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Die for your dreams

A few weeks ago while walking downtown to meet a friend for an afternoon coffee, a stranger asking for directions approached me.  At least, that’s what I thought he wanted. Pulling out an ear bud, I paused and waited for his question.  After a few seconds, he conceded that he didn’t have one – he just ‘thought I was cute’ and that ‘we should chat’.  And so, in spite of the sweltering heat,  two strangers slowed down and quickly uncovered some commonalities. 

Will had come to Toronto from Germany to figure out what he wanted to do with his life, a quest that was currently being conducted from the couch of a friend.  I had just returned to Toronto, fully engaged in a similar quest, based from my brother’s couch.  Both of us had professional degrees, had traveled extensively and were deeply committed to finding a meaningful place in the world.

The day before, Will got a tattoo.  As our conversation progressed, he rotated his forearm to give me a better view.  In gothic script it read ‘die for your dreams’.  Of course this pleased me greatly – not live, but die for your dreams - what verve!

Since our encounter, I’ve thought about these words a lot.  First, the fact that I was sought out by a stranger who had tattooed on his body a message whose essence I have adopted as a mantra reaffirms my strong belief that somehow we are all connected.

Secondly, I’ve been reflecting on the power of such a statement.  It demonstrates a willingness to put all of yourself on the line for something.  I’ve always admired that type of determination and in some ways have been waiting for the ‘something’ that would put me to that test.  That Will, who is still searching for ‘something’, is so unapologetic in his commitment to this search is inspiring.  What does it matter what your dream is? We are all going to die, that is for certain.  But what if in the meantime we all gave ourselves permission to put every ounce of our energy into things that we believe in and that inspire us? What if we died for our dreams?

Let me be the first to acknowledge that living this way would be extremely hard.  In fact, I consider it the challenge of a lifetime.  But I am back in Toronto and working to live up to it, beginning a path filled with uncertainty and requiring me to be more honest, genuine (and, frankly, brave) than I ever have been.  Every morning I wake to a call to action that is inked into a forearm of a kindred spirit somewhere on this planet.  Every other morning it alternates between sounding totally insane and intensely worthwhile.

I started this blog as a way to let those interested in my travel adventures get a sense of where I was going and what I was doing.  Each time I’ve moved overseas, I’ve renewed my commitment to it.  Looking back, it’s clear that although the scenery has changed a lot, the stories have always been about the people and thoughts evoked by the experiences I’ve had rather than about the places themselves.  Luckily, as the random conversation I describe here suggests, those stories happen everywhere, a place where I always am.

Fittingly, I think I am about to embark on my biggest adventure yet.

Black market stamps

In May, I spent a week in Ethiopia. The flight price from Dar to Addis Ababa is almost the same as the flight from Dar to Delhi, so when I realized I could stop over on my return to Dar from India without an extra fee, the decision to visit was easy. 

My expectations were high.  Without exception, everyone I know who has traveled to Ethiopia has raved about it.  An ancient civilization where Orthodox Christians carry out rituals in churches that have stood for almost a thousand years, the professed home of the Arc of the Covenant and the birthplace of coffee, what isn’t there to love?  Perhaps it was because I had just come from India, or because my expectations were so high, but my trip was not easy.  I know that many of my stories on this blog recount awesome times on the road.  Quite honestly, most of my travel experiences have been overwhelmingly positive. In fact, many things during my short stay in Ethiopia were remarkable.  But as we all know, nothing can be perfect, not everything works and sometimes what we expect to be enjoyable isn’t.  So here’s my authentic accounting of my northern circuit trip: Axum, Gonder and Lalibela.

Traveling as a single woman has some advantages.   Besides the luxury of doing exactly what you want, being alone makes it far easier to make connections with new people.  But it also makes some things more difficult.  For example, in conservative societies, local women are almost entirely absent from daily life.  Even in non-conservative places, since women are usually charged with maintaining their households, they are frequently behind the scenes.  This means that streets are often filled with idle and leering young men, seeking any number of things.  Some are innocuous, like employment as a guide or information about your home country, while others are less so, anticipating encounters with what they perceive are loose and lonely Western women.  Usually they can be dissuaded by avoiding eye contact or a terse response and seldom does their presence invoke actual cause for alarm.  But when every corner, storefront and restaurant echoes with their exhortations, it becomes frustrating and exhausting.  Unfortunately, this was my experience in several of the towns I visited in Northern Ethiopia.

So while I visited places that bore witness to an ancient, powerful and undeniably sophisticated African civilization, I seldom escaped constant haranguing.  When I arrive somewhere new, I like to walk around, keeping an eye out for landmarks (I’m directionally-challenged) and interesting food stalls while taking in what the people on the streets are doing.  The joy of wandering was sapped as I struggled to adjust to the idea that my every movement required chaperoning, even though I recognized that most only sought to help me.  Having spent most of my time in India in an area catering to tourists, I also had forgotten one of my key travel strategies: accepting I cannot understand many nuances of the culture around me and choosing my objections wisely.  As a consequence, daily transactions became more frustrating than necessary.  Lapsing yet again one morning, I asked the clerk at the airport gift shop why I was charged 40% over the face value of the stamps I purchased.  Her response: ‘they are black market stamps’.  At the airport.  Remembering my rule, I dutifully returned to my seat, recognizing the futility of the obvious follow up questions and eager for the arrival of my flight, which was already 4 hours late.

I began and ended my trip in Addis and thankfully, my experience there was much different.  My arrival was a homecoming to the continent and a reminder of the staggering beauty of Eastern Africa.  Walking along the streets, I was repeatedly mistaken for Habesha (Ethiopian) and rarely approached. My final night was spent having dinner with an American couple living in Addis who I’d met in Gonder and who had generously invited me into their home.  

And so, while I was genuinely relieved to leave Ethiopia, I wholeheartedly recommend visiting it.  Why? First, because as my experience and those of my friends suggest, everyone experiences a place differently.  And because it reminded me of the rewards of the effort of traveling in a difficult place.  Now, long after my irritation has subsided, I still can still conjure the memory of cool morning air penetrating the white shrouds of hundreds at a rock-hewn church in Lalibela.  I can taste the bittersweet heat of berbere (a local spice) and feel the welcome of the teacher who asked me the time in Amharic and ended up buying me a macchiato.  The pages of my journal capture lunch with a restaurant proprietress who had an extended, translated conversation with me about the nature of love in response to her daughter’s question ‘how do you know?’ Human brains are hardwired to remember the best experiences and I’m thankful for that -- these are memories worth keeping.

Open windows

Increasingly I prefer walking around to the prescribed stops in guidebooks.  This is only partly because I’ve begun to schedule many outings around the delicious things that I plan to eat.  In an earlier post, I wrote about how the extensive Swahili greetings reflect a cultural concern for the well being of both the individual and the community.   Much like language, I think that street life can give you glimpses into a national psyche.  What people are doing on the streets is a clue about what is important to the people who live there.

This idea came to me over and over again during my recent trip to the Netherlands.  First, it seemed like every street was home to buildings from the seventeenth century.  And most of these buildings were in use.  How could I tell? Because almost every building, new and old, had an expansive picture window, all unfailingly showcasing the contents of the building.  Faux finished metallic vases with stark white flowers and blue and white china patterns were the most common window ledge decorations, with the occasional serene Buddha head or potted orange plant breaking up the clean lines.  Astonishingly, most residential dwellings were on full display – immaculate sitting rooms and kitchens, with views clear through to matching picture windows at the back of their homes.  Literally, people had put their lives on display. 

My naturally curious inclination adjusted quickly to this voyeurism – how do people live in such an organized and stylish way?  Does everyone live this way?  Arriving on a Wednesday, I grew accustomed to glimpsing into each home that I passed.    Each was the starting point for a storyline: the young family whose daughter was obsessed with pink princesses, the epicure with an addiction to stylish multi-coloured kitchen gadgets, the wholesome couple meeting each evening over a sturdy reclaimed wood kitchen table.  Soon I came to believe they wanted me to look in their windows, to speculate about who and what they were.   

And so I obliged – until Saturday rolled around.  My gaze suddenly began to meet the eyes of the people living in these pristine homes.  Unfailingly, I was the one who always looked away, embarrassed to catch them spending time with their families or reading their newspapers and drinking coffee.  No one seemed concerned that their daily activities were essentially a form of street theatre.  I was floored when my friend and guide pointed out that some homes have what is essentially a rear-view mirror mounted outside, so that the goings on of the street can be viewed from the comfort of one’s living room – two independent dramas, each being witnessed by the opposite party.

I couldn’t help but wonder about the significance of this.  In North America, we build fences and draw our shutters and even the famous beg for their privacy.  I acknowledge that it would be foolhardy to make any meaningful conclusions about an entire culture after only six days.  But maybe there is a connection between the liberal attitudes that the Netherlands is known for and its ubiquitous open windows.  The sacredness of privacy reduced in exchange for the opportunity to sate a basic human curiosity about each other’s banal daily lives.  Does this duality of being both the performer and the spectator result in being satisfied by seeing some and not all?  Does it foster a cultural sentiment of living and letting live?

And so, a trip that I intended to be defined by a visit to a dear friend and copious amounts of beer and cheese inevitably became yet another about the ideas of living.

Grace

Bir colony is a one-street town.   Each day I spent there, I walked down this main street – in search of biscuits, internet and exercise (relating to the biscuits).  One day I ventured almost all the way down the street with a new friend, only to have my flip-flops give out before we reached the café.  Fiona led me to a shoemaker she knew, who deftly threaded some thick twine through the plastic of my shoe, making two minutes work of the task.  Thrilled, I asked the man, dusty and crouching over his kit, how much I owed him for the repair.  His answer? Nothing.  In fact, he refused all of my attempts at compensating him for his skill.

Leaving his shop and all through the day I was humbled by this.  Here was a man who had far less than I did, who was insistent on doing me a favour.  The fee for his task would be less than I would spend on a snack, but would have far greater utility for him.  Hailing from a place where every skill is a tradable commodity, it felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable to be given something by a complete stranger.  Searching for the best way to describe this, I came up with grace.  Grace embodies the spirit that gives without expectation of return, without reference to economic disparity and is instead inspired by the commonality of human experiences.

Days later in Delhi, I was struck again by this spirit.  Planning to pay for my day room by credit card, two failed attempts at my PIN had brought me within one try of not having access to any money.  Frantic, I tried to call the bank using the guest computers.  However, despite being loaded with Skype and equipped with earphones, the computer microphones were not registering my voice.  My 3am international flight loomed in the distance.  Desperate, I asked them to swipe my card instead.  Remarkably, this was successful and at last I was ready to load my things into the waiting taxi.  The staff, witnessing the meteoric rise of my blood pressure, reassured me that everything would be alright.  As if to bolster this assertion, they presented me with a Pepsi and a large bottle of water to take on my way.  The day had been filed with touts and pushy young men on the sweltering streets of Delhi but on my way to the airport, as I watched the lights of the city block out the stars with their flickering, it was once again inescapable: grace.