Sketching a Twisty Path on the Globe

I walked through the woods for 5 hours yesterday.  Using my hiking guide to wave away heat, bugs, spiderwebs that wanted to stick to my sweaty skin.  Mt. Magazine—the highest point in Arkansas at 2,753 feet—on a hazy day wasn’t stunning, spectacular, or breath-grabbing.  But, what it was, is pleasant.  A very pleasant chance to “just sweat and enjoy the small stuff.”  So I walked for 5 hours through the woods.  I took 97 pictures, most of purple flowers and butterflies that colored the forest floor of Mossback Ridge.  I stepped through thoughts about now about then about later, then left them behind.  I made regular cursory checks for ticks as I somehow had a belief that they were a condition for hiking here.  (My thoughts included how to remove it if I did find one:  do you really have to burn it out like insisted when my cousin had one lodged on her rear cheek, or can you just “make it drunk” like my Elementary School principal did when we found one on my 4^th grade leg.)  I remembered, well, the only memory I have of our family vacation in Arkansas when I was 8—sitting in the campsite with my sister, holding our hands over our faces to keep bugs from flying into our noses and mouths when we breathed.  I remembered this less than 20 paces into my hike when I noticed my grey musical orbit.  I turned back to the car for my one and only Off! wipe and then restarted with a superhero protection bubble (which lasted another 20 paces until the sweat dissolved it). 

I thought about my patients.  Maybe partly because only for them would this hike truly qualify as “Moderate to Strenuous.”  But also because they are the stunning and spectacular parts of being here.  I didn’t actually come to Arkansas for the outdoor life (especially since “97, feels like 100” isn’t my preferred temperature).  I came strictly for money.  But, since the two nickels I played at the casino didn’t pan out, and my paychecks so far have gone in different directions from my bank account, maybe I’d better shift my attention to other reasons for being here.  Learning how to live with less, much less.  Continuing education that being the most unusual thing around isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Learning how to cook for a potluck (cheese, ground meat, deep fried, ideally all of the above). And learning a whole new language. 

Quotes of the week:
“I cain’t forgit to wash ma straddle!”  (said by a patient in the shower)
“There ain’t enough room in here to cuss a cat!”   (unstated but understood:   “…without getting a mouthful of hair”)
“Why, you’re as handy as a pocket on ma shirt!” 
“I’m gonna make like a baby and git out of this mother!”  (said by exiting coworker)

After several minutes thumbing dumbly through the Green Discovery notebook, the man behind the desk stands up and goes to a map on the wall. “You can do this,” he suggests and points out a two day trip—one day trekking and village homestay, one day kayaking. And, so was born our “Special Tour.”

Yesterday—joined by a Scottish and a Kiwi woman and our big-smiled guide Yai—we hiked 16 km through bamboo and banana jungle, corn and rice fields, Kmu and Hmong villages. At the end of day we landed in our “host” village in the Pak Ou District and were instructed where we could “swim” in the cold river (guess they didn’t want stinky bedding). That night after dinner, the TV karaoke goes on, the decorative little table comes out, villagers pour in, and soon our very own “Bassi Ceremony” begins. In a seldom-translated blur we are each swathed in a colored scarf and the local Laos begin to tie white strings on our wrists while murmuring (which we later learned to be well-wishes for travel and safety). A bottle of Lao whiskey is brought out and soon the shot glass is circled. The Western “falang” can’t keep up and soon drop out to leave the heartier Lao men and women to nearly finish the bottle. Probably disappointed that we didn’t get drunk enough to do foolish, entertaining things, the group disperses and, before 9pm, we are told “you can sleep now.”

Giggling like little slumber party girls, we huddle under our mosquito net in the neat little row of colored blankets. Soon our guide comes upstairs to tell us: “You make much noise. You are sleeping.” Hint taken, we eventually fall asleep. Seems like only a few hours passed before the village completely erupted in auditory caucophony: roosters playing “Marco Polo” from all sides, a corn grinder, children playing, and some unidentifiable pounding. My watch confirmed that it wasn’t quite 5:30am. No wonder Yai didn’t answer when we asked if he’d wake us up.

We later met up with some others at the river for Day 2 Adventure: river kayaking in inflatable boats. We were issued life jackets, helmets, and a brief safety lesson. A very pleasant float actually, with fun, but manageable rapids (from Class .25 to 2). After reaching the end we were taken to another village to observe the Hmong New Year Festival—aka “Hmong Speed Dating“. Although some details were likely lost in translation, what we were basically told is that eligible young (15-30 year old) Hmong girls and boys come together yearly for some organized flirting. The girls are dressed in colorful hats, heels, tassles, pleats. The boys were mostly in jeans. Either side could initiate “the contact” by tossing a ball at someone who caught their eye. We saw lines of girls and boys tossing everything from hackeysacks to tennis balls back and forth, occasionally making eye contact, rarely speaking. Our guide (with a straight face) told us if the girl drops the ball, she has to remove a piece of clothing to give to the guy….strip catch?? Afterward, if sparks flew as well, a young couple may go elsewhere to talk and “maybe a year later get married.” Seems much simpler than all our hoops, doesn’t it? ; )

Tomorrow–back up to northern Laos to get ready for The Gibbon Experience!!