Never Say Never

" The best baby-sitters, of course, are the baby's grandparents. You feel completely comfortable entrusting your baby to them for long periods, which is why most grandparents flee to Florida." -Dave Barry

It's a quote steeped in truth-and American culture. I used to joke that my grand kids would see my Mini Cooper passing on the freeway and say, "There goes a Mini Cooper. That could be Grandma."
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My female students in China would not think these jokes are funny. They all assume their mother's will take over the responsibility of rearing their children after they graduate, begin working, and start a family. Thats the norm in their culture.

It was evident on campus. The teacher's who had a child had at least one set of grandparents living with them. During the mornings when the kids were in pre-school learning English or French or both-and the rudiments of reading, writing, and arithmetic, the grandparents practiced Tai Chi, gardened, and bought ingredients for the evening meal-that they would cook.


Grandparents and kids in the community garden on campus.

 When school ended around noon, they were outside, sitting on benches, gossiping with friends and neighbors while the kids played.

One of the teachers whose mother and father lived with her, told me, "I feel frustrated sometimes because my daughter seems to like my parents better than she does me. She certainly listens to them better. But it is the way it is."

My students and I had many discussions about my life style. They  were curious and intrigued about  me, a woman of my advanced age- older than some of their grandmothers-- living in China-on the other side of the world away from my family-my home.

"Who watches your daughter's children?" they asked. Who helps them out when they need help? Wouldn't they like for you to be there? Don't you miss your family? Aren't you lonely?"

" In America we have after school programs, summer camps, and day care facilities. They do fine without me. I spent many years being a mother. It's not my job to watch my children's." I explained. I was adamant. I couldn't see myself in that role. It's not on my bucket list, in the game plan. Won't happen.
Never say never.

Back in the states I went to my youngest daughters in South Carolina intending to visit a month or two before I continued on to California where my stuff is in storage and most of my friends are. 'Welcome home." she said, hugging me at the airport.

That was nine months ago.

As her husband moved out, I moved in. For nine months I've been the nanny, tutor, and basic domestic Gramma for my daughters' two children ages six and nine.


Ireland with flowers for garden


 We shop and garden together. We've cooked, discussed sex, divorce, racism, and our ancestry. We don't always agree. I'd forgotten that children so young have definite opinions and I respect theirs-mostly. I'm the bad guy who forces them to study, eat green things and look at issues from different angles. We've also adopted a rowdy puppy. Training him has  taxed all our patience but, the process has made us allies.


Trace & Paws

 Because there was an election going on when I got here the boy and I discussed politics. He would have voted for Obama and can't imagine why everyone didn't. And this is the conservative south. I'm proud of him.

The six year old girl tells people I know everything. Yesterday she asked, Where is your house?" "I sold it. I don't have one." "Oh, she said, then this is your house."

It's been a difficult adjustment for both them and me, but we've prevailed. However, the truth is I don't have enough patience or energy for this complex job. I'm falling short of my own expectations; on the other hand maybe they don't expect perfection. Perhaps I'm taking it all to seriously.  I just don't feel nearly as serene as the grandma's on campus appeared to be.

I'm an American woman. I like the old way-visit awhile, love them and go home for a rest.

Soon I'll be leaving the country again for several months. When I come back I'll find another house to buy, however, in the mean time, I have a home that if I have to go there-they have to take me in. No questions asked.

Off My Head There Is a Path

Popping up all over China are these engaging signs-like fortune cookies on wood. When I happened upon this one in Lijiang it beckoned me to stop for a minute, to pause for reflection. That’s what Chinese signs do. They don’t sell, harangue,cajole or promise something they can't deliver. Like the cookie fortunes, their intent is simple; to improve our lives by offering sound advice, food for thought-or food.




Garden path -Chongqing University

 

Bai village, SW China 



















Sometimes signs are warnings;

sometimes brief philosophical homilies, but they also advise us in fashion, gently remind us to be appropriate in dress or demeanor and to use our common sense.

Soometimes they make you laugh.

Condom machine on an outside wall.



Or put out a fire

The ‘Off my head there is a path sign,’ struck a personal note for me- because I actually have a path that leads off my head. Call it metaphorical if you like (or schizophrenic), but it’s there and I’m compelled to follow it frequently without knowing exactly where I’ll end up.

There’s something exhilarating about the unknown, having to use ones senses, trusting your intuition, and those you meet along the way.



Street artist with cerebral palsy



Warming up around fire at Garden Hostel







Ancient path in Chongqing, China


If you don't get lost, there is no story.



Bus stop in Managua, Nicaragua

 

Bus in Nicaragua



Sign in Olmetepe on Violence against women.  'Live Without Violence' Women defending the community.'




Maria, my hostess, in her outside kitchen cooking us a chicken she just killed. Olmetepe, Nicaragua. Also one of the women defending the community against male violence by taking in guests.

 

Family picnicing on Isla de Olmetepe, Nicaragua



Statue in San Jose Costa Rico





I'll be leaving for Brazil in a few months. I have perused the guide book and am completely overwhelmed. Of course I must trek in the rain forest before it's gone, and dance in Rio, and kayak on the mighty Amazon: 10 million years old and the second longest river in the world with a mouth that can measure 300 miles wide during the rainy season! Oh my goodness! Hose me down.

" Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."  

         Mark Twain





Three Manly Games-Naadam Festival, Mongolia

The annual Naadam Festival held every July dates back seven centuries to 1300.  Equestrian Archery Wrestling--the three manly games. I've wanted to go there since I was a child, a half a century ago. I've always been smitten with both horses and archery. Wrestling? Well, I had to take out a rude boy or two occasionally, but they weren't my poudest moments.

 

The Mongols were then, and are still the best in the world at these events. Highly skilled Mongolan archers on horses are the reason Genghis Khan and his ancestors built the largest land empire in human history- from the Sea of Japan to Turkey!

The opening ceremony for the Naadam felt mystical as Buddhists and Shamans together thanked their Gods and prayed for the safety and good fortune of their country and its people. As smoke from a giant bronze caldron rose to the heavens, the packed crowd reached out in reverence.

A parade of proud competitors: stunning women dressed in traditional costumes that their ancestors might have worn centuries ago, topped by hats that would make English royalty envious today, rotund wrestlers, handsome archers, and stately matched horses marched by the spectators  into the arena. Goose bumps rose on my skin.

Directly in front of us the wrestlers

                                                                                                             gathered, anxious for their time in the spotlight. Wrestling in Mongolia is not a performance farce as it is in the US. Suma wrestling takes years to master. Like Tai Chi, it's about patience, balance and strength. A match only lasts a few minutes.

At the festival these huge men also wrestled with soldiers whose rippled muscles contrasted with their tight pink briefs and flouncy off the shoulder blouses. Although I asked, I never quite understood the point, but we hooted for the underdog, and watched amused as he struggled with his prodigious opponent.

The final contestants were two small boys with big aspirations.

These future champions- pouring their heart and soul into the match-wrestled each other in earnest drawing much deserved adoration from the crowd.

The days before the festival I thought a lot about the great empire of Genghis Khan as my small group of six treked leisurely through Mongolia's expansive countryside. How he had conquered so much in such a relatively short time,  how his massive army had traveled through the harsh environs of Siberia and the Gobi desert in huge caravans ruling fairly-allowing religious freedom and social equality, how he had spread his seed among more cultures than any other man in history.

At one point on the steppe a lone rider, endurance training, whizzed by our small party at breakneck speed so fast that within seconds he was a mere pin point on the horizon. Dotting the landscape were camps of families in temporary gers and their horses. Most of them had traveled long distances to compete.
There are no fences to obstruct riders in Mongolia. Mongols are free to ride and set up camp where they wish. The land belongs to them.

Camped one evening at the foothills of Terelj National Park, we were eating the all too familiar mutton and rice dinner when two young boys, maybe six and eight sped by wearing only pants-barefoot on their ponies. Seeing a captive audience they showed off their rodeo tricks- swinging and dipping and standing up! while their ponies galloped along, still as skilled as their ancestors must have been.


Boys, and lately a few girls, begin racing the cross country event as young as age four. The younger the better because of their light weight. By the time they reach thirteen or fourteen many of them are too heavy for the endurance races. Two year old horses race for 10 miles, older ones up to seventeen!

'The children race barefoot. Our guide explained that shoes are heavy and could hurt the horse if they are kicked, and the riders use light wool pony pads instead of leather saddles. Before the race the child-riders circle a shaman cairn three times while singing to their ponies- to give them luck, and to ward off bad spirits.

As the horses began returning to the finish line we saw several of them without their riders. I can only imagine how worried the mothers must have been watching their young children take off at a full gallop; having to wait hours for their safe return.

My favorite manly man event was horse archery. Far and away the most glamorous of all the competitors, dressed in stunning tunics of silk and satin brocade, they sat astride their handsome horses, relaxed and friendly, ready to rock and roll.

Their bows are still made as they were in ancient times using horn and sinew; the arrows finished off with the tail feathers of unlucky birds.

The crowd watched, spellbound, as the archers galloped full speed while removing arrows from the quiver, aiming and hitting the target -more often than not dead on the bulls eye. They didn't just sit on the horse and ride by the target- like the boys we'd seen while camping, they were all over their horses, sometimes hidden along the side invisible to us.

All archery  is to beyold  the combination of  focus, strength, and precision, but watching the women archers I found myself holding my breath and occasionally felt the goosebumps again as they hit the target time after time.

 Examples of strength and fortitude-warrors all. Daughters and grandmothers, more than twenty of them formed a single row of skill to be rekoned with. Wearing colorful deels, the traditional caftan type gowns women and men have been wearing for centuries in Mongolia, they represented a variety of individual ethic groups and Mongolian cultures.  Some deels also indicate by color and design, the geographic area the woman's family comes from.

Above an expansive field filled with proud people and their horses whose ansestry boggles the mind in time and accomplishments, flew hundreds of kites soaring and swooping against a Robin egg blue sky. I was grateful to be there, to have shared just a minute in time with these legendary resilient people who were unfailingly gracious and welcoming to us. Fifty years. Worth waiting for.



girl at festival







Our horses relaxing.



Bayanmonkhbat and my horse, Rowdy Brown.





Kites and crowd



Interior of my ger in base camp.




 








Bayanmonkhbat, horseman and Amaara, owner of horsetrailsmongolia.com



Surviving TEFL

School is over. We have our certificates as ESL teachers thus presumably, the tools to go anywhere in the world to teach our language. The common bond shared by most of the fourteen students is that we are travelers and we want the means to pay for our passion. Guided by a staff of patient, extremely dedicated teachers-one of whom taught us Hawaiian, including to dance the hula- we have accomplished our goal.


We were an eclectic group: young and starting out, old and retired: surfers, lawyers, actresses, hair stylists, tour directors and horse trainers, just to give you an idea of our diversity. We worked together and separately to learn the structure & format used by TEFL teachers in classrooms all over the world.

Who knows why we were lured to Costa Rica? Perhaps it was the tropical weather and the beach, or maybe the possibility of romance with a handsome Tica, of which there are many. And they can dance! Skillfully and passionately they dance the salsa and meringue- dipping, twirling, sweat dripping, two bodies as one as long as the song lasts.

I stayed in Manuel Antonio for 5 days before school started. The small park and the surrounding tropical rain forest is alive with critters large and small; amazing leaf green frogs with fire engine red eyes, monkeys: spider, squirrel, and the boisterous howlers run free-as they should. Sloths hang from electrical wires under the moon light and sleep in the crooks of trees during the days while families of raccoons roam the beach raiding picnic baskets.

Each day about 3 p.m. a community of squirrel monkeys clamored across the tin roof of my room. They stayed long enough to peer into the pipes, wrestle each other over the humps, swing from the trees onto the tin, frolic and check us out- improvisational comedians working their laughing audience.

At the beach in MA, a rogue wave unexpectedly washed over me, ruining my camera and translator so the photos here were taken by my friend and fellow student, Tomi.

The school was an imposing white washed concrete building with narrow outside spiral staircases situated on a dirt road in the country, a comfortable walk or taxi ride for 1 mil colones, (about 2 dollars) from town. It was definitely not handicap accessible-but then again none of Quepos is.

My room was large, light, and thank god the bed was comfortable because I fell into it late each night, exhausted from the rigorous pace of the curriculum.

Although I did meet a handsome tica, the object of my affection was Owen, a kitten who ambushed me in route to the kitchen the first morning I was there. Owen, tawny yellow with darker yellow stripes and matching amber eyes, was 6 months old and looking for love. When I bought him food the deal was sealed; we were an item. Although he didn’t understand the wisdom of it, I did him a favor and had him neutered before I left. The last I heard, Owen was going home with professora Heidi.

Now, we’ve scattered. I’m en route to Panama to see the canal, snorkel, and hang out in a hammock under palm trees before I head back to the states. After that I’ll find a job hopefully in Peru. But, where ever I go next, estoy lista. I’m ready. More hills, more exploring. Pura vida.