Along the beach, where all the bars and restaurants and fancy hotels are, there was a parking lot-ish area cluttered with little food vendors and clothing stands, loose-fitting dresses billowing in the wind. I wanted a dress but feigned interest, didn’t want to bargain or barter until my peripheral vision captured just what I was looking for.
A tiny Bajan woman with extraordinarily small features asked if I was “a’browsin.” I liked the way she said that and replied “yes.”
The dress was mid-calf length, asymmetrically cut, brown with purple tie-die on the front and green on the sides, at the hem. The woman said the dress was perfect for me because I’m tall and then she flexed her arms like body builders do.
“Oh yeah?” I said, amused, “because I’m a big girl, you mean?”
She laughed and nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes!” she exclaimed, “The men will call you a STRONG woman!”
I liked the way she said that too, and I bought the dress.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Conch
There is a thing about conch – hah, as if there is only one – and into one long sentence I shall express the thing about conch. In just a moment. First there are some shorter sentences.
A conch is a shell. You can blow or hum on this shell and make a sound. There is a thing that lives in that shell on the ocean floor. That thing is also called a conch.
I am not crazy about shellfish or things that suck dirt for sustenance, to which the conch is classified, but I recently ate an oyster with my occasionally charming ex-boyfriend and I even more recently had a sex dream about said ex-boyfriend, and so when I saw the conch on the menu – the laminated sheet of paper stapled to the front of a shack on the beach – it seemed karmic that I should eat the conch. The conch reminded me of oyster, which reminded me of ex-boyfriend, which reminded me of that sex dream, which made my mouth water. I did take notice – though not enough – that the conch was listed between the oxtail and the goat leg.
The conch comes fried or curried. I asked for the fried conch but the waitress (also the chef and cashier) said something in French which I of course cannot understand but which was a clear expression of preference for the curried conch. And so, I asked for the curried conch. For future reference, when ordering curried conch on a Caribbean island, you should consider that “curried” does not necessarily mean “cooked.” In fact, sometimes, “curried” means “pull it out of the shell, chop it up, and sprinkle it with ox juice.” Sometimes.
It came on a huge plate, piled high with salad, rice, beans, potatoes, plantains, and (drum roll) so, so, so much conch. The waitress / chef / cashier hovered by our folding plastic table, smiling and wringing her hands, waiting for my conch review. Mom watched. An
d giggled. I had to eat the conch. And, I had to enjoy the conch.
Conch does not taste so bad. Especially with spoonfuls of the flavorful rice and beans, or chunks of the buttery potatoes. But the consistency is weird…all tentacle. Conch is tough, probably because it’s designed for sucking shit off the ocean floor, and when you eat conch, it sticks in your teeth – strands of muscle to flavor your palate long after the plate is cleared. Its texture has a weirdness that also sticks with you, like the shit in your teeth. It is a weirdness so profound that, when you try to describe it the following day while sipping coffee on the deck of a beautiful yacht, the memory and lingering flavor will gross you out so thoroughly and completely that you won’t be able to deliver the promised long sentence about conch, that you will be completely lamely not able to converse with the handsome tattooed shirtless older gentleman you would normally be drooling over, that you will run away from the table to dry-heave over the railing, that you will wonder whether you fucked up your sexual karma due to the perceived connection between oyster, ex-boyfriend, and now-sickening conch, that you will feel clammy and conchy and shaky and sweaty and run back to the railing for a second dry-heave and wind up delivering the long sentence after all.
Nothing personal against the conch. It was a beautiful presentation.
A conch is a shell. You can blow or hum on this shell and make a sound. There is a thing that lives in that shell on the ocean floor. That thing is also called a conch.
I am not crazy about shellfish or things that suck dirt for sustenance, to which the conch is classified, but I recently ate an oyster with my occasionally charming ex-boyfriend and I even more recently had a sex dream about said ex-boyfriend, and so when I saw the conch on the menu – the laminated sheet of paper stapled to the front of a shack on the beach – it seemed karmic that I should eat the conch. The conch reminded me of oyster, which reminded me of ex-boyfriend, which reminded me of that sex dream, which made my mouth water. I did take notice – though not enough – that the conch was listed between the oxtail and the goat leg.
The conch comes fried or curried. I asked for the fried conch but the waitress (also the chef and cashier) said something in French which I of course cannot understand but which was a clear expression of preference for the curried conch. And so, I asked for the curried conch. For future reference, when ordering curried conch on a Caribbean island, you should consider that “curried” does not necessarily mean “cooked.” In fact, sometimes, “curried” means “pull it out of the shell, chop it up, and sprinkle it with ox juice.” Sometimes.
It came on a huge plate, piled high with salad, rice, beans, potatoes, plantains, and (drum roll) so, so, so much conch. The waitress / chef / cashier hovered by our folding plastic table, smiling and wringing her hands, waiting for my conch review. Mom watched. An
d giggled. I had to eat the conch. And, I had to enjoy the conch.Conch does not taste so bad. Especially with spoonfuls of the flavorful rice and beans, or chunks of the buttery potatoes. But the consistency is weird…all tentacle. Conch is tough, probably because it’s designed for sucking shit off the ocean floor, and when you eat conch, it sticks in your teeth – strands of muscle to flavor your palate long after the plate is cleared. Its texture has a weirdness that also sticks with you, like the shit in your teeth. It is a weirdness so profound that, when you try to describe it the following day while sipping coffee on the deck of a beautiful yacht, the memory and lingering flavor will gross you out so thoroughly and completely that you won’t be able to deliver the promised long sentence about conch, that you will be completely lamely not able to converse with the handsome tattooed shirtless older gentleman you would normally be drooling over, that you will run away from the table to dry-heave over the railing, that you will wonder whether you fucked up your sexual karma due to the perceived connection between oyster, ex-boyfriend, and now-sickening conch, that you will feel clammy and conchy and shaky and sweaty and run back to the railing for a second dry-heave and wind up delivering the long sentence after all.
Nothing personal against the conch. It was a beautiful presentation.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The Library. You know, the one with all the books.
I went in for Tom Robbins - Jitterbug Perfume, Wild Ducks Flying Backwards, Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas - that sort of thing.
The way things actually turned out - Deliverance - yes, the real 1970 James Dickey thing.
Something about the forces of the universe is working out today...because as much as I thought I needed me some Tom Robbins, I'm lovin me some Deliverance.
Mm mm dirty nasty creepiness.
The way things actually turned out - Deliverance - yes, the real 1970 James Dickey thing.
Something about the forces of the universe is working out today...because as much as I thought I needed me some Tom Robbins, I'm lovin me some Deliverance.
Mm mm dirty nasty creepiness.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Ballsy and Confused
A couple of nights ago I went to the Paseo Camarillo Theater and watched the movie “Black Swan.” It wasn’t exactly what I had expected, but I’m not sure what I had expected in the first place and I left the theater feeling quite not sure, in general.
No – correction – I left the theater with an overwhelming sense of Ballsy and Confused. In general.
I sat in my car in the parking lot for a minute and thought about what kind of music I would like to listen to on the way home, but I couldn’t choose any one particular artist or album or song and just revved the engine instead. That sounded perfect in an angels-couldn’t-make-a-more-appealing-sound sort of way, and so I did it again. I considered going out to a bar, maybe see some live music, have a couple beers, meet some new people, that sort of thing. But I wasn’t quite sure whether I was ready to take my Ballsy and Confused out in public, so we went home instead.
My Ballsy and Confused marched straight into my bedroom and dragged the box of Itty Bitty Things out from under my bed and pulled out a string bikini that I haven’t dared to play with in quite a long time. Jeans and hoodie stripped off, String Bikini tied on, towel over shoulder, wine glass in hand, out the door I went. Marched. Whatever. But it was very cold out and I’m technically not supposed to have real wine glasses at the spa, being a breaker and all, so I turned around, marched back inside, pulled Hoodie over String Bikini, and transferred wine from Real Glass to Red Plastic Cup. A lot more wine fits in Red Plastic Cup than in Real Glass so then I poured a lot more wine into Red Plastic Cup and marched back outside. Take Two.
In order to get to the spa in our complex, you have to walk through glass doors into the fancy clubhouse, down the flight of stairs, through the gym, and out the glass doors to the pool deck. I think they built it that way so the riff-raff won’t invade the recreational facilities, but, here we are.
The security guard sits in an office on the top floor of the fancy clubhouse and when he’s ready to go home he comes downstairs and asks anyone who’s still there to leave. Then he locks the doors and goes home. I like the security guard because he doesn’t seem to mind having to kick me out of the spa almost every time I go down there, and because I don’t think he really pays attention to anything except what time he gets to go home. And because I like the security guard, last night when I went out to the spa I imagined that he wouldn’t mind if I turned off the lights in the gym so that the spa area would be dark so that I could see the stars. And so I turned the lights off and the spa area was dark and the security guard didn’t seem to notice at all and the stars were brilliant.
It was very cold out and I had walked barefoot all the way from the condo and my toes were pretty numb. Like, actually freezing cold frozen toes. And the spa was very hot and when I stepped into the water my toes burned like they were on fire. It was extremely uncomfortable, the burning toes thing, and I would have retreated but my nipples got really hard, which String Bikini made quite evident, and I got distracted wondering whether it was the cold or the pain that made my nipples hard. Then the rest of me got cold and I sat straight down in the hot water and the nipples were very, very hard.
So it was really dark out there in the spa, with the gym lights off and the security guard not paying attention and everything, and my Ballsy and Confused put String Bikini in a pile on the deck and that felt really good so I leaned back against the jets and rested my head on the edge and let my hair fall in the water and stared up at the sky and everything was perfect.
That’s where my relationship with Ballsy and Confused took a turn for the worse. The thing about String Bikini being on the deck with the lights off and the security guard not paying attention is that the lights can be turned back on and the security guard can start paying attention, but String Bikini will still be on the deck and Ballsy and Confused will still be staring at the stars. I’m not sure if the security guard noticed how brilliant the stars were, but he certainly noticed String Bikini on the deck.
I had to break up with my Ballsy and Confused. You can’t just start a fun little adventure and then disappear when things get dodgy. And so, I think the moral of this rambling story is that Ballsy and Confused is only in it for the laughs; if you’re looking for an attitude that’s got your back, you probably want to stay away from the Crazy Ballerina movie.
No – correction – I left the theater with an overwhelming sense of Ballsy and Confused. In general.
I sat in my car in the parking lot for a minute and thought about what kind of music I would like to listen to on the way home, but I couldn’t choose any one particular artist or album or song and just revved the engine instead. That sounded perfect in an angels-couldn’t-make-a-more-appealing-sound sort of way, and so I did it again. I considered going out to a bar, maybe see some live music, have a couple beers, meet some new people, that sort of thing. But I wasn’t quite sure whether I was ready to take my Ballsy and Confused out in public, so we went home instead.
My Ballsy and Confused marched straight into my bedroom and dragged the box of Itty Bitty Things out from under my bed and pulled out a string bikini that I haven’t dared to play with in quite a long time. Jeans and hoodie stripped off, String Bikini tied on, towel over shoulder, wine glass in hand, out the door I went. Marched. Whatever. But it was very cold out and I’m technically not supposed to have real wine glasses at the spa, being a breaker and all, so I turned around, marched back inside, pulled Hoodie over String Bikini, and transferred wine from Real Glass to Red Plastic Cup. A lot more wine fits in Red Plastic Cup than in Real Glass so then I poured a lot more wine into Red Plastic Cup and marched back outside. Take Two.
In order to get to the spa in our complex, you have to walk through glass doors into the fancy clubhouse, down the flight of stairs, through the gym, and out the glass doors to the pool deck. I think they built it that way so the riff-raff won’t invade the recreational facilities, but, here we are.
The security guard sits in an office on the top floor of the fancy clubhouse and when he’s ready to go home he comes downstairs and asks anyone who’s still there to leave. Then he locks the doors and goes home. I like the security guard because he doesn’t seem to mind having to kick me out of the spa almost every time I go down there, and because I don’t think he really pays attention to anything except what time he gets to go home. And because I like the security guard, last night when I went out to the spa I imagined that he wouldn’t mind if I turned off the lights in the gym so that the spa area would be dark so that I could see the stars. And so I turned the lights off and the spa area was dark and the security guard didn’t seem to notice at all and the stars were brilliant.
It was very cold out and I had walked barefoot all the way from the condo and my toes were pretty numb. Like, actually freezing cold frozen toes. And the spa was very hot and when I stepped into the water my toes burned like they were on fire. It was extremely uncomfortable, the burning toes thing, and I would have retreated but my nipples got really hard, which String Bikini made quite evident, and I got distracted wondering whether it was the cold or the pain that made my nipples hard. Then the rest of me got cold and I sat straight down in the hot water and the nipples were very, very hard.
So it was really dark out there in the spa, with the gym lights off and the security guard not paying attention and everything, and my Ballsy and Confused put String Bikini in a pile on the deck and that felt really good so I leaned back against the jets and rested my head on the edge and let my hair fall in the water and stared up at the sky and everything was perfect.
That’s where my relationship with Ballsy and Confused took a turn for the worse. The thing about String Bikini being on the deck with the lights off and the security guard not paying attention is that the lights can be turned back on and the security guard can start paying attention, but String Bikini will still be on the deck and Ballsy and Confused will still be staring at the stars. I’m not sure if the security guard noticed how brilliant the stars were, but he certainly noticed String Bikini on the deck.
I had to break up with my Ballsy and Confused. You can’t just start a fun little adventure and then disappear when things get dodgy. And so, I think the moral of this rambling story is that Ballsy and Confused is only in it for the laughs; if you’re looking for an attitude that’s got your back, you probably want to stay away from the Crazy Ballerina movie.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Falsies
The fake nails are oh so fancy and really quite a lot of fun, with the putting on of the necklaces and the playful scratching and whatnot. But theoretically, one of those falsies could jump ship right next to an oddly attractive guy and he might pretend not to notice but it would be so weird and awkward that a stupid joke about the rogue nail would be absolutely necessary until actually executed, at which time it would just be more weird and awkward. And then the putting on of the necklaces and the playful scratching and whatnot might feel like a practical joke orchestrated by the remaining nine falsies. Theoretically.
Friday, July 2, 2010
One Step at a Time...Off a Cliff
It’s not that I mind heights so much. My fear is more specific to falling. I could stand fearlessly on the highest of ledges, if I knew that I would not fall. But the whole sport of repelling is hinged on the act of falling; a controlled fall, yes, but a fall nonetheless. So as our two guides, Duc and Trang, introduce us to the harnesses and ropes and other gear that we’ll be using on the trip, I can’t help reconsidering the endeavor.
La Paz, Bolivia. November, 2006.
La Paz was such an intense city, thriving in equal parts of culture and crime, that it seemed a
fitting starting place for “The World’s Most Dangerous Road”, aptly nicknamed “The Road of Death”. It would be the mountain bike ride that introduced you to fear in its tangible form; the kind of fear that makes decisions, defines experiences. Halfway down the mountain, blinking against moist air and following sounds of tires ahead of you, probably too fast, you’d hear something snap on your bike, spraying mud on your face, up your nose, and you’d instinctively lean over, sliding to a halt under the broken mountain bike, hoping to stop before the edge of the road. The fear that whitened your knuckles in those slow-motion moments would be humbled, though still alive. The guide would offer a replacement bike from the support van trailing your group, or a seat in the van, if you preferred. It would be a defining moment. Would you ever consider walking backwards off a cliff in Vietnam if you had climbed into that van in Bolivia?
Dalat, Vietnam. February, 2007
Duc and Trang look very young, but they’re obviously well-experienced. I like the way they methodically introduce us to the gear and slowly describe different techniques and safety precautions. They’re patient and thorough, lending towards trustworthiness. Even so, in the absence of last night’s wine buffer, when it was so easy to agree to the trip, now I’m second-guessing myself, hesitant in the reality of our preparations for falling. The boys are particularly gentle with me, maybe sensing my hesitation, and as much as I’d like to refuse the special treatment, I gratefully appreciate their efforts to make sure I’m comfortable with “the plan.”
What’s a girl to do? After a rough, hour-long jeep ride, our canyoning trip begins with a relatively easy hike to the river. Most of the morning is spent walking and rock-hopping along the water, stopping a few times to practice repelling off tall boulders.
I hold my breath and lean into the first repel, sitting trustfully on the tattered straps of my harness. The Falling Moment comes soon enough, when neither my feet nor my harness have a mutually exclusive relationship with gravity. One tiny step at a time, I move backwards, leaning more faithfully into the harness, relaxing as I feel my gear doing what it’s supposed to. The Falling Moment gradually dissolves, evaporates like the sweat on my skin, leaving behind just the grit of its memory, the promise of its reality. And without the fear, however brief its absence, my vision clears enough to realize that I’m actually standing on a wall! A few more steps, one almost-totally-confident push off the wall, and it’s over too soon.
When the sun is almost directly overhead, we arrive at a section of river that widens dramatically, the sandy riverbed replaced by an expanse of grey rock, smoothed over by years of flowing water. The rock sweeps up both sides of the canyon, speckled with dripping trees and wildflowers that have somehow forced their way through cracks in the hard surface. Where the rock disappears in front of us, dropping cleanly away into a cliff of unknown height, the river pours unobstructed into space, marking the air with a cloud of spray that hints at a rainbow, depending on how you squint your eyes.
Tired and slightly overwhelmed, I stretch out on a warm rock in the sun, not too close to the edge of the waterfall. Squinting against the glare of sun on water, I watch Paul and Patrick wandering along the other side of the river. Ivo walks past, towards Steven who’s helping Duc and Trang with something at the top of the falls. It takes a minute to focus my vision, but I know what they’re doing even before I see the coils of rope.
Duc uses his rubber mallet to pound safety hooks between cracks in the rock. Everyone gathers around to watch, silently considering what we’re in for. Whatever I thought I was afraid of in our first repels seems silly now. Maybe it’s time to recognize my limits, to step away from the edge and take what I’ve done so far as the whole of this experience...wouldn’t it be worse to start something that’s too big for me, too much for me to handle, than to walk away uninjured?
I frantically scan the riverbanks for another way down, finally spotting a small trailhead between trees hugging the waterfall. That’s it. However steep or narrow that path is, it has to be better than the rock under my feet, the rock that’s replaced by water where spray blurs the edge.
As Duc and Trang finish setting up the safety ropes, I announce my decision to hike around the waterfall. Duc half-heartedly tries to convince me to do the repel, while the other guys stand mute. Considering how supportive and encouraging they’ve been all day, my friends’ silence on this repel speaks volumes, solidifying my decision to opt out.
Ivo goes first. We can’t see him during most of the repel, but after a few minutes we hear a splash followed by his voice echoing off the rock wall far below us. Even I have to smile. I feel nervous and jittery. If I don’t start the hike down soon they’ll have to wait for me at the bottom, but don’t want to leave yet. One by one, I watch my friends slowly disappear over the edge of the waterfall and each time, their journey ends with cheers and laughter from somewhere far below. Soon, only Paul and I are left at the top of the waterfall with Duc and Trang. He smiles at me and nods towards Duc, holding the safety line.
“Go on then” Paul says with a wink, “you can do it”.
My hands are shaking. Can I do this? “Um…how high do you think we are?” I ask Paul.
“Duc says ‘bout thirty metres. Let’s see then…uh…one hundred feet, just about.”
Holy fucking hellfire. One hundred feet of waterfall. I don’t know why I even bothered to ask.
Leaning forward and straining to look over the edge, I see Ivo, Patrick, and Steven dripping on the shore below us, smiling and waving and hollering for me to join them. Paul pulls me away from the edge, drapes a lanky arm around me, and gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze. He slowly guides me towards Duc and Trang, who are waiting patiently in ankle-deep water.
I feel my feet moving, sliding across the slick rock, through the water. I could still turn back; I don’t have to repel, could still hike down the waterfall if I want to. But it’s already happening; if I don’t stop it now, just keep moving through the next few minutes, it will be done. If I do it.
Duc hooks me into his safety line and double- then triple-checks that I’m holding the ropes correctly.
We’re standing in the water, facing each other. My heels are on the edge of the waterfall and I’m leaning forward a little, trying to resist the current that I know will eventually win, especially if I don’t start moving. Duc nods that it’s time to go. I take a deep breath, lean into my harness, and scoot backwards, using my bare feet to navigate across the slippery rock.
The first few inches pass so slowly, feel like an eternity. I step into the Falling Moment just past the point where it would be safe to change my mind. My senses feel sharper than ever before, my ears filled with the sounds of flying water, skin tingling with powerlessness. Duc locks his eyes with mine, levels me, gently talks me through the moment.
“One step at a time” he says, calling above the roar of water, “Keep breathing, let the rope out, you’re doing great”
I wish Duc could stay with me, keep talking to me, but soon his face disappears behind a cloud of spray. The only sounds I hear are rushing water and the thump-ump of my own heartbeat. I feel dizzy. The water presses against my body, warning me to move faster. I know I don't need to grip the rope behind me so tightly, but I can't help it. Before I’m halfway down the waterfall, my arms and hands are throbbing with strain, but I don’t care. I take bigger steps, release more rope, distractedly enjoy the cool spray on my face. I slip once on the rock wall and feel my harness catch on Duc’s safety line, reassured that he won’t let me fall.
Minutes pass like hours, my concept of time and space jumbled by an acutely intimate relationship with gravity. I’m not sure when the fear went away, when the exact moment was that I forgot about it. But wrapped in the high of adrenaline-fed euphoria, dangling in my own little bubble of the universe, fear does not exist. I can do this.
The rock wall eases away from the waterfall, slowly abandoning my suspended body under an airborne river. I stretch my legs out, feet searching in vain for the wall as the force of the waterfall sends me spinning on the end of Duc’s safety line. My friends holler, their voices sounding distant through the water though I can see them on the shore not more than twenty feet away. Is something wrong, or are they cheering for me? Does it matter in this moment? Is there anything I could do differently than what I’m doing right now, if I knew I was in trouble? No, I think not. Any way you cut it, I’m hanging from a rope under a waterfall in Vietnam.
A pool of deep green water froths below me. Finally steadying myself on the rope, I slowly let it out, my arms and hands numb with the effort. I’m almost there, don’t know how much longer I can hold on. I call to my friends, “Is it deep enough? Can I let go?” but my fingers are already unfastening the safety line and the words have barely passed my lips when I splash into the cold water.
I hit the sandy bottom hard, but it doesn’t hurt. Kicking towards the surface, I burst out sputtering and coughing for breath. Everyone is laughing and cheering and I can’t help laughing too. The guys drag me out of the water, pulling me onto my feet. I’m crying through uncontrollable laughter, hoping the boys don’t notice the tears, and feeling so overwhelmed that just standing up is an accomplishment. Duc and Trang expertly navigate the waterfall sans safety lines, and are soon standing with us on the shore.
“See?” Duc says, “One step at a time.”
La Paz, Bolivia. November, 2006.
La Paz was such an intense city, thriving in equal parts of culture and crime, that it seemed a
fitting starting place for “The World’s Most Dangerous Road”, aptly nicknamed “The Road of Death”. It would be the mountain bike ride that introduced you to fear in its tangible form; the kind of fear that makes decisions, defines experiences. Halfway down the mountain, blinking against moist air and following sounds of tires ahead of you, probably too fast, you’d hear something snap on your bike, spraying mud on your face, up your nose, and you’d instinctively lean over, sliding to a halt under the broken mountain bike, hoping to stop before the edge of the road. The fear that whitened your knuckles in those slow-motion moments would be humbled, though still alive. The guide would offer a replacement bike from the support van trailing your group, or a seat in the van, if you preferred. It would be a defining moment. Would you ever consider walking backwards off a cliff in Vietnam if you had climbed into that van in Bolivia?
Dalat, Vietnam. February, 2007
Duc and Trang look very young, but they’re obviously well-experienced. I like the way they methodically introduce us to the gear and slowly describe different techniques and safety precautions. They’re patient and thorough, lending towards trustworthiness. Even so, in the absence of last night’s wine buffer, when it was so easy to agree to the trip, now I’m second-guessing myself, hesitant in the reality of our preparations for falling. The boys are particularly gentle with me, maybe sensing my hesitation, and as much as I’d like to refuse the special treatment, I gratefully appreciate their efforts to make sure I’m comfortable with “the plan.”
What’s a girl to do? After a rough, hour-long jeep ride, our canyoning trip begins with a relatively easy hike to the river. Most of the morning is spent walking and rock-hopping along the water, stopping a few times to practice repelling off tall boulders.
I hold my breath and lean into the first repel, sitting trustfully on the tattered straps of my harness. The Falling Moment comes soon enough, when neither my feet nor my harness have a mutually exclusive relationship with gravity. One tiny step at a time, I move backwards, leaning more faithfully into the harness, relaxing as I feel my gear doing what it’s supposed to. The Falling Moment gradually dissolves, evaporates like the sweat on my skin, leaving behind just the grit of its memory, the promise of its reality. And without the fear, however brief its absence, my vision clears enough to realize that I’m actually standing on a wall! A few more steps, one almost-totally-confident push off the wall, and it’s over too soon.
When the sun is almost directly overhead, we arrive at a section of river that widens dramatically, the sandy riverbed replaced by an expanse of grey rock, smoothed over by years of flowing water. The rock sweeps up both sides of the canyon, speckled with dripping trees and wildflowers that have somehow forced their way through cracks in the hard surface. Where the rock disappears in front of us, dropping cleanly away into a cliff of unknown height, the river pours unobstructed into space, marking the air with a cloud of spray that hints at a rainbow, depending on how you squint your eyes.
Tired and slightly overwhelmed, I stretch out on a warm rock in the sun, not too close to the edge of the waterfall. Squinting against the glare of sun on water, I watch Paul and Patrick wandering along the other side of the river. Ivo walks past, towards Steven who’s helping Duc and Trang with something at the top of the falls. It takes a minute to focus my vision, but I know what they’re doing even before I see the coils of rope.
Duc uses his rubber mallet to pound safety hooks between cracks in the rock. Everyone gathers around to watch, silently considering what we’re in for. Whatever I thought I was afraid of in our first repels seems silly now. Maybe it’s time to recognize my limits, to step away from the edge and take what I’ve done so far as the whole of this experience...wouldn’t it be worse to start something that’s too big for me, too much for me to handle, than to walk away uninjured?
I frantically scan the riverbanks for another way down, finally spotting a small trailhead between trees hugging the waterfall. That’s it. However steep or narrow that path is, it has to be better than the rock under my feet, the rock that’s replaced by water where spray blurs the edge.
As Duc and Trang finish setting up the safety ropes, I announce my decision to hike around the waterfall. Duc half-heartedly tries to convince me to do the repel, while the other guys stand mute. Considering how supportive and encouraging they’ve been all day, my friends’ silence on this repel speaks volumes, solidifying my decision to opt out.
Ivo goes first. We can’t see him during most of the repel, but after a few minutes we hear a splash followed by his voice echoing off the rock wall far below us. Even I have to smile. I feel nervous and jittery. If I don’t start the hike down soon they’ll have to wait for me at the bottom, but don’t want to leave yet. One by one, I watch my friends slowly disappear over the edge of the waterfall and each time, their journey ends with cheers and laughter from somewhere far below. Soon, only Paul and I are left at the top of the waterfall with Duc and Trang. He smiles at me and nods towards Duc, holding the safety line.
“Go on then” Paul says with a wink, “you can do it”.
My hands are shaking. Can I do this? “Um…how high do you think we are?” I ask Paul.
“Duc says ‘bout thirty metres. Let’s see then…uh…one hundred feet, just about.”
Holy fucking hellfire. One hundred feet of waterfall. I don’t know why I even bothered to ask.
Leaning forward and straining to look over the edge, I see Ivo, Patrick, and Steven dripping on the shore below us, smiling and waving and hollering for me to join them. Paul pulls me away from the edge, drapes a lanky arm around me, and gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze. He slowly guides me towards Duc and Trang, who are waiting patiently in ankle-deep water.
I feel my feet moving, sliding across the slick rock, through the water. I could still turn back; I don’t have to repel, could still hike down the waterfall if I want to. But it’s already happening; if I don’t stop it now, just keep moving through the next few minutes, it will be done. If I do it.
Duc hooks me into his safety line and double- then triple-checks that I’m holding the ropes correctly.
We’re standing in the water, facing each other. My heels are on the edge of the waterfall and I’m leaning forward a little, trying to resist the current that I know will eventually win, especially if I don’t start moving. Duc nods that it’s time to go. I take a deep breath, lean into my harness, and scoot backwards, using my bare feet to navigate across the slippery rock.
The first few inches pass so slowly, feel like an eternity. I step into the Falling Moment just past the point where it would be safe to change my mind. My senses feel sharper than ever before, my ears filled with the sounds of flying water, skin tingling with powerlessness. Duc locks his eyes with mine, levels me, gently talks me through the moment.
“One step at a time” he says, calling above the roar of water, “Keep breathing, let the rope out, you’re doing great”
I wish Duc could stay with me, keep talking to me, but soon his face disappears behind a cloud of spray. The only sounds I hear are rushing water and the thump-ump of my own heartbeat. I feel dizzy. The water presses against my body, warning me to move faster. I know I don't need to grip the rope behind me so tightly, but I can't help it. Before I’m halfway down the waterfall, my arms and hands are throbbing with strain, but I don’t care. I take bigger steps, release more rope, distractedly enjoy the cool spray on my face. I slip once on the rock wall and feel my harness catch on Duc’s safety line, reassured that he won’t let me fall.
Minutes pass like hours, my concept of time and space jumbled by an acutely intimate relationship with gravity. I’m not sure when the fear went away, when the exact moment was that I forgot about it. But wrapped in the high of adrenaline-fed euphoria, dangling in my own little bubble of the universe, fear does not exist. I can do this.
The rock wall eases away from the waterfall, slowly abandoning my suspended body under an airborne river. I stretch my legs out, feet searching in vain for the wall as the force of the waterfall sends me spinning on the end of Duc’s safety line. My friends holler, their voices sounding distant through the water though I can see them on the shore not more than twenty feet away. Is something wrong, or are they cheering for me? Does it matter in this moment? Is there anything I could do differently than what I’m doing right now, if I knew I was in trouble? No, I think not. Any way you cut it, I’m hanging from a rope under a waterfall in Vietnam.
A pool of deep green water froths below me. Finally steadying myself on the rope, I slowly let it out, my arms and hands numb with the effort. I’m almost there, don’t know how much longer I can hold on. I call to my friends, “Is it deep enough? Can I let go?” but my fingers are already unfastening the safety line and the words have barely passed my lips when I splash into the cold water.
I hit the sandy bottom hard, but it doesn’t hurt. Kicking towards the surface, I burst out sputtering and coughing for breath. Everyone is laughing and cheering and I can’t help laughing too. The guys drag me out of the water, pulling me onto my feet. I’m crying through uncontrollable laughter, hoping the boys don’t notice the tears, and feeling so overwhelmed that just standing up is an accomplishment. Duc and Trang expertly navigate the waterfall sans safety lines, and are soon standing with us on the shore.
“See?” Duc says, “One step at a time.”
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Welcome to Cambodia!
The customs office is a long, narrow building with a concrete foundation, wooden walls, and a reed awning that shades a row of “ticket windows”, only one of which isn’t boarded up. One by one, we slide our passports through a slot in the window, then wait while a uniformed man behind the glass flips through the booklet’s pages, asking any questions he deems appropriate.
“How is California?” he asks while studying the holograms on my photo.
“It’s nice.” I reply, surprised that his first question isn’t about my occupation, or destination, or purpose of travel.
“Have you been to Hollywood?”
“Yes, I’ve been to Hollywood, but I don’t live there.” I’m amused by his interest in Tinseltown, can’t help smiling.
“Where is your home now?” he asks in a flat tone.
The question is unexpectedly awkward, replaces my amusement with uncertainty. “I don’t really…well, I’m just traveling now. My mom lives in a town called Camarillo, and my dad lives near there, so I guess that’s where my home is.” I can’t even remember the street address printed on my passport. Is it Dad’s house, or Mom’s? Maybe it’s my old apartment in Santa Barbara? What was the name of that street again? Theresa would know. Dammit. My gut knots in fear of the man’s next question, of how I’m going to explain that I don’t even know my own address.
“Your mother and father are divorced.” he states, meeting my eyes for the first time since he opened my passport. “Okay” the man concludes, “welcome to Cambodia!”
“How is California?” he asks while studying the holograms on my photo.
“It’s nice.” I reply, surprised that his first question isn’t about my occupation, or destination, or purpose of travel.
“Have you been to Hollywood?”
“Yes, I’ve been to Hollywood, but I don’t live there.” I’m amused by his interest in Tinseltown, can’t help smiling.
“Where is your home now?” he asks in a flat tone.
The question is unexpectedly awkward, replaces my amusement with uncertainty. “I don’t really…well, I’m just traveling now. My mom lives in a town called Camarillo, and my dad lives near there, so I guess that’s where my home is.” I can’t even remember the street address printed on my passport. Is it Dad’s house, or Mom’s? Maybe it’s my old apartment in Santa Barbara? What was the name of that street again? Theresa would know. Dammit. My gut knots in fear of the man’s next question, of how I’m going to explain that I don’t even know my own address.
“Your mother and father are divorced.” he states, meeting my eyes for the first time since he opened my passport. “Okay” the man concludes, “welcome to Cambodia!”
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