One of the oldest pilgrimage sites in Nepal, Swayambhunath is sacred to both Buddhists and Hindus alike. Tourists come from all over the world to see the sacred temple and the monkeys who live there.
The wind off the Caribbean whips at the shore and carries wisps of my hair on the breeze. The salt air cools skin sticky with humidity and brings repeive from sun that bears down through breaks in clouds.
A neatly narrow and slightly elevated wooden boardwalk carries us over the sand winding through little shops and restaurants. Bright colors jump out of shop fronts while someones grandmother sits on the porch with a handweaving loom fastened around her waist, diligently making pieces of woven fabric in colors so bright they seem to sing. The bass in the ever present reggae music pounds somewhere down by the water, while tourists sink into the heavy limestone sand. Handcarved rosewood bowls and oil paintings are watched over by small eager dogs who’s owners hang nearby in hammocks.
We are hungry and our stomachs beg us for something familiar, something easy and simple. Around the bend and behind the orange hibiscus, there is a litte wooden house on stilts, icicle lights adorning the front porch. Men are hanging loose in the doorway, sagging from the heat and barely propped up by the porch railing. Inside, a pizza oven turns out circular dough baked to crispy, golden perfection, cheese bubbling on top as the conveyor belt delivers our hot, familiar desires one by one. Rick’s Cafe is the new endever of Boston native Rick, who has been cooking in Placencia for 7 years. He also offers pasta, subs, and some really fine looking, fresh chopped and tossed salads, rare to the area. Oh, and beer and wine. We are suddenly beyond grateful to the knowledgable staff at the SeaSpray hotel, who looked in our eyes, saw our hearts, and sent us to this little slice of home. It really doesn’t get much finer than front porch dining in a little wooden house overlooking a charming boardwalk on the Caribbean Sea.
Later, we rush the door of the gelato shop like a sweaty mass of super fans pushing their way toward some star, or just regular folks seeking respite from the sweltering heat. As we pile inside the angels sing and the air cools our glistening skin. Tiny mounds of sweet frozen perfection hold us captive in their air conditioned lair, before melting too quickly over our tongues. Tuttifrutti Gelateria is run by Tiziana and Lorenzo, a couple from France, and if it’s not the best gelato in the world, you’d never know it.
TuttiFrutti Gelateria
We are here for several days and lobster is in season, and abundant. I never did have just plain good ol’ boiled lobster, cracked, sucked and dipped in drawn butter, but I did have it a few new ways. Creole lobster served with a neatly formed pyramid of steamed rice, stewed beans to the side and a kind of cubed tomato Creole sauce baked on top of large and luscious chunks of meat. A challengingly large lobster burrito stuffed with fresh lettuce and cheese into a perfectly thick homemade flower tortilla covered with salsa. Grilled and seasoned, served with dirty rice and macaroni salad. But my favorite, the lobster tacos, comes later.
It’s early and the masses are still sleeping off hangovers, licking their wounds from youthful debauchery and a night of idiocies leading to the drunken debacle of my roommate, who single handedly woke the entire hotel in her intoxicated belligerence (a common occurrence). The wind is blowing with all it’s might across this tiny Belizean peninsula, palm trees threaten to throw coconuts from their boughs, and the ocean is restless and angrily turns up sand from it’s bowels while ships sit docked.
I welcome the strong wind hurling salt air and sand fragments at my skin. It is refreshing and helps me wake after a night of little sleep. I am also grateful for the empty streets and dark buildings. For a while, it’s as if I’m the only one here, queen of the road, sole worshipper of the rising sun. It’s peaceful and stark. Slowly, the birds begin chirping and the first signs of life appear, bright eyes and bushy tails emerge from hidden paths. A woman out for a run, a couple looking for an early bird coffee shop.
A cup of joe, and a smoothy of fresh Belizean fruit are set on a heavy wooden table painted with flowers. The prospect of lobster for lunch creeps into my mind, and I can taste the sweet, tender meat.
Lunch: lobster tacos. Often simplicity rises above complexity raising a victorious hand as the crowd cheers and whistles. This was the case with my splendid lunch. Five white corn tortillas, crispy and browned on the edges, soft and pliable in the middle, wrapped into cylinders and neatly lined up on the plate. A small steel sauce dish holds chopped and marinated carrots, onions, and green peppers, but they are of no concern to me. I pick up a delicate and steaming tortilla whose damp middle sags between my fingers and know I must be gentle. In the first bite, the crispy toasted edges crackle between my teeth, linger, and give way to the crunch of finely chopped and marinated cabbage. Then the first taste of lobster. The tender meat resists for just a moment before bursting into perfectly salty, sweet juices, disintegrating across tastebuds…
Cumberland Steam Engine Photo by Caroline Blizzard
The ghostly whistle of a lonesome train floats into the thin night air and frees my restless heart from its cage.
Somewhere in the near distance, tracks laid on the land by the hard toil of men nestle themselves into the soft earth with the shimmy and shake of each passing giant, leading men to freedom and hope.
Brisk nights nip at the heals of days filled with toil and purpose, while visions of grandiose lives and forgotten tycoons tug at the corners of wandering minds.
The train’s whistle seeps into the night and into our dreams and into our hearts, at once embracing us as captives yet freeing us as dreamers.
“Pull over immediately!” It’s the year 2000 and my band and I have just embarked on a three-month tour. For the U.S. leg, we’re driving a sweet but sketchy 1948 GM Greyhound Bus that we have converted into living and working quarters. This thing is awesome! It’s a double clutch with no power steering, and it takes two of us to turn the steering wheel. Our touring comrades are Boo!, a popular South African band that we have to pick up at the airport in some cornfield town in the Midwest. So around and around we go, circling the airport, waiting for our travel weary friends to arrive. I’m sure you can imagine the scene we’re making, and the surprise of the poor town’s people who have clearly been descended upon by delinquents meaning to uproot their very beliefs. Suddenly we hear the bullhorn, “Pull over immediately!” Well, when you’re driving a bus that’s hard to turn and you are in fact maneuvering around a circular pattern, that’s not the easiest request in the world, but we made it. Eventually. All we can think about is what kind of ticket we’re going to get, and how many day’s per diem we’ll have to sacrifice to pay it. That’s food! Luckily, our band leader has been blessed with the gift of gab, and when the cop’s ears get tired, we get back on the road, find our friends, and wander away free of fines. I guess they decided we weren’t Breaking the Law after all!
As the first light of day stretches across the ground, a sharp and sobering pain shoots through my heart, radiating to the ends of my being. There is no warm, fuzzy, loving cat next to my pillow. Nothing to pet when I wake up. Nothing to brighten the first moments of the day. She is not down drinking water because I’ve taken too long to rise. She is not staring at me, just waiting for my eyes to open. She is not here at all. And she will never be here again.
The paralyzing pain begins immediately. Before my eyes are open all the way, it knocks me clear on my ass. This morning I will not go to the kitchen to warm her food then coax her into eating it from my finger because she has been getting sick, and become afraid of the bowl. She will not warm herself in the sun at my feet, stretch that good cat stretch, then force her old bones into limberness to play like a kitten for a moment, if only a moment. No. I will go by myself to face the day. I will sit alone in the silence of my living room and beg for mercy from my heart.
Her Favorite Toy
For almost 16 years I have woken in the same way. I may have woken to heartbreak from lost loves, or friends and family who have passed on, crushing blows, flattened hopes or dreams, but I have woken nose to nose with a tiny creature determined to resuscitate my heart and make it beat again. Like CPR for the soul. Eleven pounds of boundless love…for me.
Travelin’ Cat!
I know, this is the part where you say, “You foolish woman, be grateful! Few people have had it so good!” And I know. You’re right. And every day, particularly in the last few years, I’ve made a point to let that little beast know that she was loved, and beyond which. She was no beast of burden, that is sure; less it be the burdens of the heart. She was loved and she was spoiled, and because she traveled with me, we had adventures few cats have with their owners. I never had any children, just her. Together we went 20-plus times across the U.S.. She’s flown on a plane, and even been on a ferry. She’s a well-traveled cat. Was. More worldly than many folks. She used to sit on my lap or on my shoulders, and just watch the world go by, sniffing the wind or laying in the sun. But none of that makes it any easier.
And she was a bad-ass, bad to the bone. She moved like a panther, kind of strutted in this sleek, stealth way, ruler of everything that was. She was a fearless and mighty panther, and had no idea she was just house-cat size. She had a habit of corralling large dogs, and chasing them into submission. She would stand on chairs so she was tall enough to look down at them, then swat their noses until they bowed down to her. In her mind she was the alpha and omega, and every other being was going to bend to her will. Occasionally you read about a cat who has taken on a bear and either won, or sent it cowering. She is without question, one of those cats, she just never had a chance at a bear. And me? I’m rather stubborn myself, and we had to lock horns several times over who was in charge. But the winner, is really still in question.
Snow PantherChillin’
I’ve cried for her several times in the last year when I knew she was sick, and old, and nearing the end, but that doesn’t make it any easier. She has had some outrageous struggles, but an iron will to live. Never before have I seen an animal so resilient and so determined to live. Several times I thought we were facing the end, then I’d just add a little love and she would fight her way back. She’d start playing, asking for catnip, and climbing her scratching post, then she’d want to go out in the sun, sprawl out and watch the birds.
Kitty Pillow
And she would always, always sleep by my head, curled in the crook of my arm. If it got too late at night and I was still up, she’d tell me it was time. She would move toward the bedroom in increments and wait patiently until I followed. My husband would come and kiss me goodnight, then she would take her spot by my pillow, but if he came back in the room a second time, he was not allowed near me. She would stand for no interruption of our time together. Once we had had an hour or so of cuddling time, he was allowed to join us, but not before. After all, she had been with me over twice as long as he has. We were blessed with an inordinate amount of quality time together, but that does not prepare a person for something like this.
Such expressions!
I got her when she was three-days-old. Her mother was killed by a car. I kept her on a heating pad until her eyes opened. With a cat that young, you must keep them warm and feed them every four hours with an eyedropper or a needleless syringe. It does not matter that you need 8 hours of sleep, they need milk. You must teach them everything just like their mother would have. To teach them to clean, you take a damp cloth and wipe their fur until instinct kicks in and they get the idea. And they have to stay warm. Monster often stayed warm in the mouth of a large Rottweiler who belonged to a friend. She would pick up the tiny kitten, put her on her tongue, and close her mouth, leaving just a crack for air. The first time, we thought the dog had swallowed her, but she was just exercising her motherly instincts. Perhaps that is why Monster was not afraid of anything. That was almost 16 years, and many adventures ago, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
My Beautiful Girl!
Now I must brave the days, armed with pictures and memories: warm and loving moments with an animal too human to truly comprehend. But the minutes drag on in unbearable silence. An emptiness so expansive it fills the room and pushes the air out of my lungs. Now, only from the computer screen or my phone, do those intense green eyes look straight into my soul and comprehend with unwavering love and compassion, the state of my being.
Some will say a tiny creature just like Monster opened their eyes to unconditional love. Others will tell you it had always been there, but some similar little companion had opened their hearts to it, and let them accept it. I guess that’s another way of saying the bond between human and animal can be extraordinary if you allow it to be. Despite the current debilitating pain, when I am healed enough, I will jump in again with reckless abandon and let another little beastie right in to smooth my faults, warm my days, catch me when I stumble, and love me when I fall…and all other minutes of our existence. There will never be another Monster kitty, but there will be some other little creature with it’s own foibles and triumphs, and when it’s time I will welcome it. Because I know Monster would want me to be happy. Until then, I’ll have to contend with the fact that my husband does not want to be “petted”, and I will probably get a few sideways glances for trying anyway. 🙂
My baby is gone forever, but she will live un-flickering in my heart and in my thoughts. I am proud to have had such a companion, and I am better for it.
We set out across the great U.S. almost three weeks ago, propelled by a burning sense of adventure and the open and welcoming arms of I-40. Nashville to Los Angeles, we made our way through Elvis’s home, land of BBQ and the blues, across the dangerous waters of the ol’ Mississip’, and on through Little Rock and the fine evergreens. Past the small town neighborliness of Arkansas we moved through to the Great Planes of Indian Country.
Cherokee fine art, OK
Oklahoma, home to many, many Native tribes, is a state whose name literally means “Red People” in the Choctaw language. We stopped at the KOA in Cherokee to stay the night and see some of the beautiful and intricate art and handiwork of the local Indians. In the Cherokee Trading Center we found picturesque scenes depicting old and new ways of life for a people bound to the freedom of the wide open sky, the prairie grasslands and the red earth mesas.
Cherokee fine art from the Cherokee Trading Post, OK
Amarillo by morning Up from San Antone Everything that I’ve got Is just what I’ve got on
“Amarillo by Morning” by George Strait
Sour Mother Pucker
In this part of the country the drive is long and lonely without much of anything around except a hundred miles of signs leading to the Big Texan in Amarillo, a place otherwise known as home of the 72oz. steak, which is free, as long as you can eat it all! Men from all over the land have tried and failed, and the record is held by a skinny little lady, who devoured it in four minutes! With a shooting arcade, a brewery, a nice gift shop, and giant everything, the place is well worth the stop even if you’re not going to belly up to the challenge. The food is good and growlers of home-made brew are available to take home. I recommend the ‘Sour Mother Pucker’, which is surprisingly good considering it harkens to something like Sour Patch Kid ale. A stop at the Big Texan definitely breaks up the monotony of the vast land imbued with the wanderings of tumbleweeds.
Shooting Gallery
Safely through Tornado Alley, we moved into the Navajo Territory of New Mexico, a state that takes it’s name from early Spanish colonization. However, New Mexico was inhabited long before the Spaniards came. Paleo-Indians settled in that area of the Great Plains at the end of the last Ice age, roughly 18,000-8000 B.C., when brave men hunted mastodons with arrowhead spears. Somewhere around the 1500’s, when Mexico was called New Spain, the Spaniards named the area New Mexico for the Indian population which reminded them of the Mexica people in Central America. Later in the 1800’s, Mexico was named.
Sunset over red earth mesas
The flat-topped mesas of red earth continue in Arizona as does the wide open sky, which makes sunrise and sunset equally thrilling. Here we kept our nose to the grind stone and kept pace with the big rigs and over the road drivers. Our Arizona outing was a quick but memorable trip to the Meteor Crater site. Somewhere around the time when those Paleo-Indians were fighting mastodons, an iron-nickel meteor hit Arizona at 40,000mph and made a crater 550 feet deep and large enough to fit 20 football fields on it’s floor. It lifted the earth up and created high ridges around the hole.
A small piece of the iron-nickel meteor!
Pedal to the metal we made it ‘home’ by nightfall and just in time to see the beautiful Santa Monica sunset! But this was only the first leg of the journey. After a great party, we headed to the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Ariz., then on to Corpus Christi, Texas, and on the New Orleans, La.
Filling in the gaps; the posts that weren’t posted…
Tuesday June 3rd 2014
“Meditation is bringing the mind back home, and this is first achieved through mindfulness…Once an old woman came to the Buddha and asked him how to meditate. He told her to remain aware of every movement of her hands as she drew water from the well, knowing that if she did, she would soon find herself in that state of alert and spacious calm that is meditation.” -Sogyal Rinpoche from “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying”.
On a bright sunny day, the new volunteer and I spent 2 ½ hours climbing the steep hill to the monastery. When we arrived, we found the place in a state of busy commotion. Sherpa women had taken over the kitchen while Cook and many of the other monks were busy working around the grounds. The monastery had begun to prepare for their visit from the high lama, which marks the beginning of the Dumje Festival. The High Lama Dagri Rinpoche, travels to all the monasteries in the region during the summer; the Dumje Festival follows him and takes place wherever he is.
Tired from our climb, we headed to the kitchen and set our things down. Almost immediately, there was in front of us, the bottomless cup of milk tea we’d come to love. In this region, it’s everywhere, and it is not uncommon to have drunk 6 cups before lunch. It was midday and the drums, chanting, and bells of puja (prayer) could be heard on the mountaintop. Normally, puja only takes place in the early morning and in the evening, but today, practice has started in preparation of the festival.
Curious, we hung in the doorway trying to see what was happening in the sacred prayer room, when the Sherpa woman in charge invited us in. What a huge honor! We were now right in the middle of a very special puja session with all the senior monks, a few nuns from a nearby monastery, and a select few young monks. We were ecstatic to be allowed to participate. As we joined the monks, we took up the lotus position on the long low benches that ran the perimeter of the room. The air was thick with incense and the very low monotone chanting of the monks. Bright colored cloths covered the walls and ceiling, and were accompanied by many pictures of lamas wrapped in prayer scarves called katas. On the back wall sat a huge gold statue of the Buddha in lotus position. He took up the majority of the wall from floor to ceiling and was surrounded by incense, flowers, milk tea, pictures of high lamas, katas, and offerings of food and drink. As the monks chanted mantras, the Sherpa women would come in, get on their knees, slide their hands forward on the ground until they were lying down, rise, and repeat. Then they would come and pour steaming milk tea in everyone’s cup.
I was told when it comes to monastic life, some monks put all their effort into becoming enlightened beings, while others spend the majority of their time doing chores and helping around the grounds. I knew immediately which of my young monks were following the path of the Buddha, and it was an absolute honor to be allowed to participate in the rituals of those actively seeking enlightenment. As we sat cross-legged I remembered that this was the chosen position because it is considered rude to point your feet at people, and especially at the Buddha or the pictures of the Dalai Lama and other lamas. Despite the pain in my hips, I was able to center myself and do some meditation. What an incredible experience to get control of the mind and thoughts, and meditate in the midst of these Holy Beings in their best form, chanting mantras that have existed for thousands of years! Every hit of the gong and drums shook the thin air to vibration, and the rays of sunlight seemed to beam brighter as they made their way through the old dusty windows, the lingering smoke of incense, and the steam of the ever-present milk tea. Even an outsider stifled by ignorance could feel the sacred abundance of life and ritual here.
Prayer flags and stones on the hike to Pema Choling Monastery, Everest Region, Nepal
Filling in the gaps; the posts that were not posted…
Sunday June 1st 2014
I am still sick and sitting very still in the sunny yard, watching the wind push the clouds above while it moves my hair, my clothes, the grass, and everything around me. Suddenly, the other female volunteer comes running into the yard, rushes up the steps, then pauses for a moment and asks what I’m reading. After I reply, she says, “That’s great! Wish I had time to read!” then runs up the rest of the steps and disappears in a hurry. I think to myself ‘Yes, but I am here to be still and reflect, what are you here for?’ I have begun reading “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” by Sogyal Rinpoche. It talks about something he calls “active laziness” which manifests in very different ways depending on the culture. In the West, we keep ourselves so busy and bustling around, that we never have time to reflect, thereby avoiding our fears. The tragic side effect of this habit, is that we also rush through all the beauty around us, the wonderful moments as well. Most often we miss them completely, thinking we’ve arrested our minds and bodies long enough to participate, but because we’ve not actually trained ourselves to slow down, we are not actually able to do so. That is why the Tibetan masters refer to Westerners as “beautiful living corpses”.
In 2008 I read a series of ‘based on real story’ books that were part of the “The Way of the Peaceful Warrior” saga, written by Dan Millman. The series was accompanied by self-help books. At the time, I had no idea that the thoughts and practices were born of the Buddhist philosophy and tradition. I followed exactly the suggestions, and it was one of the most peaceful times in my life. It is said that once the concept is grasped, it is not uncommon for one to lose hold of it, and that I did. Not knowing where the ideas had come from, I had no way of pursuing further knowledge, but there were some meditation apps on my phone and I started using them. Over the years, I slowly started becoming aware of traditions that included masters and enlightened beings. Then, in a required Comparative Religions class that turned out to be absolutely amazing, I was introduced to some of the religions to which these philosophies belonged. Long story short, I wound up in Nepal studying Eastern Philosophy and some of the religions and cultures it lives in.
Excerpts and ideas about the mind and the nature of mind, from the “Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” by Sogyal Rinpoche:
“The mind is the universal basis of experience, the thing that creates both happiness and suffering.”
According to Tibetan Buddhism, there are two fundamental parts of the mind. The Ordinary Mind (Sem in Tibetan), and The Nature of Mind (Rigpa in Tibetan).
The Ordinary Mind is the part of our mind that looks outwards, reacts to outside influence. It is the troublemaker, the thing that is constantly judging, comparing, wanting, scheming, and bringing us suffering. As Sogyal Rinpoche writes “Sem can only function in relation to an external reference point. Sem is the mind that thinks, plots, desires, manipulates, flares up in anger, that creates and indulges in waves of asserting, validating, and confirming it’s ‘existence’ by fragmenting, conceptualizing, and solidifying experience. The Ordinary Mind is the ceaselessly shifting and shiftless prey of external influences, habitual tendencies and conditioning: the masters liken sem to a candle flame in an open doorway, vulnerable to all the winds of circumstance.”
The other fundamental part, The Nature of Mind (Rigpa), is a little more difficult to understand. It is the part of the mind that looks inward. Sogyal Rinpoche says Rigpa is “Simply your flawless, present awareness, cognizant and empty, naked and awake.” I understand it as the moments of clarity, the epiphanies that come through when all the mental noise stops, and the feeling and wisdom you experience when you are truly one with what you are doing, but I am a novice.
Thursday June 19th 2014 Chitwan National Park (Sauraha, Nepal)
Lookin’ Rough
Better known as the day I got Amoebic Dysentery, heat stroke, and was relieved of my phone and all communication with the outside world. Don’t worry, I’m on the mend – up and walking around with a good bit of energy restored. I got very lucky and had the most wonderful, amazing doctor!
Short nose croc
5am: I’m not feeling my normal self, but drag out of bed to the jungle walk anyway. 2 guides, 2 Americans, and 3 Chinese go lurking through the jungle in Nepal early in the morning. The ungodly heat has not yet enveloped the day and we are bright eyed with the prospect of real wild life. A crocodile sits on the opposite bank of the river. There are long and short nose indigenous crocs in the region, the latter being rather fond of human flesh. As we go creeping along a well-worn path we are entertained with whispered stories about the demise of guides. Just last week, a wild elephant bull killed a guide. A week before that, a guide had a group who was interested in water buffalo herds. Water buffalo are rather tame and in many parts of Nepal, are kept as domesticated pets who provide milk and cheese. Behind the water buffalo herd was a mother one-horned black rhinoceros with her baby. The guide failed to notice her, was speaking in a very animated manner, and ended up paying with his life. We hear some rattling and something drops from a tree: monkeys. Through the Tarzan worthy vines and tropical trees we see the very still bodies of spotted dear. As we move clumsily along the trail, the heat starts to press down through the shade of our thick green canopy. Suddenly, we are stopped and silenced. A few yards from the trail on which we stand, there is a swampy looking pond covered in lily pads. Staring at us from the edge of the pond is a huge black one-horned rhinoceros and her baby. Is this the one? In the middle of the pond there is another, mostly submerged rhino trying desperately to escape the heat, which is just beginning.
Black Rhino
7am: The seven of us jump in a long wooden canoe with a driver and head down the river. One of the sides has somehow lost a few inches and makes me a bit nervous as I watch the tainted water ride a few centimeters from the top. There are definitely some landlubbers in this boat and it starts to rock as they make jerking movements from side to side! Aaaahhhh! With cameras poised, they lean against one side or another throwing our balance off. The water comes pouring over the short edge! As it is, we are sitting really low and have literally a few centimeters of wood keeping us from going down. The guides speak firmly and say not to make such an easy meal for the crocs. Egrets and cranes fish in the tall swampy grass next to shore and we see plenty of kingfishers emerge from holes drilled in the sides of the banks. We go through some rapids, but make it to shore without too much incident.
Jungle CanoeTharu Life on the River
11am: I take a stroll around town and end up making friends with a bunch of old ladies. The Tharu are an indigenous people here. They migrated here some 350 years ago from India, but like the Sherpas, nobody knows why. They inhabit the entire terai region of Nepal, which spreads from east to west in the southern part of the country that runs alongside India. This area was wrought with Malaria until 1951, and the Tharu were the only residents, as their entire culture is unaffected by the disease. It’s now harvesting season and many people are in the streets preparing their crops. The older women all wear traditional tattoos from their hands to their elbows, and from their feet to their knees. This is how I make friends. We have very little way to communicate, but we are smiling, laughing, and inspecting each other’s artwork. They are more than pleased to take pictures with me, and they are beautiful. Compared to most Nepalese, the women are very dark with big bright smiles. They are adorned with lots of jewelry and the most gorgeous clothes. It does not matter whether they are going to work in the field or in the kitchen; they dress to the nines in their traditional clothing everyday. I can’t explain how beautiful, warm and welcoming they are.
Tharu WomanTharu Traditional Tattoo
12pm: I am ecstatic over discovering this indigenous people and the new friends I’ve made, but I am beginning to feel extremely weak so I rest.
3pm: Elephant safari time. A very fast ride in the back of a pickup over fields renders me unmovable. The gas fumes are overwhelming. I can’t ride the elephant much less stand. After returning very ill to the hotel, I tell the owner and manger that my phone came out of my pocket in the truck and could he please get it. I’m going to rest; I don’t feel well.
Then come the longest 15 hours of my life: I cannot stand, it is 120 degrees and I have a terrible fever and chills. I’m sure my temp is at least 104. There is no circulation in my hands or feet, they are white, my face is green. My entire body is racked with pain. My joints feel as if they are all broken. I have no water, and I have not shown up for 3 meals. Nobody comes. I have no phone and no way to communicate. I literally think this is the end. I’m hallucinating mildly, but come up with a plan. If I can just get the notebook out of my backpack on the other bed, write a note “HELP! I need a doctor…and water”, and put it outside. It took me 3 hours to prepare to do this, and when I did it, it was like climbing Everest; I’ve never done anything so difficult. Then I wait…
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The paralyzing pain begins immediately. Before my eyes are open all the way, it knocks me clear on my ass. This morning I will not go to the kitchen to warm her food then coax her into eating it from my finger because she has been getting sick, and become afraid of the bowl. She will not warm herself in the sun at my feet, stretch that good cat stretch, then force her old bones into limberness to play like a kitten for a moment, if only a moment. No. I will go by myself to face the day. I will sit alone in the silence of my living room and beg for mercy from my heart.
And she was a bad-ass, bad to the bone. She moved like a panther, kind of strutted in this sleek, stealth way, ruler of everything that was. She was a fearless and mighty panther, and had no idea she was just house-cat size. She had a habit of corralling large dogs, and chasing them into submission. She would stand on chairs so she was tall enough to look down at them, then swat their noses until they bowed down to her. In her mind she was the alpha and omega, and every other being was going to bend to her will. Occasionally you read about a cat who has taken on a bear and either won, or sent it cowering. She is without question, one of those cats, she just never had a chance at a bear. And me? I’m rather stubborn myself, and we had to lock horns several times over who was in charge. But the winner, is really still in question.
I got her when she was three-days-old. Her mother was killed by a car. I kept her on a heating pad until her eyes opened. With a cat that young, you must keep them warm and feed them every four hours with an eyedropper or a needleless syringe. It does not matter that you need 8 hours of sleep, they need milk. You must teach them everything just like their mother would have. To teach them to clean, you take a damp cloth and wipe their fur until instinct kicks in and they get the idea. And they have to stay warm. Monster often stayed warm in the mouth of a large Rottweiler who belonged to a friend. She would pick up the tiny kitten, put her on her tongue, and close her mouth, leaving just a crack for air. The first time, we thought the dog had swallowed her, but she was just exercising her motherly instincts. Perhaps that is why Monster was not afraid of anything. That was almost 16 years, and many adventures ago, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
Adventures Of a Bohemian 