I grew tired of cynical people long ago, when I was around two years old in fact. By that meek and tender age, I had already discovered that cynicism is among one of the most horrible temperaments that a person can possess. Cynics sit on an unusual kind of seat which is wobbly with doubts, but unto which their backsides are firmly planted, never rising to venture into any of the wondrous places within the human heart. I do feel sorry for such people however, knowing that unless they change their ways, they will never be able to experience the joy of embracing anything in its entirety.
When I informed my school careers advisor that there were three things that I would like to do in this lifetime, she wasn’t impressed with my choices. I would like to travel to Mongolia, I told her, I would like to become a nun, and I would like to find God. “Do you believe in God?” I asked her.
“I’m not sure,” she said, “but I don’t think you should joke like that about your future.”
“I’m deadly serious,” I told her.
“Apologies if I sound somewhat cynical,” the careers advisor said sarcastically, “but travelling to Mongolia, becoming a nun and finding God are not concrete career paths. Becoming a nun is not economically viable these days. You are a smart girl, and It would be sad if you didn’t utilise your intelligence to find a real job.” She was also serious, but did not possess enough spirit within her wrinkled heart to be as deadly serious as I.
Ignoring her advice, I booked a flight to Mongolia, departing the day after I completed my exams. I found a placement working with children. The woman who ran the children’s home where I worked was a nun of her own style. I didn’t entertain much attraction towards most of the other nuns that I met; they seemed as cynical as my careers advisor. This nun, however, dressed in saffron robes and told me that she didn’t belong to any religion. She was a nun of spirituality, with scriptures that held no borders, like Mongolia’s fenceless countryside.
“Can I join your club?” I asked her, attracted to her style of renunciation.
“Sure,” she replied, “but unlike the other churches around here, we don’t give money or free opportunities, we make you work! This might explain why we don’t have many followers!”
So work I did: sleeping on the floor, feeding babies in the nights, disciplining wild, snotty-nosed children. The babies vomited on me, one of the children threw his full potty at me, another bit me until I bled. After the initial stage, we grew to like one another. We would walk to school together, hand in dirty hand, and then I would walk them home again, past mounds of rubbish that piled up under the great sky.
At the end of the winter, when it was no longer so cold that you would freeze to death if the car broke down, I drove out to the countryside with my nun friend.
She stopped the car, and we climbed out to scale the mountain, our faces exposed to the icy gusts of wind that lingered from winter. At the top of the mountain, looking out onto the valley below, lungs filled with the thin air, I thought of my careers advisor. Mentally, I composed a letter to her and wrote it onto the mountain side with my blood:
Dear careers advisor,
The wind is not a cynic, even if it is mighty cold. Mountains aren’t cynics either; they simply stand and watch as life passes by.
I’m standing atop a mountain now, with a vast blue sky above me, the vengeful wind tormenting my uncovered ears. Everything is silent and frozen and empty, and if I were lost here alone I would almost certainly die. The only thing that could possibly fill the space around me is God. Under such a sky as this it is impossible not to believe so, because human beings are nothing here.
Do you believe in God yet? I hope that you do, but I don’t expect so. Perhaps you need to climb this mountain in winter and freeze to death to wake up with a clearer mind. It would be a lonely death and no one would find your body. You wouldn’t even be able to breathe in the earthy scents of the countryside with your last breaths, because ice has no smell, and when the world is frozen, there are no worldly perfumes mingled with air.
Thank you for your considered advice, and for increasing my own determination to reach my career goals.
Sincerely,
Yours under a blue sky (in red ink).
Filed under: Creative Non-fiction, Get Creative, Red Letter Days, Travel, Vietnam
She could hear the rooster’s crowing and smell the intoxicating salty scent of the ocean as she opened her eyes. It was still dark outside. She brushed her teeth and tucked her increasingly unruly hair under her filthy old hat and headed out the door to meet her trusty tour guide.
It was 5:30am in Mui Ne – a small fishing village on the south-central coast of Vietnam. At the driveway she was greeted by Vinh, a Vietnamese university graduate who had offered to show her around in exchange for some English practice. She swung her leg over his motorbike and held on tight for the journey ahead.
Off they roared, out of the alleyway and onto the main road, which was silhouetted by coconut palms. In the darkness, she glanced up at the sky. It was still full of bright twinkling stars, and to her right she recognised the Southern Cross – a beacon of familiarity in a land so foreign. With the crisp morning air lashing her face, she stretched her arms wide and let the air glide between her fingers. She felt alive for the first time in months.
Suddenly she could see the Pacific Ocean. Shadows cast from the pre-dawn light danced across the waves, beckoning her to play with them. The incandescent outline of salty sea puddles stretched for miles along the shore, like a snail’s slimy trail.
The motorcycle veered up and over a hill and all at once the scenery changed. They were surrounded by enormous sand dunes. It was like the deserts of Arizona meeting the seas of the Caribbean. She jumped off the bike and ran up the dunes, sinking deeper with every step.
The sun was beginning to rise and as its first rays caught the ripples of the dunes. She was overwhelmed by the beauty before her. For a moment, everything seemed clear.
We go through life worrying about each ripple, without appreciating the overall majesty of the dune. The journey is not about climbing to the next level, but about appreciating the overall picture – the gift of being on this Earth, if only for a moment in time.
Tearing herself away from the sunrise, she saddled the bike and they took off. After several minutes of speeding down the highway, only slowing for the occasional goat or cow, they arrived at the White Dunes.
Accompanied by a friendly desert canine, she hiked to the top of the dune and did a 360-degree swivel. The dunes stretched for miles – like white marble meticulously carved into the Earth. She turned to her guide and tried to explain how she felt. No luck, so she gave him a grin and the universal thumbs up.
Back in Mui Ne, she sat on the beach and watched a group of children playing makeshift volleyball in the sand. As the waves lapped the shoreline and the palm trees bent to shade her. She felt a tremendous sense of gratitude to be alive and enjoying her morning in paradise.
As dawn softly breaks, shards of sunlight stream through loose bamboo walls. Shaking off a dream, the warmth gently wakes me.I feel them watching me before I open my eyes. Giggles, unsuccessfully stifled by tiny hands clamped tight over tiny mouths, waft up the ladder of the rickety hut and into my consciousness. Eyes closed, I am relieved to hear laughter in this land.
I roll over. The thin hut floor creaks in protest. The giggles abruptly stop. A few moments pass. Patter, patter. Small bare feet approach the ladder. I roll over again. The second creak sends the footsteps scuttling back in the direction they came from. I want to take my time in waking up. Time to reflect on the weeks I have been in this beautiful land.
***
Yesterday I sat under the Piggy Tree near the market in Baguia. Deep in the interior of East Timor, Baguia is a village carved out of the dense forest and steep shaly cliffs. The village straddles a small mountain ridge that is dwarfed by Timor’s highest peak, the imposing Mount Matebian.
Above me, hung piglets. Vertically from the trees branches, the piglets swung in harnesses made from dried palm fronds. Grateful for shade, I had stayed with them. While they waited for their middles to be squeezed and tested for plumpness, I waited for the tropical afternoon rains and the glorious cool that they bring.
The jungles of East Timor tumble down the mountainous interior into a magnificent blue ocean. Ancient coral reefs create a kaleidoscope of blues that disappear into the deep navy of the Timor Sea. The people are slight and eclectic. Over a dozen indigenous groups of Malay and Papuan origin exist in this Eden. Intermarriage between the various tribes and Portuguese and Chinese settlers has created a unique diversity in physical features, but despite various ethnic backgrounds, the people are one.
Past the Piggy Tree sat a group of boys. There was a hardness in their eyes. They’ were not boys, but little men. The first generation born in a peaceful East Timor for over 400 years. They missed the years of Indonesian occupation, the years of unimaginable brutality that normalised death and fear. They missed the uninvited Japanese troops in World War II penetrating the jungle, and the women. They were born in a land of incredible beauty, resilience and abject poverty. Despite the hardship of life, it seems the fighting spirit of the people and the memory of past struggles have made the people hard, but happy.
The piglets didn’t like the rain. They squealed as the slipped and swayed in their harnesses. The boys laughed. Fresh and clean their skins had soaked up the moisture. They looked alive.
The market stopped for the shower. Patterns of colourful flowers and shapes peeked through carefully stacked potatoes and carrots. The traditional cloth or tais acts as a barrier between earth and vegetable, and folds over as protection from the rain. Behind the Piggy Tree, three generations of women sat under a single banana leaf. Their fragile frames swimming in faded batik sarongs imported from Indonesia. Whatever they made that day would support their families for a week.
***
I open my eyes. The air is thick with ancestors.
Silent, the children stare from the protection of the Uma Lulik, a sacred place for worship of the dead and the centre of all village life. They stop giggling and seem to be waiting for their first glimpse of a malai (foreigner). There have been no foreigners in Dare Lare village since a Portuguese battalion sought food and shelter here thirty years ago. The children are understandably excited. Afraid enough to seek the comfort of their ancestors, they peer through the low hanging roof of the Uma Lulik.
We had trekked to the village after the market in Baguia. One hour by foot. Through thickets of jungle, permeated by streams and banana trees, lay a cluster of huts, Dare Lare.
I have seen many villages like Dare Lare travelling through East Timor. I have been welcomed countless times into people’s homes and lives. I have shared simple meals with curious children and hard working women, and listened to the lore of the elders. I have travelled through some of the most spectacular scenery I have ever seen and into villages whose hospitality is matched only by their inhabitants’ strength of spirit.
It is time to get up. I climb down the ladder and the children gasp. They step further into the protection of the Uma Lulik. ‘Ba nebe?’ I say in their direction, laughing. Where are you going? They start giggling as I climb into their hideaway. The beginning of another incredible day in East Timor.
