would accept the transfer. We booked tickets
as early as possible, Thursday, and had two more nights to provide
for in England. London is not a cheap city, so we went off to visit
our friend in Oxford. He was good for a night's shelter and an
evening of hilarity.
Then
we were eligible to stay at Bit Information again. This time we had
company. A young Scottish couple who were
eloping and some street people shared the quarters. They noisily
examined the dinner donated by a vegetarian restaurant and rejected
it in favor of Heinz beans from a can.
We
left Thursday morning for an open air market where the Hare Krishna
people were to hold a street festival. The market was depressing
because I couldn't buy anything. When the Hare Krishna group arrived,
we recognized one of the saffron-robed devotees. Fred, whom we had
met on the Black Sea and again in Vrindaban, was back from India and
greeted us as old friends, friends who had been favored with a sight
of the guru. Fred had gotten sick in India and had had to come home.
We
followed the chanting crowd to a grassy underpass for free food:
gooey Indian sweets, fried dough in syrup. By three o'clock, we were
ready to go to the airport. We would be five hours early, but our
luggage was weighing us down. Our flight was Air India, an almost
empty 747 jumbo jet with the windows decorated by painted frames
resembling the Taj Mahal. A different era, regulations allowed us the
run of the plane, a tour of the cockpit and packets of cashews from
first class.
In
Kennedy Airport, we saw more people of African descent than we had in
our eighteen months of travel. Customs looked at everything and let
us in. A bus home took our last $40. I was astounded at the size of
the highway and trucks. Everything seemed twice as big as it needed
to be, except, at the end, my childhood home which was twice as
beautiful as I remembered. Ready to relax at last, we settled
into plans for our wedding.