EVOLUTION OF A BLOGGER

Back when I was in high school,  I was given a writing assignment that was required to get a diploma.  The project was called "The Grandfather Theme."  We were told about this when we were freshmen, so I had four years to write a story about how my Greek grandfather fled his bombed out village during the war and made his way to America with five children and a wife in tow.   In those days I was more interested in American Bandstand and wearing some guy's class ring than giving the teacher my full attention, so when the time came to turn in our writing project,  I was woefully unprepared.   After watching my friends three-hole punch and bind their masterpieces, I pulled an all nighter and concocted a story that my mother said would make my grandfather proud, even though some of it was made up.

 In college I joined the staff of the school newspaper, and learned what a deadline meant,  but I took it more seriously this time around.   One of my first stories was about a deliberately-set  fire in my college dorm room,  and how all the beautiful clothes my mother bought me for school were pretty much destroyed.   After that sensation,  most of the stories I wrote were about trivial things.  As Stephen King implies in his famous memoir, a newspaper writer I'd never be.  

After moving to California,  I enjoyed documenting my new life out West  in typed letters I wrote to my family when things were slow at work.    Off and on over the years I filled up several spiral-bound notebooks, now called journals, and documented my tears over two painful divorces and my bitterness over nasty comments from egregious bosses.   And yet, I never wrote about the joys in my life, falling in love or  being recognized for a job well done.  

 In one of my first positions out of college I struggled to learn how to take weighty minutes of controversial meetings in the university hospital where I worked.   After a nice promotion,  I was challenged even more with assignments to write complicated position papers, lofty letters of recommendation, and extensive documentation justifying faculty tenure decisions.  When I became a university development officer,  I blew way past my comfort zone and wrote marketing plans, solicitation proposals, strategy memos, and talking points for the university president to use when he asked a potential donor for a multi-million dollar gift.   One of the best things I ever wrote was my speech in celebration of my retirement after 35 years of writing, talking, writing, and talking.

So there I was a retiree who really missed the challenges and enjoyment of writing,  so I engaged in an extensive daily email exchange with a high school girlfriend that continues to this day.  I also wrote unsolicited restaurant reviews on foodie websites and a Christmas letter which probably no one ever got around to reading.   After traveling to a few exotic places, I thought maybe travel writing was in my future, but that notion was quashed when I attended a travel writers' conference  and learned that you weren't accepted for writing a compelling story but were evaluated for submitting a clever pitch.   This process seemed too business like for me, after all I'd been making pitches for years when I was a fundraiser, and now that I was retired, I didn't want any pressure.   So,  I enrolled in a creative writing class that seemed less daunting and more fun.      The teacher suggested writing a story on a subject we knew very well.   For weeks  I spent polishing a 2500 word essay about how I fell apart when my second marriage ended.  Writing about love and all its complicated endings was what I knew best and had years and years of journal entries to prove it.   I thought my essay  was pretty good, but was stabbed in the heart by my classmate critics who told me it needed a lot of work.   After taking their severe criticisms to heart and implementing some of their suggestions, I boldly and foolishly submitted it to the New York Times not knowing that they only accept published authors.

A few years after that I began reading a blog  -- one written by a Hindu friend of mine in collaboration with a Christian and a Jew.  That was the name of their blog "Hindu, Christian and Jew."  They drilled down on heady topics like American politics,  and less heady topics like Things Oprah said in her show that day.    

This year someone suggested I create a blog to document a 2000 mile bike ride I was planning to take with Womantours from New Orleans up the Mississippi River to the Canadian border.   I played around with Google's Blogspot website and created a design, found some wild photos and came up with a catchy name.   BIKER CHICK GONE CRAZY went live with my first post in March, 2012.    

A medical emergency had me off the bike after five days going up  river, so I had to think of other stuff to write about, but I was so consumed by my painful condition that this was all I could think to say.   My topics were pitiful ones, like how sad I was not to be riding my bike.  Then I remembered something  my friend Helen Page at Daily Writing Coach said in one of her instructive posts:   "Stay away from feeling sorry for yourself.  Don't be self-absorbed."  She was talking to me!   I knew I had stories to tell.  I just had to learn how to tell them in my own voice.  In the old days writing minutes of meetings eventually became easy and fundraising proposals and marketing plans were formulaic, but writing a story with a beginning,  a middle and an end and a piece that someone might actually enjoy reading has truly been a creative outlet for me.   I even feel my heart skipping a beat when I click the orange publish box on my Blogspot draft page,  knowing that in a few minutes my story might be read by a stranger in Malaysia, Thailand, Germany or the Middle East.  

A good friend of mine read one of my early blog entries and said, "Your  comfort zone post  is the best thing I've read in a long time.  Keep writing honestly like that and word of your blog will spread."  I had no idea what he meant by "Your blog will spread," but as of today Biker Chick Gone Crazy has exceeded 5000 hits in five months.      The way I look at it,  5000 hits is like making the best seller list -- an unusual form of notoriety that quite frankly bowls me over, and I suspect my posts are mostly read by people I don't know.   Now that I am back on my bike and no longer feeling sorry for myself,  I want to write about topics that lift my heart and not drown my sorrow.   I guess I can now call myself a published writer, but I'm not planning to submit any more stories to the New York Times.  

WHY I RIDE A BIKE

A little more than 18 years ago I was about to turn fifty.   It was not a pretty picture.  I was getting older and needed to do something about my sagging muscles and my mental fatigue from a stressful job.   I found an old bike in the garage I hadn’t ridden in many years, but after a little spit shine and some elbow grease,  I went for a short ride around the block and was relieved I didn’t crash.  I rode eight miles and decided to ride the next day and the day after that.   A few months later I bought a new bike, a sturdier helmet and some stylish spandex,  joined a bike club, made new friends, rode a metric century, then another, took an international tour, and became a cyclist.

Before I rode a bike, I didn’t know I had it in me to be athletic.  I flunked softball and field hockey in high school.   I didn’t know I could be anything I wanted to be and that’s how biking changed my life.  In my early forties I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.  My joints ached and I hurt most of the time.  Walking 18 holes on a golf course was impossible.   Eventually I was put on some new medication and with that I gained some self confidence.  I wanted a new life, so I started to push myself, have fun, and exercise.   Then I found the old bike in the garage and the rest is history.    For years I was a weekend warrior and now I’m considered hard core.   Eighteen years later I have ridden my bicycle thousands of miles in some beautiful places,  like the South Island of New Zealand, Hawaii, the national parks of Utah, the challenging Oregon Coast and parts of bucolic New England where I grew up.  My body feels good most of the time, I’m off the medication, and when asked, I say my fibromyalgia is no longer  

Someone once asked me what was the most interesting thing that happened to me on a ride and this is what I said:

"I fell in love" 

This is the story.  We were just dating at the time.  Wanting to be my constant companion, he bought a bike, a helmet, spandex, the whole fancy retail package.  One day after a wonderful ride together out in the country,  I discovered after we got home that I had left my front wheel by the side of the road after loading the bikes in the car.   We quickly drove back to where we had parked, but the wheel was gone.   I was really upset because wheels are expensive.  When I went to my bike store the next day to buy a replacement, the clerk said,  "A nice man called ahead and gave us his credit card to pay for your new wheel."   This gesture showed a kindness that was totally unexpected but truly appreciated.   Two years later we were married and his kindness remains today.

When I am on my bike, I easily focus on everything around me -- the beauty of being outdoors, how the air smells, the cool breeze blowing on my cheeks, the clicking noise my gears make, and the silence that comes with riding on quiet country roads.  The feeling is hard to describe without sounding cliche.  I wouldn't call myself an athlete, but I love feeling athletic, like the way my body works hard and is under my mental control.  I even like to sweat.  My legs are toned and my friends comment on my muscular calves but are nice enough not to ask me why I'm not faster.  Bike coaches say,  "Pretend you are wiping your feet on a mat and start pulling up at 4 o'clock."  My legs are like pistons, making smooth circles as I push and pull in the clips.  At the beginning of most rides my breathing is deep, loud, and irregular,  but after catching my second wind, my breathing is quiet, smooth, and shallow.  It's almost like I'm not breathing at all because I'm in the zone.   I'm conscious of my surroundings, but at the same time I'm in a meditative state of bliss.   How this happens I really don't know.  Maybe endorphins in the brain or something like that.  

The best part of riding a bike is the feeling of authenticity, being my true self.  No judgment, no self criticism, just being free.   I love when I feel one with the bike and riding in the zone. 

REMEMBERING TIMBUKTU

A Mosque in Timbuktu

I don't remember the first time I heard the word Timbuktu, but I certainly didn't know it was a place, as in a city or a town.   I also didn't know Timbuktu was a special place, an ancient city, situated on the Southern edge of the Sahara Desert in the West African country of Mali.   I thought it was just slang for in the middle of nowhere or out in the sticks.    So, when a friend asked if we wanted to travel to Timbuktu and attend the remotest music festival in the world,  I thought she was kidding.  But she wasn't kidding, she was serious.   Always searching for the exotic, we had no hesitation in saying Yes,  even though we had no idea where Timbuktu was or what to expect.   So that's how I came to visit the ancient city of Timbuktu, a special place which acquired mythical status synonymous with inaccessibility and an end-of-the-world allure.  It was definitely not easy to get to and you felt like you were on another planet. 

I want to tell you about my trip because the ancient city of Timbuktu is in peril as I write.   It's heartbreaking to see what is happening over there.    A few months ago certain military officers overthrew the democratically-elected Malian government allegedly because the government had not adequately dealt with an uprising by nomadic Tuareg tribes in the northern part of the country.  Ironically, shortly thereafter, a struggle erupted in the north between Tuareg rebels and Islamic extremists affiliated with Al-Qaeda, and the ancient city of Timbuktu was caught in the middle.  This insurgency has devastated the city, one of the world's great UNESCO World Heritage sites:  cultural icons and thousand year old religious shrines have been destroyed and people have been stoned to death for violating Shariah law.  Timbuktu will never be the same, certainly not how I experienced it when I visited there in January 2008.

The changes occurring in Mali and specifically Timbuktu make me appreciate the travel philosophy my husband and I adopted when we started traveling in early 2001 -- to visit places that are on the brink of change, whether it be environmental, social or political.  

The three-day Desert Music Festival was the anchor for a 17 day adventure seeing many parts of this extraordinary country.  The trip will remain in my memory as one of the most unusual experiences I have ever had.

Excerpts from my travel journal dated January, 2008......

"Our heads are filled with impressive images of the West African Country of Mali, a place that is struggling on almost every front.  At the same time we are struck by the beautiful spirit and the dynamic of the people who live here."  

"In the capital city of Bamako we experienced the Grand Marche, which offered exotic shopping with fettish stalls of shrunken monkey heads, highly embossed camel saddles, rank-smelling healing herbs offered by medicine men with wild hair do's, and the ubiquitous "Mr. Good Price" who greeted us at every merchant's booth.  Loaded donkey carts wobbled as they weaved their way through the crowded streets along with the masses.  Amid the market din, we watched the constant parade of stunning women dressed in colorful caftans with matching turbans.  Despite their lowly status in life, these elegant women take enormous pride in how they are dressed."

Children of Mali

"A major portion of our travel in Mali was in SUVs,  and we bounced around for many hundreds of miles, much of it over badly rutted dirt roads.  We stopped in a number of small villages and observed a way of life that has not changed much in a thousand years.    Hoards of barefoot children with encrusted noses swarmed around us and grasped our fingers as if to say "Please be my friend."   

Dogon Country

We visited the legendary Dogon people, including a major trek down the rocky escarpment to their unique villages tucked into sandstone cliffs that in centuries past protected them from Muslim invaders and slave traders.   We treasured our conversations with smiling vendors selling coveted Dogon masks and elaborately carved doors, and  we politely declined their generous offers to taste whatever mush was cooking in their heavy iron pots.  We were shocked to learn that women are victims of genital circumcision at age ten by an older woman with a razor blade  and no anesthetic."  

"It seems as though every trip we take tops the last one and Mali  was no exception.  Traveling from Dogon Country to Timbuktu on very rough terrain took over 16 hours.   Dozing and reading were impossible because it felt as though we were driving on a washboard.   The trip involved crossing the Niger River on a small ferry that was only able to carry two or three vehicles at a time, so our wait in line was lengthy but definitely not boring.   Observing the frenzy of a poor life in a tent encampment located on the water's edge was heart wrenching.  Mali is considered one of the poorest countries in the world, and this situation was a validation of the statistic"

One of the beautiful doors in Timbuktu

"In Medieval times Timbuktu was a major commercial hub in a vast camel caravan route for the gold and salt  trade that linked West Africa and the Mediterranean.  It was also a rich intellectual and spiritual center where religious scholars were instrumental in the spread of Islam throughout Africa.  Timbuktu's sandy streets are lined with architecturally interesting 14th century mud mosques with massive wooden doors decorated with silver studs.   Libraries in run-down buildings contain thousand-year-old Islamic manuscripts that sit unprotected on dusty shelves and document Timbuktu's significance in centuries gone by.   The city's isolation from the rest of the world was important in that it served as a seasonal encampment for Tuareg nomads whose traditions and lifestyle have been impeded by recent border and migration rules." 

Pam & Bruce heading for the Desert Music Festival

"To travel from Timbuktu to Essakane for the music festival was a 33 kilometer adventure we will never forget.  We left in the  morning and arrived late at night.  There were no roads, only undulating tracks in the soft deep sand where others had traveled before us.  Much to our dismay only one of our SUVs had a functioning four-wheel drive train even though all four were supposedly guaranteed to work.  As a result,  it was no surprise when three of our vehicles got hopelessly stuck in the deeply rutted sand time after time.  We were within shouting distance of a few passing travelers, but no one had the brawn or the tools to get us unstuck   Up until this point I wasn't too concerned, after all I grew up in the deep snow of New Hampshire where getting stuck was par for the course, but now I was beginning to get a little scared.   The sun was low in the sky, we weren't making much progress, and we were truly in the middle of nowhere.   With no working cell phones, we were very happy and surprised when the AAA of the desert arrived in the form of the Malian Army.  

While my sister-in-law and I  watched the burly guys work on getting our vehicles unstuck,  a man we hadn't seen before appeared right out of the blue.   He was very stooped and his face and body were covered by a well-worn robe.   The only physical feature I could discern were his glazed eyes, and they told me he was pretty old.    He walked slowly towards us not making a sound and extended his bony arm in our direction.  He was holding a metal vial in his hand,  and  I knew from previous travel experiences, he was asking if we had any medication.   Since I usually carry some analgesics in my bag,  I pulled out my Ibuprofen and put a dozen or so pills in his hand.  I pointed to the tablets and held up two fingers hoping he would understand.   "Two pills every four hours," I repeated over and over, although I knew he didn't understand a word I said.  He nodded, and I could tell from the look in his eyes that this was what he wanted.  I dug deep in my purse to see what else I could spare, but when I looked up, the old man was gone, nowhere to be seen.  He vanished as quickly as he appeared.   "Was he a mirage?" I asked  my sister-in-law.  She shook her head and said he was the real deal."
  

Festival Goers

"It was dark by the time we arrived at the desert camp where we were greeted by heart-pounding sounds of rhythmic African music and thousands of indigenous people all wearing their traditional garb.    The scene was pure magic.   Surely this must be a dream.   The next morning after a restless sleep in our group tent, we discovered that we were among a handful of Westerners (mostly Europeans) and surrounded by ethnic groups representing the Tuareg, Bella, and Fulani tribes.  

Tuareg nomad

The Tuareg nomads are often referred to as the blue men because the dark dye from the fabric rubs off on their skin.  They were certainly the most notable wearing their fancy robes and riding exotic white camels.  Their diaphanous head scarves protected their face from the sun, wind and sand, and they sat high on the saddle while riding their white beasts with determination and pride.   The spitting camels were decorated with brightly colored ribbons and gorgeous turquoise leather headbands.     They too traveled for hours to attend the festival but never worried about getting stuck in the sand like we did." 

Bruce's video of Tuareg women dancing 
(sorry for the quality of the video which was challenging to embed)

Dancing at the Festival

What a feast for our eyes.  During the day we wandered around the large campsite with hundreds of white tents and mingled with an array of music lovers and performers.    A market had been set up in the sand where sellers displayed  beautiful Tuareg necklaces, earrings, and silver bracelets,  soft fabric for turbans, and hand-woven spreads and heavy rug-like blankets.  What a shopping bonanza!   There was a small stage and an impressive sound system that had been transported on flat-bed trucks.   Everything here was basic except for this small piece of high tech.    The festival was founded in 2001 as a way to bring the Tuareg culture to the outside world and to expose talented Malian musicians to the masses.  Under hot daytime skies we enjoyed impromptu jam sessions of cluster groups cultivating their individual tribal sounds and dancing hypnotically to the intricate haunting rhythms on indigenous instruments we'd never heard before.   Music is their life and their environment.  I was spellbound. 

As I read through my travel journal, what grieves me most is that the Essakane Desert Music Festival no longer exists.  Mali and Timbuktu have been devastated.   It is too dangerous to live there, let alone to visit.   Music is an expression of freedom for Malians and the Tuaregs, and the festival was its manifestation.  But now their freedom has been ripped from them by terrorists and murderers.  Their culture is being destroyed.  People are dying. Their stories will never be heard.  When you were at the Desert Music Festival, you were one with the people and the people were one with the artists.

Vivid images of what I saw and what is now lost will be embedded in my memory forever.  I will never forget the people of Mali, the beauty and flavor of Timbuktu or the spectacular Desert Music Festival in Essakane. 

"As the sun goes down behind the dunes, we watch the traditional camel races* where thousands of people cheer for their favorite camel galloping across the sand.     Hours later the temperature drops thirty degrees, and we shiver on the cold sand beneath the star-studded sky and listen to the haunting music of these fascinating people.  As you sit on the dunes and take this all in,  something inside of you changes."

*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvn351vh6EM

THINGS I THOUGHT ABOUT SAYING AT THE GYM BUT DIDN'T

"OMG,  your entire body is covered with tattoos.  Arms, legs, chest, and back.  Do you have a tattoo somewhere under those shorts?   You must not like yourself very much."  

"Stop snapping your gum!   You're driving me crazy.  Even though I'm listening to my iPod and there's loud music pumping out of the club's speakers,  I can still hear that gum."  

"You know what?  You are going to end up with a cervical disc problem like I did if you continue to whip your neck back and forth on the elliptical machine."  

"Wipe down the stationary bike, asshole.  No one wants to use it after you've sweated and slobbered all over it."

"OK, we all know you are beautiful.  We also know that you are French, that you speak another language besides English and that you want to impress everyone.   Your exercise partner looks embarrassed.  It bugs me that I don't know what you are saying."

"Ooo-eee,  you stink.  How often do you wash your workout clothes?   Well then, you need to either take a shower before the gym or start using  deodorant.  I can't stand being within 30 feet of you."  

"Hi,  Fun seeing you again today, but I can't waste another hour talking to you.   By the way, I'm tired of hearing about your Morton's neuroma and how you had to sell your stilettos and start wearing old lady shoes."   

"Are you planning to lay there on the hamstring stretching machine all day?  I mean, honestly, if you need to make a phone call, can't you wait until you are on someone else's favorite machine and not mine?" 

"I'm sorry, but this is my spin bike for today's class.  I reserved it with my water bottle and towel before I left to go use the restroom.   Well,  if it's your favorite too, then maybe you should have reserved it before I did."

"If you are a personal trainer and being paid $100 per hour,  shouldn't you be paying attention to your client and not looking at all the hotties working out?" 

BODILY MUSINGS

I know I'm not a kid anymore.   I don't think of myself as old,  yet I do think  about physical changes that bug me.   More often than not I find myself in conversations with girlfriends about various kinds of plastic surgery and whether this is something we would submit to.  Two friends said they would have liposuction in the neck area if they could take sufficient time off from work to recuperate.  Another friend sees her dermatologist every three or four months for Botox injections.  One of my family members had her eyes done, and another buddy had liposuction and now wears a size six.    A friend my same age had her first face lift in her late 40s, a second one in her late 50s and is considering a third,  although I think she looks great the way she is.


A face lift doesn't interest me at all.   I'm 68 and proud of it.  After all I can ride my bike 100 miles per week.  The only cosmetic surgery I would consider is a tummy tuck because I hate my fat rolls and would like to look better in clothes.  But I will never do it, that I'm sure of.   First, I would worry about possible harm to delicate organs in my body.  I also don't want to inflict unnecessary pain on myself and am not interested in the down time required to heal.   And I've seen some horrible botch jobs.  A few years ago I met a wealthy woman on our Arctic trip who must have been a beauty in her youth, but now she looked ten years older than her age because of the deep horizontal creases that spread across her face from ear to ear.    I wonder if she sued her plastic surgeon.  


This morning I heard Terry Gross interview a well known fashion photographer who said he could tell immediately which models had had plastic surgery and which models had not.  Those who had surgery didn't animate easily and lacked visual personality.   Presumably he was talking about face lifts since I don't think smaller hips or larger boobs can animate easily or have visual personality.  He wasn't passing judgment on cosmetic surgery per se, but he did have some comments that resonated with me.  


He said that plastic surgery doesn't change who you are on the inside, although it might make you like the way you look in your clothes.  You could hope that folks might respond to you differently and that friends might even like you more, but it won't change you as a person.  It won't change the way you think.  And it won't make you any smarter nor will people treat you with any more respect.   Any way you want to look at it, it's just a temporary thing because we are all getting old and can't hide it forever.    He said that what's really important is how you feel about yourself on the inside and accepting how you look on the outside .  And to tell you the truth I think that how we feel about ourselves on the inside counts more than how we think we look on the outside.     


Let me know what you think.  

A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE

Nothing should have surprised me.  After all this was Southeast Asia, and we were in a remote corner of Northern Laos, an eleven hour bus ride away from Oudomxay, where our small plane touched down the previous day.   On the itinerary our hotel sounded charming, but instead it was godawful.   There was no hot water for a shower and the mattress felt like I was sleeping on golf balls.  It was a one-eye-open kind of night since falling asleep was impossible with scratching sounds and unusual noises  coming from somewhere above.   Having discovered some nasty looking evidence before shutting off the light,  I figured it was either bats or rats who had taken up residence in our room.

The lodge was the jumping off point for the three-day trek in the mountains to visit Akha tribal villages, the pinnacle of our three-week adventure to Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos with our eight intrepid traveling friends.  We would carry only a few essentials in our back packs and stay in primitive surroundings that very few Westerners get to see.  


For the first mile of the trek, we walked on an easy flat path that crossed a large sugar cane field.  An hour later the terrain changed and we were climbing a steep trail in a jungle of thick forest brush.  Our two Akha guides were short in stature, but carried their lithe bodies with a sense of pride.   The one who spoke English the best explained that we were the first American travelers to do this trip and only the third international group because it was a relatively new joint venture between a German NGO and the local government.   The program, called the Akha Experience,  was established as a way to promote tourism and boost the local economy which, in the past, had depended primarily on the opium trade.    

After several more hours of steep ups and downs on a path with exposed tree roots and loose rocks, we reached a beautiful waterfall where we were promised a special lunch. Tucked in among the boulders below the falls, we saw three villagers, two men and a woman,  cooking food over an open fire.    We startled them with our loud American voices shouting out the Akha greeting we had been practicing all morning.   "Iomamala, Iomamala".    They appeared shy but happy to see us. 


 Lunch was prepared and arranged exquisitely on shiny green banana leaves  that served as a tablecloth.    If there was a tribal edition of Gourmet magazine, this artistic presentation could be on the cover.    There was grilled fish, chunks of sticky rice, wilted greens that looked like fiddlehead ferns,  shelled peanuts,  and some shavings of saffron-colored spices.  We were really hungry due to a meager breakfast at the lodge and a long hike to the falls.  I was eager to try everything except the spices which looked dangerously hot.   I balanced myself on a rock next to the stream and started eating with my fingers.  The sticky rice tasted fine.  I mean how could anyone screw up rice.  Then I took one bite of the fish.  YOWSA!  There was no meat on this fish at all,  only razor sharp bones  that I didn't want to swallow, so I discretely spit my mouthful into the stream and hoped no one saw me.   Then I wondered about the greens.  Were they cooked?  Would they make me sick?   So after four hours of hiking my lunch consisted of peanuts and rice -- plenty of carbs and a little protein, I figured.  No problem.   

The Akha woman in her mid 30s was called Seersut.    She was dressed in a traditional Akha costume -- a red and black long-sleeved embroidered jacket.   All hand made, of course.  The waistline of the matching short shirt hung low enough to show her navel and heavy leggings came down just above her ankle.  Her yellow plastic sandals looked totally out of place,  and I wondered if she traded for them with a tourist.   What really got my attention was her heavy multi-layered red and black woven headdress decorated with colorful beads and weighted down with large silver coins.   As a collector of tribal hats, I coveted this beauty, but learned from our guide that these precious heirlooms are passed down through the generations.  She smiled when I pointed to her hat and gave her the thumbs up.  Despite a language difference, we made a brief connection at some level that I will always remember. 


After lunch Seersut packed the leftover food in a bamboo woven basket which she wore on her back and balanced from a yoke that sat firmly on her shoulders.  She and her fellow villagers set a quick pace up and out of the canyon on a steep slope with no switchbacks.  The ten of us struggled to keep up.     


Our guides took up the rear and we could hear them giggling behind us.  "What's so funny?" someone asked.   "For women with fat legs, you are pretty strong."    We all enjoyed their sense of humor but told them our legs were muscular and not fat.


Further on we came upon a group of men using axes and machetes to clear cut the forest so they could plant rubber trees and rice paddies to sell to the Chinese.  Water buffalos hauled large tree limbs down the steep mountainside on wooden toboggans.  The smaller brush was piled high and torched.  This was my first close up and personal encounter with slash and burn.  I can understand the power of money and the financial desperation of the people, but I couldn't understand how anyone would want to cut down this beautiful forest.  


In preparation for our first village stay, our guide told us about some of the tribal taboos we must respect.   The Akha are animists, more philosophically than religiously and believe that the soul of spirits reside in all things.  The villagers recognize the clear separation between the world of spirits and the world of humans.  While the evil spirits cause disease, accidents, and bad luck, the benevolent spirits bring abundant harvests, healthy sons and good fortunes.


All of us were warned about taking pictures of the sacred village gate which is forbidden because it serves as the boundary between the human and spirit worlds.  We were also told not to take photos of babies because the Akha people believe this will take the baby's soul away, so we were surprised when several women asked us to take photos of themselves holding  their babies.   What unsettled me though was hearing that twin babies are killed at birth because they are considered "ghost children" who bring bad luck to the family and ultimately the village.  This is a catastrophe for the Akha parents who believe they are being punished for doing something bad.  We were traveling in another world. 


After a few more hours of strenuous hiking,  we finally reached Ban Lao Kao, a village of perhaps 50 families.  Our rustic cabin was situated at the edge of the village and looked similar to the other thatched roof huts, except ours was larger and of newer construction.  The Germans built it the previous year to accommodate trekkers like our small group.  There was one large room with ten single thin mattresses lined up on one side,  each with its own pillow and two heavy blankets.   No sheets.  On the other side of the room there was a small fire pit where dinner would be cooked that evening.  At the far end there was an enclosed bathroom with a real toilet seat and a shower with solar heated water.  Outside there was a water filtering system which enabled us to safely brush our teeth and fill our drinking bottles,   The Germans had thought of practically everything we needed except a way to ventilate the smoke from the indoor fire pit where our guide told us they would be cooking an  "American dinner."  

Even though our village stroll took place around sunset,  there was considerable activity underway.  Women with their  betel nut stained lips and red teeth smiled at us as we watched them spin cotton on simple spindles and weave cloth on old-fashioned looms.    


Children with distended bellies played in a muddy water hole.   Pigs and their piglets scampered and grunted while turkeys and chickens scurried and pecked at random piles of garbage and trash.  There were no roads, no stores, no gas stations, no lawns,  just dirt and litter.  Their homes were simple huts built on stilts and livestock lived below.  


The adults didn't show much interest in us initially,  but the children with their wide eyes stared at the two six-foot men in our group who, by comparison, looked like giants.   I wanted to hug these precious little kids, maybe wash their faces or clean their runny noses.  They appeared so innocent knowing very little of  life beyond their tiny village, but they looked as happy as any of the kids I see at home,  maybe even more so because they have so few expectations.    Eventually other villagers gathered around us as our paparazzi-like presence became more of an event.   They delighted us with giggles when they saw their faces on the screens of our digital cameras.    The photo ops were endless.


There were a lot of children living in Ban Lao Kao, a family's hedge against the high rate of mortality.  Babies were wrapped in cotton swaddling and carried at their mother's breast or on their backs.  We didn't sense any modesty from the nursing mothers and learned that once a woman has had a child, she is permitted to expose her breasts in public whether she is nursing or not.


Our guide pointed to two smaller thatched-roof huts down by the stream where a group of teenagers splashed and teased each other while playing in the water.  "We call these love houses," he said.  Boys and girls come here to practice sex before marriage and not always with the one they will marry."  Polygamy, we learned, is quite common within the Akha tribe.   

When we returned to our cabin,  a young man who looked like he might be our cook appeared at the door holding three live chickens upside down by their feet.    I was unnerved by the screaming birds.  I knew what was going to happen.  Yet I really didn't want to know.  Cooking dinner took our guides forever, but eventually we were told to take a seat around the fire on tiny wooden stools.  The soup they served tasted delicious, but when they presented the cooked birds, I cringed.  I'm not in denial about where our meat and poultry comes from, but just a few hours ago I'm sure I saw these same birds strutting around the village looking for food.  Now they were our food.    


The home-made Akha brew was more to my liking, although I coughed and grimaced when the rice alcohol concoction went down the back of my throat.  It was hot and tasted raw.  A second glass was much easier to swallow and for a little while I forgot about those screaming chickens.  


The Akha trek will always be on my list of top ten travel experiences as there was so much to absorb and the experience was very intense.  It wasn't just about hiking in a pristine forest or enjoying an exotic lunch in a remote waterfall setting.  It was about spending time among indigenous people whose lives are 360 degrees different from my life yet their lives still have meaning.   While the contrasts between us are pronounced, at the same time we experience the same thoughts, desires, and emotions they do.  We are the same species and are able to connect on some basic human level.   These are some of the reasons why travel has changed the way I think about the world and why I try and not make judgments nor take anything for granted.

FRIDAY, THE 13TH

Friday, the Thirteenth was my lucky day.  My bike shop called to say that my  reconfigured Trek Madone bicycle was good to go and ready for pick up.   The last time I rode my bike was May 4.    Two months  ago tomorrow I was injected with  Cortisone to reduce the inflammation and the bulging discs in my neck that caused so much pain and forced me off my bicycle in Natchez, Mississippi.  At that time I was cycling my way up the Great River Road to the source of the Mississippi in Northern Minnesota with 28 awesome women.  Since then my healing  has progressed on a reasonable timeline,  but not without some challenges and frustration especially for an active person like me.  For some consolation I can always think of people who are worse off than I am, so I kept feeling sorry for myself at a minimum.  At the same time I was terribly jealous of my girlfriends who were riding their bliss.

Given the positive rate of my recovery,  my PT seemed to think that I could start riding after the Fourth of July.  When the folks in the  shop wheeled out my bike from the storeroom, I winced a little.  The plastic surgery they performed did not look very pretty, but they had followed my instructions to a T.  The  drop handlebars were gone.   In its place was a straight riser bar with new brakes and new shifters in a different position, but just  like the ones I'd given up almost ten years ago when I replaced my hybrid with a road bike.  


Dave warned me that the front wheel might feel a little twitchy since I was now putting more of my weight on the rear tire and less on the front.   "60/40 is what the distribution used to be,"  he said, "but now it's more like 80/20."  He told me I needed to be extra careful on descents and on slippery wet roads.  


 "No worries, " I said,  as I walked out the door to go for a spin.   As soon as both feet were clipped in and I started to move,  I could feel the front tire shake a little.  I felt like I was eight years old again and riding a bike for the first time.   I wobbled back and forth until I got my balance just right.   Oh God, it felt so good to spin my legs again and feel a breeze blowing in my face.  Something wasn't quite right because I felt like a klutz.   My ego was up front and center.  I'm not saying I looked like a racer before, but the drop handlebar position definitely gave me that sense because of the lower position I assumed while riding.    I'd never given much thought to my image on a bike,  after all I'm 68 years old, but I definitely felt like a newbie.   I'll get used to the new configuration eventually, but the ego thing might take more time.


Mike from the shop rode with me for most of my 30 minute ride.  He wanted to check me out to be sure I knew how to use the shifters and the repositioned brakes.   Of course, I was horribly embarrassed to be breathing so hard, especially since we were riding on Foothill which is very flat.   I'd already told another friend I wanted to do my first ride alone, but having Mike along was important so he could see if any adjustments needed to be made.   I preferred holding my hands and arms closer in to the center of the bike and not so far out on the outside.   "That's easy to take care of," he assured me.  "We'll just saw off the ends to make the handlebar length shorter, but not compromise the bar ends that will give you a second position for comfort and climbing hills.


I was breathing hard and sweating a lot because I was wearing a jacket on an 80 degree day.   Mike and I chatted amiably as we rode along.   I was really pushing and pulling the pedals, but I could tell from the noise coming from his wheels,  he wasn't pedaling much.  We were going 9 or 10 miles an hour at the most.  


My butt  felt right at home in the saddle and by the time  my ride was up,  I'd pretty much figured out how the shifters worked.  My neck didn't give me any trouble and my legs felt o.k. which surprised me given how little exercise I've had in the last few months.   Later on that day I felt some minor twinges in my neck, but I couldn't tell whether this was from the ride or a new exercise I stupidly incorporated at the gym earlier that day.     Today I feel fine.  


I don't care what anyone tells me, my bike doesn't look as pretty as it used to.  The blue bar tape that matched my bike is gone, replaced by a black straight metal bar that looks industrial and far from sleek.    But that's the way it's gonna be and I'll just have to get used to it.  But more important than how the bike looks is how the bike behaves and how my neck feels.   By the time the 30 minutes were up, the twitchiness of the front tire didn't seem to be an issue.  At least it wasn't as noticeable.   I harkened back to the time when I converted from a hybrid to a road bike and remembered how quickly it took me to feel comfortable, so I know adjusting to my new handlebars is just a matter of time.