Kindness of Strangers

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

I can’t remember what I thought Easter Island would be like, now that my first impressions have been formed, but I’m sure it must have been shaped by what I knew would be one of the smallest places I would ever visit in my life. To say that Easter Island is out of the way is an understatement. It is one of the most remote inhabited places in the world (which is to say there are more remote places; it’s just that nobody lives there), nearly 4,000 kilometers from Chile’s mainland and 3,800 kilometers from Tahiti. It is literally in the middle of nowhere.

There are a lot of remarkable, head-scratching things about Easter Island beyond its claim to fame, the giant, carved-stone figures that have insured its place in the history books for all of eternity. These figures (known as moai), some stretching as far as 12 meters high, are a mystery in themselves: how did humans manage to carve and erect something so grand, and why? Of course there are the usual alien theories, but regardless of what you believe, standing at the foot of these behemoths, perched at the ocean’s edge, transports you to another time.

Although the island is considered, anthropologically, to be a part of Polynesia, it is governed by Chile. While this island has been inhabited for thousands of years, Chile doesn’t enter the picture until much later, when it annexed the island in 1888. It was solely governed by a wool company, which ran the island de facto until the 1950s. It wasn’t until the 1960s, after a period of military rule, that Easter Island was opened to the world. As part of Chile, the national language in Spanish, though people speak Rapa Nui, the local language, too. (Rapa Nui also refers to the local name for Easter Island, which the Spanish call Isla de Pascua, just to confuse matters more.) So while many of its cultural roots and traditions lie squarely in the things we have come to associate with Polynesia – physical features, language, food, music, architecture – it straddles Latin American life.

We arrived on a bright, blustery morning, one of only a handful of passengers who disembarked the Santiago-bound flight. Only 40,000 tourists a year filter through this airport, serviced by only one airline who connects to Easter Island through only two cities twice a week. Much like Bhutan, you’ve really got to want to come here, which is reflected in the type of visitors it attracts. No one ends up here by accident, and it isn’t your “cart me around on a tour bus” crowd. It’s an independent group, who all seem a little rugged and eccentric and want to be left alone. And yet, given the island’s diminutive size, I am already running into people from our flight and recognizing other tourists after 24 hours.

We quickly cleared customs, being processed by Max Rojas, the name of one of Maikael’s friends from Costa Rica, which we took as a good sign. We somehow managed to sidestep the $131 “reciprocity fee” that is required of American visitors, perhaps our reward for entering the country via untraditional routing. Groups of residenciales owners, holding handwritten name placards and limp flower leis, waited for their patrons outside, the door manned by an airport employee in jeans. We were greeted by Tita and her brother, who hauled our backpacks into the trunk of a beat-up blue Hyundai Accent.

There are 3,800 people who live in an island that is roughly 10 miles by 15 miles. Hanga Roa is Easter Island’s only outpost, which is tiny. As we trundled down the main drag – a modest thoroughfare lined with the usual shops and restaurants – I was struck by how much smaller this place was than I ever dreamed. (Interestingly, Maikael found it to be much bigger than he imagined.) I was astounded by the ocean of blue that cradled the island, visible from nearly everywhere. It is the deepest, clearest blue I’ve ever laid eyes on, a stark contrast to the ocher landscape (all the trees were chopped down years ago), studded by huge chunks of inky basalt rock. After a short nap we set out to explore town. “If you get lost, just ask for Tita’s house,” said our host. “Everyone will know where I’m at.” A stop at the tourist office revealed a map of town and not much else. As our only source of cash, we crossed our fingers that the ATM machine would work, one of only two in town, both of which only accept Mastercard (luckily, it did).

Cashed up, we set out in search of food, our stomachs suddenly reminding us that we hadn’t had a proper meal in nearly 24 hours. We quickly realized that, while the siesta has died out in most of the Latin world, a sign of ever-encroaching globalization, it was still alive and well in Isla de Pascua. This sleepy town was napping, and most shops were shuttered until 5:30. We settled instead on ice cream, the heladeria tucked inside a small pedestrian mall, boasting flavors like mango-orange and guava, “la fruta de la isla.”

I was keen on empanadas, and our guidebook highly recommended a restaurant in town specializing in just that. The tourist office had marked its location on the map, and as we wandered back and forth down the same block, never making its acquaintance, we began to think it had burned to the ground. I finally wondered if the restaurant we had passed three times, with a quaint porch, was the place, despite its sign stating otherwise. As it turns out, the restaurant had two names, one of which was covered by thick green foliage. “It’s good to be back in Latin America again,” I thought.

“Estas abierta?” I asked the woman on the porch. It wasn’t open until six, so we went grocery shopping first. There are no supermarkets here, but a collection of small grocery stores. We stopped at the one regarded as the most stocked by our guidebook, making our way past a life-sized Santa Clause that guarded the entrance. He sprang to life as we passed by, his “ho ho ho” singing (in English) obviously brought to life by our movement. Inside, the dark store was stuffed to the gills with crap – glassware, cutlery, Christmas ornaments, stacks of clothes – but no food to speak of. We continued down the street to another grocery-looking store, which seemed to be brimming with life, always a good sign. Here, there were massive gaps in the shelves where food should have been, looking like a Jack-o-Lantern. The meat was grey and fetid, swarming with flies. I made my way over to the produce aisle, and was greeted by limp lettuce, molding citrus, and shriveled tubers. So while I could buy The Simpsons’ brand marshmallows, there wasn’t a fresh vegetable to be had. I began to get a little freaked out that we were spending 11 days here.

We fared a little better at the neighboring store, stocking up on fresh-baked rolls, turkey and cheese, but I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live in such a far-flung place, where nearly everything must be imported from the mainland. Rather than pondering the origins of this ancient island, which motivates most visitors, I am more interested in the mystery of how modern people grapple with living in such a remote place. And not just any remote place, but a place that sits in the cradle of all humanity. I saw a band of children roaming through the streets, like kids nearly everywhere in the world, laughing and kicking up dust as they flew through like whirling dervishes. “They probably have no idea of the significance of where they live,” I thought. It’s just home. They will grow up one day and move somewhere or visit someplace, and somebody will ask them, “Where did you grow up?” “Easter Island,” they will respond innocently, not realizing the weight of such a place.

By 6:15 the empanada place hadn’t reopened, but we took a place on the porch anyways, pretending like we belonged. Two women sat smoking in a sunny corner, hunched over a spread of tarot cards, whispering quietly amongst themselves. Eventually the doors sprang open, and we waited for menus, then drinks. “The Coke’s a little warm,” said the young waitress, someone’s daughter. There is no ice here. Women passed through as we waited for the empanadas, everyone knowing everyone. I munched on the piping hot pocket, doughy and rich, feeling both entirely out of place and very much at home.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

We all entertain irrational dreams, that seem to sprout out of nowhere but hang on for dear life. They need not be big or impossible, only persistent. For years I dreamed of owning a red chenille couch and having a window seat that I could curl up in, and when those things actually materialized, I couldn’t believe my eyes. In this same token, I’ve always dreamed of staying in an overwater bungalow. I’m not sure where or when this dream took root, but I suspect it has to do with watching one too many shows on the Travel Channel. The idea of actually sleeping over the water, in a thatched palapa hut to call my own, completely enchanted me.

French Polynesia happens to be one of only a handful of places in the world where overwater bungalows are commonplace, and when we decided to make a three-day stopover in Tahiti on our way to Easter Island, I was dying to stay in one. A cursory glance at websites months ago revealed nightly room rates that skyrocketed towards $1,000, which I knew was impossible. As of a week ago, we still hadn’t made any reservations, and I had all but given up on this dream coming to fruition. But a few strategically-placed phone calls in the midst of low tourist season and a heightened economic world crisis revealed that an overwater bungalow could be had for as low as $300 per night. It was still a major splurge, especially by backpackers’ standards, but we decided to go for it. We made a deal with ourselves: we would live on fruit and sandwiches for three days to offset the cost of the room.

Tahiti is as fluffy as a marshmallow, the travel equivalent of watching a chick flick. The island vibes starts from the moment you board the plane. We were greeted with island tunes humming through the loudspeakers, and seats draped in every shade of blue imaginable. The flight attendants made three (three!) costume changes during the flight, but the theme was always the same: ruffles, tropical flowers, and bright colors. As we prepared to land, a video played to ready us for our arrival. After taking nearly 20 flights over the past four months, I’m accustomed to these videos by now. They usually involve a tutorial on how to fill out customs and immigration forms correctly, but this video showed three men happily strumming guitars as smiling passengers filed past. Seriously. The customs form was like none I had ever seen. There were separate check boxes for “Vacation” and “Honeymoon,” and they inquired as to what leisure activities I’d be taking part in during my stay in Tahiti.

When we disembarked the plane in the warm, humid air, I could hear the strains of tropical music wafting over the tarmac. There, at the entrance to the airport, sat three men clad in tropical-print shirts, strumming guitars, happily singing, in the dead of the night. I’m pretty sure it was the same three guys from the video. “Oh my god,” I said to Maikael, “it’s the Tahitian Welcome Wagon!” Then, a throng of women passed out flowers to tuck behind our ears. I had just stepped into the most archetypal vision of Island Paradise, which would usually make me want to puke, but instead I sniffed the fragrant flower as a broad grin stretched across my face.

After a garland of fresh flowers was placed heavily over our shoulders, we made our way to the resort, where we stayed in a basic room the first night (another part of our cost-savings plan). In the morning, we were transferred to our overwater bungalow for the next two nights, but not before making a trip to the grocery store down the block. After leaving the luxurious compound, we walked down a busy road, feeling very much like we were back in the developing world again. When we stepped into the run-down “Supermarche,” we felt as if we had stepped into a Bastille Day extravaganza. Although Tahiti is part of French Polynesia, I never stopped to consider the influence that the French might have had on this little tropical island. A giant rack of baguettes greeted us at the entrance, the sign indicating that they were sourced from at least six different boulangeries. Every single person in the grocery store had a baguette – or sometimes two – tucked into the crook of their arm. There were even extremely long plastic bags that had been specifically manufactured to accommodate the elongated loaves. Red, white, and blue bunting hung from the ceiling, and the cheese counter was overflowing with imported French brie. A long row of wine provided one choice: Bordeaux. The checkers did not speak English, and everyone in line sighed as we produced a credit card and tried to stumble our way through the transaction.

It was just like being in France, only better, because I could also buy ridiculously cheap and sweet papayas with my Bordeaux.

We loaded our goods into a broken down Heineken box and made our way back to the hotel. The overwater bunglows sat perched on a small series of boardwalks stretched over a shallow coral reef, and the water glimmered a brilliant turquoise as bright tropical fish darted amongst the dark coral. I was afraid that I’d be disappointed, that the bungalow wouldn’t live up to my expectations, but it exceeded my wildest dreams. It was the size of my first studio apartment, boasting wall-to-wall wooden shutters that could be levered to let the ocean breeze blow through. The bathtub sat snugly in a corner, providing an expansive view to Moorea, the island next to Tahiti. So not only could I take a bath, which is exciting enough for me after four months of showers, but I could take a bath and look at an island. Our private patio jutted over the water, and we proceeded to spend the next 72 hours primarily planted on our deck chairs overlooking this beautiful scene.

That night, as we slathered peanut butter and jelly on the best baguette I had ever eaten, we watched the sun set over the ocean, just beyond the reef. The sky was on fire, casting a watercolor oil slick over the water. It was one of those moments that I have from time to time on this trip, where I wonder, “Am I really here right now? Am I really living in this dream?”

There was nothing cultural or “authentic” about this part of the journey. The Tahitian dance performance that we overheard from our patio, with the drums thumping in the distance, was the closest we got to Polynesian culture. But I am bathed, read, rested, and gorged on the most buttery brie cheese imaginable.

Friday, November 21, 2008

We find ourselves in Windy Wellington, the capital city’s nickname based on its famous weather conditions. In 1968 a ferry boat capsized just off Wellington’s shore in windy weather, killing 15 people – not what you want to read in your Lonely Planet guide as you negotiate your way into the city via the Interislander, a ferry that connects the north and south islands, which is what we did two nights ago. It’s a beautiful ride, surrounded by lovely vistas and stunningly blue water. But we were tired. We had spent the day driving from Christchurch, winding our way through Dr. Suess hills, cartoonishly green bumps sprinkled with crazy palm trees. We passed through the town of Kaikoura, where craggy, snow-capped peaks dramatically descend into the cobalt waters below. If only there was more time.

By the time we reached Wellington, we were ready to crash. It’s not a big city, particularly by capital city standards – just 100,000 people. But in a sparsely populated country of four million people, where sheep outnumber humans (honestly), it felt huge. We circled the block to find a parking spot, finally settling on one across the street from our hotel. The sign said we should vacate by 9 am, and the owner of the hotel said as long as we moved it by 8 am we should be fine.

I awoke at 9 the next morning and found Tim flipping through a phone book. “We need to move our car,” I said. Tim said, “There’s one other thing we need to do first.” My stomach sank. “They towed our car, didn’t they?” “Yep,” confirmed Tim. He had gone to move the car at 8 am, and found the street eerily free of vehicles.

Apparently, we had missed the small sign, cloaked by darkness, 30 meters away from our car that read, “Clear Way, 7 to 9 am.”

I’ve never had a car towed in my life, but I’ve seen the signs in the US, threatening $500 fines. This would be much worse than the ill-fated fine we received in the Portuguese toll booth. And we would waste our whole day getting the car out of the impound lot. I imagined having to decode Wellington’s undoubtedly complicated bus system to find the lot in the next town over, where a surly Kiwi with a wool knit stocking cap would be holding our car hostage, demanding to keep our passports in his possession until the check cleared.

Tim and Maikael set out to free the car. The gentleman at the front desk – the absent-minded one who had told us the car was fine until 8 am — called City Hall to help us locate our car. Apparently, it was parked in an unsecured lot just a few blocks away. Not only did the city have the decency to tow it to a convenient location, but a ticket was slapped on the windshield, allowing us to pay the ticket online and take the car immediately. The staggering cost? About $110 NZ, which comes to about $60 US.

Before coming to New Zealand, we were warned about speeding tickets. An Aussie told us that, in 50 years of driving, he had only received two speeding tickets, both in New Zealand. They will zing you for driving one or two kilometers over the speed limit, but apologize profusely while issuing the ticket. Our tow was the equivalent gesture, the embodiment of that famously polite “aw shucks” Kiwi attitude: while they hated to tow us, they would make the whole ordeal as easy as possible.

Just like Wellington’s blustery weather, which can turn on a dime, the day improved quickly. After fortifying ourselves with breakfast at Sweet Mother’s Kitchen, boasting cuisine from the Southern US (the menu helpfully translated: huevos rancheros [ranch-style eggs]), we spent the morning wandering through the city. I expected it to be much larger, but it’s really a collection of cool boutiques, tons of bookstores (at Arty Bees, one section of books was titled, “Whining About NZ/NZ Politics”), funky coffee shops, good pubs, and an eclectic mix of eating establishments (I was bummed that the Maori restaurant had closed). We didn’t have time for the tour of Parliament, but saw its neighbor, the spectacularly ugly Beehive. A modern architecture monstrosity, the Beehive houses office workers who buzz around the concrete, beehive-shaped building, which I expected to be delicate, soft, and creme-colored (maybe with cute little bees painted on the side of the building?), but most certainly isn’t.

Next stop, the Embassy Theatre, which hosted the world premiere of Lord of the Rings. Although it was completely refurbished for the premiere, the outside of the theatre is charmingly unassuming, just like New Zealand itself. Hand-lettered signs, advertising Show of Hands, a new Kiwi flick, as well as the new 007 movie, graced the front of the theatre. An entire New Zealand movie industry has sprang up in the wake of Peter Jackson’s success, most of it based in Wellington, whose second nickname is Wellywood. We flipped through the newspaper, noticing that movies that were released six months ago in the US were finally being released here. Even movies that were opening in Australia when we were there a month ago haven’t premiered here yet. The manager at our hotel explained the connection between lagging openings and a burgeoning film industry: “It takes so long to get movies here that we just make our own.” I was eager to see a Kiwi movie, and Show of Hands was the perfect pick for the day: the movie begins with a meter maid who issues a ticket in the most polite way possible.

The movie was great fun, and we stayed to watch the credits roll to see where it was filmed, which I never do (as it turns out, New Plymouth). As we exited the theatre, people began filtering in. Suddenly, we were approached by an employee cradling a white basket filled with ice cream bars. “Would you like an ice cream cone?” he asked. We thought this was a very odd gesture at the end of a movie, but maybe they do things differently in the Southern Hemisphere, we thought? We stood there, dumbfounded by our luck, and had difficulty choosing between chocolate-covered vanilla or boysenberry ice cream; Maikael studied one of the cones and enthusiastically cried, “Two scoops!” After selecting our cones we thanked the guy profusely; I’m sure we looked like total rubes who had never encountered the mysteries of ice cream in our entire lives. As we made our way out of the theatre, Maikael innocently asked the employee, “So what’s playing next?” It was the premiere of the new 007 movie, and as we made our way into the opulent lobby, we were greeted by a wall of well-dressed people. Finally, we put two and two together: we were in the midst of some super special screening, and the guy had mistakenly thought that we were going into the theatre rather than coming out.

We practically skipped down the street, delighted by our ice cream cones and laughing at our good fortune. It was certainly better than spending the day at the impound lot.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Many people rent camper vans to make their way around New Zealand. The distances are large and towns small, so having a van to live out of for a few weeks makes sense. Our favorite are the Wicked vans, a company that has somehow managed to elevate camper vans to cool status by painting them with hip graphics, from Spy vs. Spy to mock graffiti. When we knew our friend, Tim, was meeting us in New Zealand, we investigated renting a Wicked van to toodle around the country for three weeks. But we quickly learned that their vans are really only suitable for two people. We were scrambling to make arrangements from Bali, with very limited email access, and the folks at Wicked advised us that a third person could be accommodated by “tenting it” outside the van. We quickly dashed off on email to Tim explaining the potential plan: “if we go the camper van route, someone will have to sleep in a tent (i.e., you).”

Our intention wasn’t to force Tim to stay in a tent, nor to sound like heartless jerks. But that’s how it came out, and Tim reports that our email instantly became a joke at work. No one could pass Tim in the hall without saying, “i.e., YOU!” and chuckling to themselves.

Needless to say, the camper van idea quickly died, and we’ve been staying in a random assortment of accommodations throughout New Zealand. When we received an offer to stay in Dunedin, one of the world’s southernmost cities, with Beverly, a former New Mexican who is friends with Jackie, one of our workout pals from our local YMCA, we jumped on it. Although the original plan had been for Maikael and I to stay with her, Beverly graciously offered all three of us to stay in her apartment during our visit to Dunedin.

Dunedin was primarily settled by the Scots, and the town’s name is Gaelic for Edinburgh. It’s obvious to see why Dunedin was selected as a Scottish outpost: rolling green hills surround the historic town center, which is ringed by a lovely harbor. We parked our car outside the Regent Theatre and heard the sound of bagpipes drifting through the streets: this was the Scotland of the southern hemisphere.

Beverly showed us to her apartment, a darling, historic building built by local confectioner Richard Hudson as staff quarters, perched high above town with sweeping views of the harbor. She then graciously handed over her apartment to the three of us, offering to stay at her daughter’s house in “The Harry Potter Broom Closet” during our visit, the kindness of strangers astounding me once again. Maybe we could finally redeem ourselves for that “i.e., you” comment?

After we settled in we made our way to her daughter, Shane’s, house, who had prepared a tres New Zealand dinner: local wine, meat pies, and Pavlova for dessert. We met Beverly’s four grandsons, cool kids who were not only well-mannered, but able to participate in adult conversation. Peter is the oldest at 11, followed by Oliver, Theo, and Linus, the youngest and most extroverted at five. They provided a history of Dunedin from a youthful perspective. We learned that thousands of Jaffas, a New Zealand candy, are raced down Baldwin Street each July, which proudly holds the distinction of the World’s Steepest Residential Street, with a 19 degree slope. They made fun of our goofy American accents, and we egged them on by asking them, “How do you say ‘fish and chips?’” “Fush and chups?” Oliver responded, cautiously.

The boys are real Kiwis; as not-yet-teenagers, they are accomplished outdoorsmen. They sail, run, hike, bike, fish, camp – you name it. They also know to operate a TIG welder.

When we met up with the family the next day, the kids proved they’re made of both brains and brawn. Peter asked us what we thought of the recent US presidential election, weighing in with his opinion of Barak Obama. As we made our way towards the nature-rich Otago Peninsula in the car, Peter asked, “Have you ever been in a protest?” “No,” we responded. “I have!” he said, cheerily. He was clearly opposed to the construction of a new rugby stadium, that would only be used a few days a year. What was wrong with the old one? he wondered. His civic-mindedness overrode an obvious penchant for sports. Kiwis are nothing if not resourceful, caring deeply about making the most of one’s resources. This is the first place in the world where I’ve seen a hybrid taxi cab, painted bright green.

We taught them all about calling “Shotgun!” on car trips which, in retrospect, might not have been the smartest thing to teach four brothers. (Due to our American accents, I’m pretty sure that Linus thinks it’s called “Shutgun,” and will consequently go through life as a pop culture pariah.) Then we passed along “Slug Bug” and “Popeye;” again, teaching four boys a game whose primary objective is punching other people was probably not the smartest thing. When we reached the Royal Albatross Refuge, which shelters these massive birds with three meter (nine feet) wing spans, Tim excitedly told the boys about throwing bread at birds when he was little. Within minutes, Oliver was chucking pebbles at low-flying seagulls. It’s obvious that none of us are parents.

On the Monarch Nature Cruise, we spotted New Zealand Sea Lions, who lounged lazily on the sandy shore. Elephant Seals beached themselves on the rocky slopes, and New Zealand Seals arched gracefully through the water like dolphins. Unfortunately, no Northern Royal Albatrosses were flying, as it was nesting season, but we did spot Royal Spoonbills, with their cupped beaks, and Blue Penguins, the world’s smallest. But the real action was on the boat, where we were teaching Linus “knock-knock” jokes. Of all the impressionable things we imparted, that had to be the stupidest.

“Knock-knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Albert.”

“Albert who?”

“Albert TROSS.”

Repeat ad nauseum for the next hour.

Soon, Linus was making knock-knock jokes using any material at hand. He was a hobo trolling for junk, using whatever he might find to craft a truly terrible joke. If we mentioned a serviette, which we explained was a napkin in our goofy brand of English, we knew that within ten seconds we were going to be offered a knock-knock joke that had something to do with a serviette. “You’ve got to get some new material, man,” Tim encouraged.

After another great meal at Shane’s house – this time Chicken Chile Enchiladas, a reminder of home – we drove to Signal Hill to take in views of the city as eerie, cotton candy cloud swirled overhead in the twilight. We watched the lights of Dunedin flick on all at once, twinkling in the distance. Next stop? Baldwin Street, where we gunned the car to the top of the hill and coasted down the other way, delighting Peter. Maikael, Tim, and Peter commenced a race to the top of the hill. Peter stayed a few paces ahead, winning by just a nose, but Maikael said it was obvious that he could have raced to the top well before any of them. But Peter was a gracious winner, a “no big deal” attitude being the most prized in New Zealand. There is no room for tall poppies here, braggarts who try to prove that they’re better than everyone else. In fact, the whole national attitude is one of “aw shucks,” which is why we like it so much.

Monday, November 3, 2008

When we were in Bhutan, we asked our guide, Dorji, if McDonald’s had arrived in Thimphu, the capital city, yet. “Oh yes,” said Dorji, gravely. “It is the only place in town where you can buy hamburgers. Would you like to see?” I wondered if the hamburgers would be cloaked in chiles and cheese, and if the Playland would be festooned with merry-go-rounds fashioned after prayer wheels. Or maybe the Happy Meals would come with a McBuddha action figure. Instead, we arrived at a small place called The Swiss Bakery, what amounted to a chalet-style cafe, with no iconic golden arches in sight. Inside, we could choose from a menu that consisted of dodgy-looking pastries, coffee and tea, and hamburgers. It dawned on us that, in Dorji’s mind, McDonald’s wasn’t a brand name but an institution synonymous with hamburgers. And since the Swiss Bakery was the only one serving up patties in this neck of the woods, it might as well have been McDonald’s.

We couldn’t bear to let him down, so we ordered a desiccated chocolate cake and settled down at a booth, the only thing that bore any resemblance to a real McDonald’s. Within minutes a Bhutanese woman breezed in the door with a pack of school-aged children dancing in her wake. Her English was impeccable, with a slight British inflection, and the children’s language abilities were equally impressive. These were Bhutanese of a certain class, the ones who go abroad to study and return to cushy government positions. Dorji had told us that they have a propensity towards all things Western, so we weren’t surprised when she ordered a round of hamburgers for everyone. The arrived wrapped in limp plastic steaming with condensation; the whirring of the microwave in the background moments earlier gave a clue as to their heat source. An emaciated patty was sandwiched between a bakery-style bun; there were no vegetables.

As the kids doused their hamburgers in ketchup, they chatted in English. The woman, obviously the mother of the girl dressed in pink, suddenly turned toward me and asked me where I was from. Within moments, the woman, talking a million miles a minute, revealed that she had recently appeared in a Bhutanese film, Travellers and Magicians. Although she worked professionally at the Bank of Bhutan and had never acted a day in her life, she landed a role in the film, and even went to Los Angeles for the premiere, where she was given “the red carpet treatment.” She even got to ride in a limousine. Deki was eager to know if we had seen the film; I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d never even heard of it. “Well,” she sighed, “it was back to Bhutan for me. No more limousines. Just my little red car.” She jotted down the name of the movie and her email address as Dorji approached our table. They spoke a few minutes in Bhutanese, and suddenly she was off.

We watched her make her way out to her little red car as the children piled in. “She was in a Bhutanese movie,” we told Dorji. “I know,” he said, “she told me.” He had never heard of it either.

* * *

Yesterday we found ourselves at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image in Melbourne, a must-see for anyone with an interest in film. Home to a number of exhibitions pertaining to the cinematic world, it also contains a number of theatres that play host to a rotating series of independent films and thematically exciting film festivals. An image of Buddha on a poster caught me eye as we passed by. “It’s a Buddhist Film Festival!” I said. Maikael studied the poster, looking at the list of films that were being screened. “Look what’s playing!” he cried. Travellers and Magicians. We glanced at the dates of the week-long festival: it was ending today. “What are the odds that this film is playing today?” we asked ourselves. Miraculously, its one and only screening of the festival was in a few hours.

The film was the embodiment of Bhutan, and everything was immediately familiar, like a giant memory blowing into my mind. Sweeping scenery, flapping prayer flags, dried chiles, terraced rice fields, gray ghos and colorful kiras, balls of rice, Indian trucks filled with hitchhikers, monks, magic, mystery, and folklore. The opening scene showed three men yelping as they scored an archery victory, and we smiled broadly, remembering the day we watched the Prince of Bhutan play in the national archery semifinals. This audience tittered when one character warned another about ghosts on the highway at night. Unless you’d been to Bhutan, you’d never know that warning was no joke.

The storyline revolves around a government worker who is dying to leave Bhutan for America, and when an opportunity arises he tries to make his way to Thimphu, a journey that takes days from his tiny village and is thwarted at every opportunity. The government worker meets a monk along his journey, and when he tells the monk he is leaving for America, his “dreamland,” the monk warns him against chasing empty dreams. The monk shares a fable with the government worker to illustrate his point, which becomes a parallel storyline.

I squealed when Deki’s unmistakable face appeared on the screen, the starring woman in the alternate storyline. Leaning across my seat I whispered to Maikael, “Can you believe we met that woman?” She was a pretty good actress for a government worker, and we found it ironic that she was starring in a film about the dangers of chasing Western ideals. The film was as much about Buddhism as it was about Bhutan: just as I experienced when I visited, the two things are inextricably bound together. Bhutan is struggling mightily with the encroachment of the Western world; most people used to be relatively happy with their lot, but with television in most homes, people see there is more to want. Buddhists believe the only path to happiness is to desire less.

So there we were, watching a Bhutanese film starring a Bhutanese woman we knew in a movie theatre in Australia, on the only day at the only time it was showing at a one-week film festival. It was all a little too bizarre, and I knew the Bhutanese would say it was no coincidence. We were meant to see that film.

At the end of the screening, a graduate student of Buddhist philosophy, visiting from Sydney, was on hand on answer questions about the film. He wasn’t Bhutanese, but with his shorn head and long, gray robe I guessed he was Buddhist. Someone asked him to give his interpretation of the film, and he stated that the central theme was a struggle between accepting our lot in life and aspiring for something greater. “At the end of the day, do we remain content with what we have, or crazily chase after our dreams? Which is better?” He explained that he wasn’t there to say which one was right, and that Buddhists believe that you have to inquire and question and struggle with yourself to find the right answer; the reason, he explained, why the ending to the film was intentionally left open-ended. “You have to give meaning to your own life,” he insisted.

This Buddhist man had unwittingly summed up the central struggle of not only the film but my own life. For years I have wondered if I should accept the fact that my life didn’t turn out as I had planned and continue with the status quo that I had set for myself, or if I should try to aim for something that’s more in line with who I am as a person. The greatest thing I’m struggling with now is that I don’t have a dream to “crazily chase after.” In the past, I have tried to solve the big questions of my life through occupational means, convinced that choosing a new career would be the key. In fact, I’m fighting not to fall into the same trap again, as new career ideas are percolating in the background.

That night, I had the most vivid dream. I dreamed that I was a substitute teacher for a small, mixed classroom of elementary and middle school children. When I took over the class we were working on an art project that I was helping the kids to finish. As I stepped into this role, largely unprepared, I felt immediately comfortable and at east, as if I had been a teacher my whole life. Suddenly, I found myself in a conversation with my “dream self,” who I can only guess is my subconscious, that great ruler of the dream world. This has never happened to me before.

I asked my “dream self” what this meant. “Does this mean I should be a school teacher?” I asked. “No,” she responded, confident and clear, “it’s a symbol. You will be a type of teacher, but not in a traditional way, or the way you think.” In fact, I have always regarded my role as a counselor as a teacher more than anything. In the dream I was teaching art, and my “dream self” somehow seemed to know that what I would teach people would have to do with creativity.

I’m not sure what the dream means, but I can only guess that seeing that movie unlocked something in me. I am vowing to make a conscious effort to avoid immediately jumping into a new career or endeavor when I return from this trip, to begin a quiet search for the different ways that being a teacher might manifest itself in my life. The astrologer in India told me that I would come into contact with many spiritual people during this year, and so far that is holding true. The path I’m on is invisible at the moment, but I feel my feet are treading on something, real and true.

Friday, October 31, 2008

Today is Halloween, and I’m really bummed to be missing out. Not only is it my favorite holiday, but it falls on a Friday night this year, making it a particularly sad year to be gone: we undoubtedly would have held a big bash. Halloween isn’t a big deal in Australia which surprises me, given the fact that it’s an excuse to party (not that the Australians need one). So I won’t see any sweet kids dressed as black cats, witches, scarecrows, or devils. I can’t pass candy out at the door as the young ones shriek, “Trick or treat!” There won’t be any pumpkins winking at me as I drive through the twilight neighborhoods. And I won’t get to wear a costume, which has always been my favorite part of Halloween; an opportunity to be someone other than who you are. Since this trip has turned into a quest to (re)discover who I am, maybe it’s not a bad thing that I’m missing out on dressing up.

Since there won’t be any sweets to gnaw on tonight, I’ve discovered a new vice: iced coffee in a carton. Ben and Colleen introduced me to this saccharine, caffeine-crazy drink, which can be procured in any grocery store, restaurant, or cafe. In South Australia, iced coffee is wildly popular, outselling Coca-Cola! Rather than spending a princely sum for a dressed up concoction at Starbucks, I can enjoy the same beverage for a fraction of the price. And with summer just around the corner – at least in the Southern Hemisphere – it’s the perfect sweet treat. It’s no substitute for good old fashioned Halloween candy (why do the little packets always taste better?), but it comes pretty close!