the suburban exodus

How Mirabai Happened

2008-11-15T09:04:00.000-08:00

The pains first started on Friday at two in the morning. Courtney was up reading A Streetcar Named Desire, so to pass the anxious hours we took turns reading scenes to each other like the locos we are. You should hear Courtney’s Blanche, though.

And then, after four short hours, everything stopped.

Saturday was relatively uneventful, and on Sunday we hiked to Tzununa, a neighboring town, while the sun set on hillsides of brilliant yellow wildflowers. During the night the contractions began again at 2am. They seemed as though they would continue, so we called our midwife, Antonina, from Xela, two and a half hours away. They did not continue, though – four hours and out.

This cycle of four hours of labor continued through Wednesday, during which time we became excited, disappointed, frustrated, nervous – a huge bellyful of mixed emotions. One day was filled with relaxing meals and swimming, the next with tears and an interminable sense of limbo. Courtney took to walking at night, and one time was even surrounded by eight dogs in the barrio, barking and nipping at her – I imagine it was quite a sight (I was in bed).

Feeling something drastic was needed, something to clear the energy, we sent Antonina back to Xela where she was needed. We decided that our midwife here in San Marcos, Jenny, would be perfectly sufficient. This was the turning point.

Two notable but unrelated events bookmarked this decision. The first was on Tuesday night. Althea came home for a moment to check in with us during another bout of seemingly futile labor. While walking out on the street, she had come across a baby hummingbird that appeared to be hurt. She recounted her experience with the tiny creature: “Papa, I held her in my arms and I was worried about her, so I said a prayer for her and sent her my energy, and in the next minute, she started to move, straightened herself up and flew off. I think it’s a good sign for the baby.” Precious, no?

And then on Wednesday night, Courtney, Althea and I were visiting Rebecca (who would unexpectedly end up assisting at the birth) at Hotel La Paz. As we left the garden gate at the hotel, we heard a cat calling up in a tree. She was calling to us. We looked closer and realized that it was our old cat, Luna. We inherited her at the school, and she gave birth to our other two cats on our bed while we lived at the school. She took off shortly after Leroy arrived, about a year and a half ago. But there she was, still alive and well, up in a tree on the other side of town. We called back to her and she came down a branch and let us pick her up. A man approaching on the path soon scared her and she was gone just as quickly as she appeared. But we took that as another good sign. Oh, and that night was the luna llena – the full moon.
Courtney did not sleep much that night; she was up pacing the house, meditating, watching the moon, eating, singing all the kindergarten songs she could remember, and bouncing around as she slapped her belly and sang commandingly, “come on out now / stop being lazy / you gotta get your little butt out / so I can be a good mama to you.” Or something like that.
When I got up the next morning, she was at the kitchen table throwing down castor oil cocktails like only Courtney can do. She read in one of her birthing books that it speeds up labor. And it did. Wow. Like gasoline on a fire.

By 8:30am she was frenetically rushing Althea out the door. By 9:30am her water broke, and we started chaotically calling our midwives. We couldn’t reach Jenny for some reason, and Maria (our third back-up midwife) was stuck on the other side of the lake due to a landslide. The water was out in town. One thing after another. Finally we got Jenny and she came running up to the house. We called our friend, Rebecca, to come and help at the imminent birth. She was not expecting this, but she came quickly.

The labor was fast and furious, and by 11:45am I watched our baby virtually fall out of Courtney onto our kitchen floor – right in front of the refrigerator. She was caught by our midwife, Jenny.
We – and it seemed like nearly everyone else – were almost certain that it would be a boy. Althea, however, never tired of correcting us when we spoke of the baby as “he” or her little “brother.” She was insistent that this baby, whom she had brought about with her magic wand, special-ordered for this very purpose, was a girl. No doubts about it. When she came into the bedroom and saw her little sister, she looked at us with an ecstatic smile and knowing eyes. She graciously spared us those four patronizing words that are the due of the vindicated.
Mirabai Remedios Wilson joined us on Thursday, 13 November at around 11:45, weighing a solid 8 lbs.

She has already brought a little bit of heaven into our lives.

The Magic Wand

2008-04-25T15:50:00.000-07:00

They say time flies like an arrow and fruit flies like a banana. Time certainly goes by quickly, but I think fruit flies are faster. We’ve been eating beaucoup banana for the past several months. We cut the bunches off our organic trees and string them up in the kitchen at the school. Everyone at the school loves to sample the selection, and kids are always coming by and asking for bananas. Our harvests have been bountiful and delicious, and though we eat them voraciously in all imaginable manners (in bread, as pudding, with yogurt or solito), the fruit flies still get their share. Five entire bananas can virtually disappear overnight, leaving nothing but a small strip of blackened peel. I find them quite the admirable adversary, really. It’s a sort of friendly sparring that reminds you just how good the bananas truly are.

The last three or four months have been full for us. After coming off a rough spell of it in October and November, we spent most of December trying to relax and vacation a bit. We went to the beach here in Guatemala for the first time and had a wonderful time eating fish, swimming in monster waves and releasing baby turtles (you can see pictures in our Picassa albums - "more pics" link at left). Christmas here was a welcome change from the consumer chaos in the US. Here it’s a big party, with everyone sharing tamales in the street and lighting off fireworks. At midnight on Christmas Eve, each town around the lake lights off the biggest fireworks display they can muster, and from our house we had a spectacular view of three different towns’ shows. Right after Christmas an Italian friend of ours celebrated a surprise birthday party on a chartered boat. We spent the day cruising around the lake, eating on a beach, swimming out in the middle of the bay of Santiago. It was a magical day, filled with friends and fun.

In January we went back to work and formally launched the first full academic year for our school here in San Marcos. After the back-to-school craziness settled, we set straight to working on our accreditation with the Ministry of Education, planning for the construction of our next classroom, searching for new teachers for next year, and fundraising with gusto. It’s a lot of work, but it’s exciting to see the kids everyday and feel the rhythmic heartbeat of this school in its infancy. You can read more in our updates at the web site: www.EscuelaCaracol.org

Courtney's parents came to visit for the first time in March, and we enjoyed our Semana Santa vacation with them (Easter week). I think Guatemala made quite the impression on them.

We’re currently conducting a search for our grades teacher for next year as well as a new kindergarten teacher. After this year, Courtney is going to step down as our kindergarten teacher. The reason is, well, really it started with Althea and a magic wand that she requested for Christmas. A friend of hers said that she was getting a magic wand for Christmas and Althea asked her if it would work to wish for a baby sister. Soon Althea had us writing a very important letter to Santa requesting the wand. To our chagrin, Santa delivered at the last minute. Two months later, late one night, as Courtney and I peered over the results of a cheap Guatemalan home pregnancy test, Althea listened slyly from her room where she feigned sleep. When she heard us laughing with near astonishment over the significance of two lines, she began to giggle with uncontrollable glee, chanting, “you’re pregnant, you’re pregnant!”

Althea takes full credit and responsibility for this turn of events, and she is quick to assure us that she’s on diaper duty.

So, yes, we are pregnant and expecting another child during the first week of November. Althea and I have a friendly dispute going over whether it’s a boy or a girl. I want a boy, personally. It all seems to be happening so fast. We’re just trying to keep up, roll with the punches, and enjoy the bananas as much as we can. In that way, sometimes, the keeping up can be its own reward – it keeps you in the present moment.

61 Steps

2007-09-12T16:38:00.000-07:00

It’s not so much the steps that get you as the long inclines without steps. They can seem so exponentially steep. Sometimes it helps to alternate between accenting the use of your thighs and your calves, and if you’re carrying something heavy – like a book shelf or a hundred pound bag of cement – then the trick is to walk diagonally from side to side. Althea sings or counts incessantly to forget about her legs. That’s how we know there are 61 of those winding stone steps. And really, we have it pretty easy, since those 61 steps are only about one-third of the way for the rest of the people living in the barrio.

It’s been nearly a month since we decided to rent a house up in the oldest and largest neighborhood in San Marcos. Its official name is the unimaginative Barrio Uno (“Neighborhood 1”) a bureaucratic scheme probably influenced by the progeny of conquering Spaniards. The Mayan name for this predominantly Catholic barrio is Xenimab´aj, but very few people now know this. Across from Barrio Uno, on the western hill of San Marcos, lies Barrio Dos (“Neighborhood 2”), a smaller and largely Evangelical neighborhood. In the valley between is Barrio Tres (“Neighborhood 3”), where we have been living and where the school is located.

We decided to move out of the valley of Barrio Tres (or Pa Cheb´en) for a number of reasons, chief of which was the desire to separate our work and home lives. This is an important rule to live by, especially when your whole family is involved in the same work (in this case, starting a school), and even more so when that work happens to take place in and around the one-room stone-cottage-with-an-outdoor-kitchen you call home. Don’t get me wrong – I love our little cottage and outdoor kitchen. It was just a bit much with the work and the rain and the three of us (plus all the dogs and cats). [Schoolhouse construction at right.]

It was a step of both principle and faith to make the move. To be sure, the timing, the absence of furniture and a proper kitchen in the new house, and the uselessness of moving vans in this terrain have definitely posed their share of challenges, not to mention the additional expenses that come along (yes, we’re still eating on the floor). Nonetheless, it seems to have been the right decision. The distinction between work and home now allows us to effectively “turn off” when we come home. Courtney is particularly relieved. Our enchanted garden in Barrio Tres is now commonly understood to be the school, Escuela Caracol, which has gone a long way to establishing the school’s burgeoning identity within the community.

There are also some very bright perks about living up in the barrio. For one, we now have a lovely view of the lake and the valley, which previously was only to be had by climbing a jocote tree in the garden. Watching the rain roll across the lake while listening to the light din of town noises below has become a favorite pastime of ours. The social aspect has been refreshing as well. Barrio Tres is the municipal and commercial heart of San Marcos, but residentially speaking, it is more or less known as the “gringo” barrio (though the distinction is not without exception). Given our desire to bring together the children of both Maya and international families, we felt it important to live closer to indigenous families. Our new house is right on the path and also at a convenient resting point, so we get to “stoop-sit” and chat with passers-by a lot more than we did before. People in Barrio Uno are rather surprised by our desire to live up there, joking that now we’ll get our exercise on those 61 steps, but at the same time they have been remarkably welcoming to us.

We did have one startling night this past week, though. Sunday was an election day in Guatemala, and the mayoral race in our little village was hotly contested. At about 2:30 am on Monday morning, I was awakened by a rather frantic call from a friend, asking what all the racket was about. At that same moment, we became aware of the curious ruckus in the town below. It was then we realized that a portion of the noise was getting closer and closer, until the sound of a mob was right outside our door, banging on our roof and shaking our gate. Within a couple minutes, they were gone.

Over the next hour we learned that small-scale riots had broken out following the announcement that our mayor had been reelected for his third term of four years. A large group of people went and broke into the municipal building and burned all the ballots, and this group was returning when they passed our house. Perhaps there was some confusion with one of the mayor’s seven large houses that are above us, or perhaps some association with a former treasurer who owns the house we’re renting, but in any case they backed off shortly. We were fortunate not to be near the more serious chaos that surrounded the mayor’s actual residence, where a small squad of riot police were called in and broken glass still litters the streets. Quite a strange turn of events for our normally tranquil little pueblo. Now there will be a second election in November at the same time as the presidential run-off, so all the commotion of campaign songs, marches and bombas (bomb-like fireworks without the pleasure of light and color) will commence again until November.

But up in our little house on the hill in Barrio Uno, our family feels safe and secure from the threats posed in the valley by too much heat from elections, too much stress from work, and too much water from hurricanes. 61 steps seem to be just what we need.

Viaje Norte

2007-06-15T15:24:00.001-07:00

Last you heard from us, we were back in Guatemala and determined to stay forever, right? Well, shortly thereafter, the plans that had been marinating in the folds of my mind finally got to cooking. Ironically enough, they led straight back to the US, though this time I was flying solito – well, without the family, at least. Yes, only days after our two new puppies were delivered to our door – and only days before our two new kittens were to be born – I left the wife and kid on their own in Guatemala. Madness, I know, but such are the ways of our dreamlike plans.

To my credit, there was a dual necessity that this trip resolved: what to do with the van, and what to do with Leroy. If we were going to stay in Guatemala and make a go at “stability,” then a camper van was rather an incongruous luxury. The transition from four wheels to four walls was nearly complete, and we no longer had need to drive. What’s more, selling the van would provide much needed cash to replenish the gaping whole left by a long hospital stay. So selling the van made sense, although the logic had its tragic dimensions.

Then there was Leroy – that big beast who’d been passed around like a huge hot potato from Virginia to Florida, all the while with the promise of a reuniting, dim as it seemed. If we were truly going to make a home at the lake, Leroy would be required to make it feel complete, to bring closure to the epoch voyage, to appease our guilty consciences. This meant a trip to the US to fetch the old boy. Selling the van in Guatemala was not a bright prospect due to monstrous import taxes, so the plan became clear: drive the van to the US, get Leroy, come home. Oh so simple.

The only hitch was finding a co-pilot, as Thea and Court were committed to the homefront, and I was not interested in driving Mexico alone. So I cast the net out to a bunch of folk who all had too many obligations to jump into what I was billing as a self-styled Latin adventure. Finally I wore two people down at the same time and ended up with a co-pilot and a flight attendant.

The day after the Spring Equinox I set out on my last voyage in Catarina with my old friend Simon and my new friend Will (aka, Chivo). We cruised across Guatemala, through Belize, and up into Mexico, roaming about Mayan ruins and swimming in a different body of water each day (at least that was the plan). We drove nearly everyday, but still managed to take in our share of waterfalls, hot springs, lakes, and beaches. Simon’s mania for “new water” every day even led him to hitch his way out to the waterfall at Misol Ha just as night was falling. He had to sneak his way in to get to the waterfall, then later talk his way into the guardhouse to arrange a floor on which to sleep.

Semana Santa was fast approaching, and our goal was to get to Texas before everything in Mexico was either crowded or closed. We were almost stalled by a huge electrical storm when we were only one day out from both the border and Semana Santa. Though it gave us a fright, the water and sand fortunately could not match Catarina’s all-terrain tires.

Our first day in Texas took us to the home of the world’s largest biscuit (big as your head!), a fortress of a mansion outside San Antonio where we dropped off Will, and finally to the Gillette homestead near Austin, where Courtney’s sister and her family warmly welcomed Simon and me with horseback riding and three amazing meals a day. We also got the added bonus of visiting with Courtney’s parents, Jerry and Gloria, for a bit. It was a healthy dose of in-laws that defied the much maligned stereotype. The time there passed all too quickly, as Simon returned to DC and I moved on to Melbourne Beach, Florida.

I landed at the McKinley’s the night before Easter and found Andrea making two wool bunnies while Zach fed two real bunnies. Before long we found ourselves discussing the pros and cons of presenting the rabbits to the kids by releasing them in their room while they slept. The next day I was privileged to join in the Easter festivities at the elder McKinley’s house, where I met Zach’s parents (and Andrea’s parents), his siblings, his aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces. There was a strange comfort in the markedly Southern character of the event that I was not expecting – the chicken casserole (just like mom’s), the “y’all”, the dirt bike, the granddaughter everyone called “lil bit.” Tones of Alabama, I guess.

During the week that followed I spent my mornings hanging out with the kids, my afternoons reconnecting with Leroy and making preparations for his trip to Guatemala, my evenings fishing on the beach, and my nights roaming Melbourne Beach with Zach on bikes. All of this was continually punctuated with great meals and good conversation. I was, however, going on week three away from my family, and this was starting to take its toll.

Arrangements for importing an animal into Guatemala are actually rather straightforward. A form is circulated from the vet to numerous officials and back again---involved but clear. Arranging a flight for an animal is another matter all together, especially when that animal is just shy of 150 pounds. On top of that there are only two airlines that fly four-legged creatures to Guate; they’re expensive and won’t book a reservation until within three days.

So I found a cargo company out of Miami that was much cheaper and somewhat more convenient, or so it seemed. The only catch is that the two flights a week left at midnight and arrived in Guatemala at 5 am the next morning. Andrea and Zach kindly offered to drive Leroy and me down to Miami in their truck.

So there we are in the pick-up rolling down 95, the wind flapping in Leroy’s ears and the cell phone rings. Leroy’s flight is cancelled.

We pulled over to think it through, and I started to scramble. I called kennels in Miami – all full. I started calling other airlines. My ear was burning from hours of cell phone calls. Then another call from the cargo company: the flight is back on. Wait, hold on, no, maybe it’s not…call back in 15 minutes.

We decided to go straight to the offices for a face to face, but when we showed up no one was there. Now things were getting weird. Ah, wrong address. When we arrived at the correct location, they told me that the flight was a go – they were going to make a stop in Guatemala just for Leroy.

Once Leroy was checked in and secure, we went off to have our little night in Miami. We roamed South Beach for quite a while, navigating the zoo of restaurants and bars, dodging the myriad Vegas-esque food displays, and noting the people dining on either side of the walkway. We wondered who exactly was on display. When we finally settled at an outdoor club with black-clad waiters serving mojitos over mediocre salsa music, we found ourselves saying over and over again, “this is just like being in Miami.” I guess that’s the South Beach experience.

When I arrived in Guatemala the following afternoon, the trauma of Courtney’s Guatemalan bureaucratic nightmare had started to wear off slightly. She spent three and half hours going back and forth between various offices and corridors of offices and checkpoints where you fill out a form and leave your ID. One guy made an issue of a two pound difference between Leroy’s cargo weight listed on two different forms. Another guy sent her to an office that was mysteriously vacated. And yet another demanded her Guatemalan ID number, which she was forced to make up. Finally, she was faced with an “official” who told her that Leroy was too big to be released in Guatemala without authority from the Ministry of Agriculture, which was closed that day. Courtney realized it was time to either pay up or tear up. She chose the latter (to my great satisfaction), and Leroy was released to her within minutes.

Now Leroy is safe and sound and enjoying retirement. He spends his days off-leash, hiking mountains and swimming in the lake. He’s even stopped shedding, which I never imagined possible. He’s getting along reasonably well with the two pups, though the male tends to annoy him and often steals his bed. The kittens, however, are his new obsession. He will follow them around all day sometimes, just watching. They’ve learned that if they don’t run, he won’t chase them.

And us – we’re doing well. We’ve gotten through feria (the noisy, trashy, weeklong birthday of the town – Saint Mark’s day), the month of May (and the ubiquitous illnesses referred to singularly as “mal de mayo”), and the start of the rains, which brought about a number of suddenly imperative home improvements. We’re getting into the flow of rainy season now, which means getting up early to enjoy the sun and cozying up somewhere for the aft ernoon rains. And we're starting to get a great pitaya harvest.

We have also thrown ourselves headlong into starting a small Waldorf-styled school at our place. Right now we have a kindergarten that meets twice a week, and we’re planning to formally expand it to five days a week in January. It’s an exciting project, but the amount of work (and politics) involved is sometimes daunting. I think back a lot to the hike that Simon and I made to the top of the San Pedro volcano just before leaving on our trip north. The volcano is some 10,000 feet high, a long and terribly vertical hike – definitely the most difficult of our lives. At many times I found myself saying that I was going to blow it off and turn around. Then somehow we’d just keeping moving. Often I had to literally move my legs with my arms, just to make a step. In the end, it was worth it though, as we were treated to one of the most remarkable views in the world. The lesson I took away from that experience – which I remember in my mind as well as my body – is that when you are climbing what feels like an impossible mountain, you must simply keep your eyes three feet in front of you.

[check out more pics, if you want, by following the link above in the "links" menu at left.]

One Year Out

2007-02-22T15:33:00.000-08:00

When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision.

Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

18 February 2007

It's about 8pm and I just finished washing the dishes in our outdoor kitchen. Standing in the spotlight of a single 60 watt bulb, I scrubbed a stainless steel pot. But not just any old pot—one that has survived the entirety of our 8 year and 2 month marriage. With shiny zeal, it braved the early years of spaghetti and burnt rice. It now boasts a savory Thai curry coconut dish, and most recently it's been flavor central for the boiled delicacy of Guatemalan chipilín (a stemy plant with small green leaves and miniature yellow flowers). As I stood there at our concrete sink and looked out at the banana trees, which keep a centurion watch over a small grove of coffee plants, I placed my pot to dry anew and remembered packing it for the first time in the compact kitchen of our van.

It was on this day a year ago that we set out on our so-called suburban exodus. The cold gray morning was punctuated by the garish-orange of a dreaded last minute trip to Home Depot. Still I remember asking Josh if he had found a cargo net and he telling me that the well-informed clerk responded to his inquiry with, "What in tha hayum sayundwich iza cargo neyt?" We got out of there with our plywood as quickly as possible. The clock was ticking, and our plan to leave by 11:00 am was pushed back to a 3:00 pm deadline. Josh and his dad crafted shelves for our 2ft by 1ft "pantry," and his mom and I sifted through the last of the things to go. Our friend, Mary, stopped by to deliver two containers of the meanest, most magical salsa. It made it all the way to Alabama. My sister kindly and creatively crafted a bag of Whole Foods booty, which we didn't exhaust until we were well along Mexico's Pacific coastline. And Althea still talks about the granola bars and oranges that our neighbor, Milka, sent along for the journey. Between building, packing, and visiting, our afternoon slid on and so did the sun. It wasn't until about 8:00 pm that we finally loaded up Thea and her panda bear, hugged our kin with tear-brimming eyes and closed the door on life in suburbia.

We headed out into the dark, frigid night with a dreamlike determination wherein the certainty that so characterized the preceding months melted into a misty haze. From McLean to Roanoke we drove shivering, somewhat stunned. I kept asking Josh if he felt mildly traumatized, because I did. And somewhere between Baton Rouge and Austin we grew weary of explaining to everyone our utter uncertainty of where we would end up and how we would support not only ourselves but also Althea. It became easier to have in hand a final destination, and so we threw all of our chips in on Belize. We've been there before....we have friends there....it's "English-speaking".... and the biodiversity could leave one wide-eyed for a long lifetime. But as we approached day 40 in Belize with still no prospect of a mechanic, still no clear picture of even a short-term plan, we came face-to-face with the fact that the fit just wasn't right for our permanent residency. Stunningly beautiful as it is, Belize was not to be our “promised land.” It was time for us to forge ahead. But to where? And then what?

To cure our case of brokedown blues and wilderness wanderings, we made our way to Belmopan's finest Chinese establishment for some fried chicken and French fries. This had become an almost weekly ritual, sometimes accompanied by a plate of steamed broccoli to ease our conscience over the amount of grease, starch and hormones we were ingesting. As always, just as the food was being carried hot from the kitchen, Althea expressed her dying urge for me to take her to the bathroom. Such are children. Staring at the faded walls inside the tiny and less-than-sterile cube, I decided to return to the table with a mental exercise. "Josh," I asked, "If you could paint the picture of your ideal living situation, what would it look like?" To which he replied, "What in tha hayum sayundwich izahn ideal living situation?" But the sarcasm faded, and a moment of genuine visualization ensued. We agreed that we both needed to be near a body of water, but also not far from the mountains. We desired elements of rural, off-the-grid living, but accompanied by the cultural perks of town life—and without the incessant driving. We both wanted Althea to learn to speak Spanish fluently, but we also preferred a multicultural atmosphere. We were inclined to a somewhat progressive community, but at the same time we liked the idea of being close to traditional indigenous culture. And, of course, I had my own extravagant addendum that there be some decent yoga instruction. What would we do for a living in this tailor-made utopia? At the time, that seemed beyond the reach of our collective imagination. Besides, our plates were empty and our bellies full. We paid the bill, each wishing we hadn't eaten so much, each wondering how hard reality was laughing at the audacity of our reckless dream.

This line of questioning and envisioning, however, proved difficult to arrest once set in motion. What were we doing on the road anyway? What was it we left in search of? What did we expect to find? Were we simply seeking some distance from the corruption and darkness of an imperial throne? Reprieve from a culture on the brink of suicidal madness? A warmer climate where we could live closer to the earth? A sense of clarity about our roles in life? Well, yes, it would seem that, at least subconsciously, we indeed crafted this journey—this suburban exodus—in the mould of a wistful and naïve search for ourselves and our place in the world. How terribly hackneyed and sentimental of us. And now one would expect that, a year later, after suffering the trials of disappointed expectations, unexpected appointments, and even a hearty dose of calamity, the hazy dust cloud of disillusionment would settle and we would graciously resign ourselves to the elusive yet seemingly noble truth of acquiescence. One would expect that we would come to terms with the subtle and understated verity of all journeys—that the goal of the journey is not the destination, but rather the journey itself. It would seem that we didn't really have to sell everything, leave home and travel some 10,000 miles into foreign lands in order to find ourselves and our place in the world. But to this austere and academic view proffered by the self-proclaimed men of quiet desperation, I, Josh, must interject: that's pretty much what happened to us.

When we imagined our "ideal living situation" over fried chicken and fries, it was primarily an attempt to alleviate our despondent confusion. We hadn't a clue that such a place might actually exist.

And now, here we are in San Marcos la Laguna, a small town in the mountains around Lake Atitlán, where it's springtime year-round—never too hot, never too cold. The community is mostly Maya, but with a significant international contingency, and Spanish is the lingua franca. In town there are a plethora of restaurants and numerous centers for alternative healing. Workshops, classes, concerts and celebrations of every sort are frequent, and yet, at night, the town is not filled with lights. It gets very dark, and the stars are brilliant. We walk everywhere and never drive, environmental consciousness is growing, composting toilets are common, and solar power is actually quite practical. What's more, the town even boasts outstanding yoga instruction. No, it's not perfect. It has its share of problems, but it's more or less the place we unintentionally set out to find. Each morning we awake, we continue to feel that assurance, which brings with it a sense of gratitude we try to carry throughout our day. So, yes, we're going to stay here for a while, sell our wheels, settle in, and root down. Which is to say, our suburban exodus is coming to a close.

And what are we going to do with ourselves? We thought you'd never ask….

suburban reprise

2006-11-17T12:55:00.000-08:00

After six months and six thousand miles of roaming the southern portion of the northwestern hemisphere we found a place we want to call home.

After five hours, two complimentary glasses of orange juice from concentrate and two bowls of warmed mixed nuts we landed in place we’ve always called home.

Like fish out of water we experienced the odd sensation of being plopped on suburbia’s unsympathetic shores—our gills gasping and heaving for the restorative waters of Atitlán. After waking for the first time to the intermittent soliloquies of the central air and the side-by-side refrigerator/freezer, I (Courtney) shared a moment of empathy with those who claim to have been abducted by aliens. This is, of course, a characteristically drastic overstatement. But those of you who are bracing yourself for one of my over-the-top-can’t-take-a-breath rants on the ills of modernity, alienation, waste and consumption epitomized by shopping centers and planned developments, you may now release your grip and observe the blood as it flows back to your knuckles.

In fact, I am learning to be at peace as I drive down streets with misnomers like “Lakeview” and “Hillcrest.” And the bumper-to-bumper traffic has certainly given me a new appreciation for taillights—they are virtually non-existent in Guatemala. I’m no longer afraid of automated checkout lines at the grocery store. I even find myself humming to elevator music during phone conversations with computerized ladies who send me through endless mazes of button pushing.

The truth is that our suburban reprise has turned into somewhat of a suburban sabbatical. We’ve been basking in the comforts of warm showers, Cherry Garcia and a real mattress. Josh is recovering rapidly and enjoying the fit of his new skin. We are grateful for your prayers and words of inspiration. They have certainly sped the healing process. Suburbia just might be teaching us that two homes are better than one.

We’ll be venturing back to Guatemala in January, but in the mean time we have a small request to those of you who have made it this far . . . Many of you are well acquainted with our great Clifford-of-a-dog, Leroy. We are planning to bring Leroy down to Guatemala, but we need a few months to work out the details of this transfer. So, we are, once again, in search of a temporary home for him – maybe 3-4 months. If any of you out there could possibly host Leroy for just a few months, or if you know of anyone who might be willing to accommodate our large loveable pup, please email us at thosewilsons@gmail.com. Even if you have no interest in this matter, we’ll still look forward to hearing your comments.
Finally, happy early Thanksgiving to all of you residing in the States—we hope your cornucopias will overflow with love and peace.

baptism by fire

2006-10-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

It was the third day of my twenty-eighth year, the 229th day of our suburban exodus, the twenty-sixth day of the lunar cycle, the sixth day of my fast, and the fourth day of my vow of silence. I was feeling strong, in tune with myself, clear-headed, and inspired. The life direction I had set out to discern was almost palpable. I felt intuitively its plain presence just around the corner, awaiting my imminent attention, which was approaching with a slow, transcendental certitude. Worries and anxieties about life and its “decisions” were an impassable distance from the tranquility of my mind. My soul seemed at peace with the invisible and inevitable unfolding of my life in that moment; I was living in the inert and infinite instant of a destiny seized, wherein the singular moment holds all others in its flow, and simply being is both possible and sufficient.

So it wasn’t entirely unnatural for me to interpret the unconquerable burning sensation all over my body as a spiritual baptism by a fire from the heavens—a sort of initiative experience to culminate my concentrated sojourn into the soul. Or perhaps it was a final grand test for the overcoming of my insatiable senses—because this fire was beginning to really hurt. I mean, to call it blistering would only begin to describe the appearance of my skin. The wool blanket with which I was covering felt like needles, and the immense swelling was starting to make movement quite difficult. I cracked and cheated a little, taking some ibuprofen, and tried to trance my way through the rest of the night in a modified and alternating fetal position. Two tedious hours passed along with two more ibuprofen and two aloe branches, all to no avail. My stomach was beginning to pang in a way that led me waddling as fast as possible on my heels to the bathroom. My knees and ankles were so red and swollen that I had to trust-fall back onto the toilet seat (thank God it was sturdy). I continued to hobble out a cycle of bathroom, aloe, water, bed, until the vomiting began and at last I felt forced to concede that my severe dehydration was bound to impair this attempt to triumph over the senses. The universe may indeed be mental, but only a fool traverses it without the realization of its relativity.
Determined to stay within the bounds of my silence, I quickly scribbled out an explanatory note and started my stumbling and confused descent from the mountaintop at three in the morning. My fatigue and haste made the essence of the note abrupt and I suppose rather alarming, such was my once tranquil state of mind. It read: “I am in horrible pain and dangerously dehydrated. Please help,” at which point I intended to lift up my shirt and display the amphibious-like mess of blistering red flesh. The plan was to make my way down the mountain and up the valley in the dark to the home of a local nurse, Cindy, bang on her gate and plead for her assistance in my own silent way. Owing to a false sense of courage and a genuine pride, I did not want to go to Courtney, as I felt this might arouse the tragic sense of fear and pity in her. My subconscious had different designs, however, as my route to Cindy’s took me directly by the house where Courtney and Althea were staying. As I approached, I came to terms with my feeble condition, physically and mentally, and proceeded to knock on the backlit door.

Oddly enough, Courtney was stirring. She had just finished an herbal bath with ruda (rue in English), and was making some tea as she sat to read. The knock was probably half as startling as my presence in the doorway. I handed her the note, bared my gruesome chest, and collapsed into the nearest chair. The following hours were filled with scribbled notes, homemade electrolytes, and continued applications of aloe. Courtney called Cindy, who suggested that I might want to call the ambulance and get to the nearest hospital, an hour away in Sololá. It wasn’t until dawn arrived, with the tripling in size of my blisters (some of which now resembled grapefruits), that we finally called the ambulance.

When the ambulance arrived in town, my blisters were too big to put clothing over, so my grand exit shamble up the stone path in underwear was to the fanfare of dramatic stares and gasps from the indigenous Maya in the midst of San Marcos “rush-hour.” The confounded looks I received from the medics were soon confirmed by hap-hazard movements to and fro: the fumbling out of a WWI relic of a gurney, the dealing of gauze across my body like a hand of poker, the crazed search for the antidote—a half drank bottle of agua pura under the driver’s seat—and the deft sprinkling of these remedial waters from what I assured myself was a highly sanitized hand. Fortunately we brought our own supply in a Nalgene bottle, as it was soon called upon. The drive up through the mountains was long and arduous, filled with flooded roads, detours, and two stops—one for a phone card and the other for one of the medics to alleviate her car-sickness on the side of the road. The intolerable bumping and turning, coupled with the occasional fall of a medic on top of me, forced me to resign myself to speak and break my vow of silence, and not in the most sanctimonious of fashions.
Arrival at the public hospital in Sololá was uneventful, as was my short stay there. After several attempts, they finally secured an IV, and told me I had bad burns that would take several days to heal. I could go home or be admitted to the hospital. Seeing as I wasn’t about to get back in that ambulance, I asked to be admitted. Upon discovering that I would be in an all-male corridor where Courtney would not be allowed, we were advised that we would probably be more comfortable in the private hospital. So I quickly found myself hobbling outside yet again in my underwear, but now with an IV bag, making my way over to the doctor’s Nissan Maxima in which he kindly offered to drive us to the private hospital himself. I left a small stain in the back seat where one of my large blisters burst.

The private hospital resembled a convent with nuns and the rest. The doctor there was rotund and jolly, and he told me he wanted to put me in surgery that night. The anesthesia was rapturous, but on its heels came a confusing and excruciating pain in my stomach, chest and neck area. The blisters and burns on my legs remained untouched, but my torso looked and felt as though I had been scrubbed with SOS pads. I was also terribly cold, and since they did not want blankets to touch my skin, they jerry-rigged a cage for me out of walkers, and placed blankets over the cage. Fortunately my moaning was as frightening as I felt frightened, and it was addressed with an onslaught of Demoral that kept me in a perpetual fog for the next 24 hours. It was during this time that I acquiesced to slowly break my fast of six days.
The unbearable pain, the interminable cold, the cage-cum-coffin, the difficulty of locating the nurses, and the threat of infection in this honorable effort at a hospital all inexorably led us to one conclusion: I had to get to a hospital in Guatemala City. Fortunately a divine prescience had graced my dad the night before and placed him en route to Sololá from Washington, DC. An ambulance could take me to Guatemala City, but not until the next morning. After much deliberation, we determined it most prudent to travel in the security, comfort and speed of an ambulance, as opposed to engineering some form of emergency transport with the SUV my dad had rented in Guatemala.

We had to wait until 11:00 am the next day for the ambulance to arrive. The three medics had no ideas about how to keep me warm during the trip. All they had to offer was a small “solar” blanket, which was merely a piece of silver plastic that quickly stuck to my skin upon contact. They had no ideas about how to secure some measure of warmth for me, so they told us to ask the hospital if we could borrow one of the walkers and a sheet. Then they told Courtney to go buy some rope from a tienda so they could secure the walker to the gurney. After an hour or so, we were on our way. Aside from flying objects from overhead cabinets landing on my blisters, the trip was uneventful, though full of stops. When I needed a drink, they stopped at a roadside stand to get straws; when I needed an injection to kill the pain, they stopped to steady the needle; when I had to pee, they stopped to keep it from spilling (which was comically ineffective). My dad and Althea traveled separately in the SUV, and when the ambulance sped up to the hospital with the lights and sirens blaring, they were already sitting in the parking lot, waiting for us.

Fast-forward three days and two surgical procedures later: I’m lying and writhing in the ICU, struggling to discern “reality” from the multifarious benign hallucinations, incoherently babbling Spanish and French phrases to Courtney and nurses who’ll listen, my entire body armored in bandages the national colors of Brazil. One nurse was fond of calling me “todo semaforo,” because the yellow and green combined with the red of my visible skin resembled something of a stop light to her. Most startling to me, however, was the appearance of someone else’s hips and thighs in the place where I used to find my own. When I looked down at the one unbandaged area of my body, no longer could I find the slender hips and semi-athletic thighs to which I was accustomed. In their place was a plump and pudgy mass of flesh that hung out and over my bandages with frightening effect. In the haze of anesthesia and pain, I had somehow become a true to form fat ass. Courtney had to stifle her laughter as she observed that I now had two asses: the one that hung low and the one that hung wide. And my arms, too, had been affected with lunch-lady syndrome. I could fan my body with a lithe sway of my arms. I dimly recalled the doctor saying I needed a high-protein, high-calorie diet—that I needed to eat as much as I possibly could. I also have the faint recollection of my appetite eventually rebounding from the fast with an avarice equal to the hefty portions I was served thrice daily (and two snacks). And the food was surprisingly good. It was quickly becoming the highlight of all of our days—i.e., me, Courtney, Althea, my dad, and Heidi, my Dutch compañera from the course in San Marcos who was also suffering from severe burns. Most alarming, however, was the discovery of strange and sizeable swellings in my so-called “private” parts. I say so-called because over the past several days I had been given sponge baths by at least ten different nurses.

When the nurses came to weigh me, I wasn’t terribly surprised to find that I had gained 30 pounds. Dr. Búcaro kindly informed me that this was normal, that it was mostly water I was retaining, and the solution was a simple daily diuretic injection that ensured I would pee the weight out all day long—and a jock strap, provided by the hospital. This, of course, came after the catheter was removed. I had tried so hard to avoid catheterization at first, spending an entire post-anesthetized morning trying to pee with all my might. Courtney and a male orderly were my assistants in this failed endeavor, attempting to stimulate my flow with a variety of truly ingenious replications of the familiar water-on-water sound. They tried to use warm water on various parts of my body, they tried mental imaging, and they fed me cup after cup of water in an effort to affect the flow by sheer force of pressure (this last attempt ended with voluminous vomiting into one of those way-too-small kidney-shaped pans). Finally I left the bathroom for good and acquiesced to the doctor with the frown of defeat on my face, unable to avoid this unnatural and bone-chilling invasion into my manhood. And once this thing was removed and I began my diuretic treatment, strangely enough, as I filled my seventh pitcher of pee for the day, I felt the ever so faint twinge of nostalgia for the effortlessness of the dreaded plastic tube and bag.

So here I sit now, going on two weeks in the hospital, finally out of the ICU and in a double bedroom where I can at least share meals with Courtney. The bandages have been removed from my torso and most of my right leg, I have a nice new layer of sensitive pink skin across my now shorn chest (“baby skeen,” Dr. Búcaro calls it), I am completely off pain medications, and I am dealing better with the depression of being bed-ridden. Althea is back in the States with Pop and Suzi, and we’re starting to think about making a trip north ourselves. My left leg and both of my feet are still all wrapped up, with the only questionable area being a strip of badly burned skin along my left foot, which I am sure is going to heal well, I can feel it. Hopefully I will get discharged from the hospital later this week after my bandages are removed. But what, you may ask, was the cause of all this suffering and craziness? Is it just bad karma? Perhaps. Is it a case of Josh being careless, absent-minded, or just plain stupid? No, I don’t think so.

The official medical explanation is that I suffered a severe chemical burn from an herb called ruda or rue (yes, the same herb Courtney had bathed with when I first showed up at the door). I was in a month-long course at San Marcos, and during the last week, the participants take a retreat with silence and fasting. Each day of the retreat includes a tamazcal (a Mayan sauna), followed by an herbal bath. On the second day, I took a bath with ruda, then went and swam in the lake and sat in the sun for about 30 minutes total. Ruda is a very strong and some say magical herb—this I knew—that apparently has the effect of making your skin highly photosensitive—this I didn’t know. So both myself and another girl in the course, Heidi, bathed with the ruda and ended up in the hospital. The place where we took the course has used ruda like this every month for the past 15 years, and this is the first occurrence of its kind. This was also the first time, however, that the ruda was bought in a market, rather than taken from the local medicinal garden. The ruda normally used is harvested while still young and relatively weak, whereas the ruda bought in the market was mature with flowers and much stronger. This is the theory, at least.
So perhaps my present suffering will prevent someone else’s future suffering. Perhaps this trauma has fallen into our lives to put us in places where we need to be, such as in Guatemala City, or visiting the States in the weeks to come. With events like this, often it’s best not to press too hard for reasons and explanations. But I can’t avoid the subtle yet persistent feeling that this whole ordeal has been part and parcel of the inner-quest that began overtly about a month ago and somewhat more cryptically back in January. Somehow, this seems to me to be part of a preparation or grounding for a new phase in our lives. The day before the ruda bath, I turned 28, and on that day, as I sat in silence and hunger, I pondered a medical maxim. They say that every seven years, all of your body’s cells completely regenerate, so that you are an entirely new person every seven years. That would mean that I am beginning life in my fourth new body. A rather strange thought, when you let it sink in. I had no idea then how new my body was about to become, after my “baptism by fire.” There is so much cellular regeneration going on in my body right now that I can hardly keep up with the caloric requirements (by the way, I’ve lost the extra 30 pounds).
How has this newness, this regeneration or rebirth, affected me? Well, I’m not entirely sure. But I can feel something different, something unusual, something vague yet poignant that was nascent before. When I try to talk about it, it starts to sound trite, so I try not to use words much. But for the sake of illustration, I could say that I’m learning a more profound and enduring sense of gratitude. Gratitude for my relative health, for the fact that I didn’t sunbathe naked, for instance; gratitude for family and friends, especially my wife who stayed unwavering by my side through the dark hours of the night, emptying my pee bucket and looking after my every need; gratitude for the experiences I’ve had and the places I’ve been in the past year. I even feel a new appreciation for every plate of food that comes before me, not to mention all the other romantic stuff like sunsets and breaths of fresh air. And when this grateful feeling starts to subside, I begin to experience the onset of a deep humility. This humility, when it contextualizes itself in your specific locality, has an unsettling and transformative effect, especially for a headstrong person like myself. And perhaps it is because of this strong and determined will of mine that it takes acute physical trauma to shake me up and help me to truly listen, with greater concentration. So I’m listening now, just listening, and I’m hearing the same strange and charming clamor that points without words or gestures to the infinite newness of our one undying moment.

silence

2006-08-22T15:37:00.000-07:00

While on the road Althea has developed a real attachment to our bootleg copy of, “Life is Beautiful.” She now greets us with “Bonjiorno Principesa”— sparing no exception for Josh. After three or four viewings she eagerly recites her favorite scenes (like the “The breaks are out! The breaks are out!), and she knows all of the answers to Dr. Lessings riddles. My favorite is, “What ceases to exist when you utter its name?” The answer: Silence.

Silent we have been for quite some time. The reasons for our brief blogging sabbatical are multivaried, intertwined and complex. But it occurs to me now that in some strange way they may all convalesce at the point of silence. The gentle towering of ancient volcanoes, the passage of clouds over their dormant craters, the fisherman dropping a single line into crystalline waters, the first light of sun passing over a mountain ridge, and the absence of highway murmurs and aviatory rumblings--all of these punctuate our existence and ease the inner chatter of busy thoughts. There is a grounding beauty to be found in sensory depravation. Over the past month we’ve had time to focus on the calm space that exists between thoughts. Perhaps the quietude of reflection temporarily suspended the loquacious flow of descriptive verbiage.

Although Lago Atitlan has entranced us with her tranquil splendor we are also gripped by a silence more complete and more encapsulating--the silence of loss. Because we were not able to give a proper goodbye, we’d like to dedicate these words (inadequate as they may be) to our dear friend, Noah, who left this earthly existence only a few weeks ago.

Noah, if you were still here in this world, in these confines of heartbeats and sunsets I don’t think I would dedicate a blog to you. We’ve set a precedent of focusing on our little journey and the introspections that accompany it. But now that you transcend the cosmic limits of time and space I feel compelled to communicate a few words to and about you. As I think of you I picture your calm gaze, I feel the assurance of your half-smile and I sense the warmth that radiated from the paunch of your belly. “How’s Althea?” You would often ask me or “What’s Jon up to these days?” Remember when we used to chat about your art courses at George Mason. One of the first times I met you, you showed me some prints that you made. I remember thinking that you didn’t fit at all the egotistical stereotype of an artist. I like that you regularly arrived early to our Tucker Ave parties. Your presence was always a familiar one, and I never felt like you needed to be impressed or entertained. Noah, since the moment of your passing I haven’t gone a day or even a few hours without thinking about you and your family. You are quite lucky to have been a Seidenberg. Your family has a genuine and forthright way with people, and in your home I always felt accepted and welcomed. I am blessed to have seen you all together at your brother’s wedding. The struggles that were confronting you at the time I am not intimately familiar with, but I wish I could have offered you some comfort. You were always quiet, but now your silence in the form of absence is profound. The mysterious path that you travel confounds me. It is my hope that by transcending time and space there is relief for you and a gaining of new wisdom. Your passing reveals to me that all of our striving and efforts to define human accomplishment pale in comparison to your journey. I think now that you must be free and am comforted by the fact that your physical body returns to the renewing vibrations of this planet. And in all of us who knew you the essence of your existence resonates. In these moments replete with sadness I’m grateful for the close group of friends that you helped to create. You embodied the rare qualities that define our Falls Church community--genuineness, acceptance and loyalty (and not to mention quirkiness). Noah, even though you are no longer bound by the earthly confines of heartbeats and sunsets we send you our love, the same transcending love that you shared so willingly with all of us. To your family we send prayers of healing and comfort.

Thank you Noah for the good times that you gave us while you were here and for the eternal lessons that you impress upon us at your passing. We love you and we miss you. With words and in silence we honor you.

Treetop Rumination

2006-07-24T10:46:00.000-07:00

Here I sit, perched in a tree, actually two trees, overlooking the westwardly blowing Lago Atitlan, flicking away large red ants with the deft gesticulation that now accompanies the ordinary chaos of my inner thoughts. These ants are reminiscent of the wee-wee in Belize, with their large legs, but these guys aren’t carrying bits of leaves on their backs, nor are they caught up in the massive highway systems that, in some, inspire awe and respect, and in others, foment feelings of frustration and malice (primarily fruit tree farmers). Where do these solitary wanderers keep coming from, and more importantly, why? Is it simply the same bull-headed fellow returning each time with a renewed determination to pester me? That suspicion seems dubious enough to motivate an at least cursory investigation into the matter. It’s not the fresh strawberries we bought today and left out in a pot. That would make sense. Behind the pot, though, I find a plastic honey-bear container knocked over, lying corpse-like, and though it is not spilling out, some twenty ants seem to find enough residual honey on his outside to make quite a feast. In the stickiness that annoys me so, these ants appear to have discovered a font of gluttonous oblivion. In fact, they appear downright comatose. And their number is growing, now in small swarms, so that it is difficult to discern the feeding frenzy from a slow, silent orgy, bodies piled atop one other listlessly. One ant gently nudges a cluster whose only sign of life is the occasional trembling of a leg. There is no acknowledgement. He moves on to find action elsewhere. Or are all these ants she’s? I have read that male forager ants only come out for a brief tour of duty with the queen. They are not even endowed with mouths, so ephemeral is their solely sexual sojourn on this planet. How much longer shall I let them enjoy their base opiate, their bacchanalia devoid of any decipherable ritual, festivity, or merriment? Maybe they will rid the bottle of its confounded tacky film, much like the brief but overwhelming invasion of army ants that cleans a household of all matter of microscopic detritus. That would be nice. Or perhaps they will diversify their interests here and spread to the – no, they have already made their way into the strawberry pot. I am not as comfortable with this, and now I feel once again compelled to fling each approaching freeloader from the porch of this treetop house, but now with rejuvenated vigor, making use of rusty paper football techniques from my youth. And though these ants soar almost infinitely downward from the heights of the hillside canopy, I have the distinct feeling, at once unsettling and comforting, that they will return.

True Confessions Upon Leaving Belize

2006-07-04T12:34:00.000-07:00

As we leave Belize and make our way into Guatemala, we feel that now is a good time to get some things off our chests. Remember: judge not, lest ye be judged....

• We frequented a local Chinese restaurant just to get fried chicken and french fries.
• Some of us (we won’t say who) often fought foot fungus by peeing on it.
• We spent many a night watching old Dave Chapelle episodes on our computer.

• We spent over $5.00/gallon for gas. Seriously.
• Sometimes when we were in a line at the bank, we let others ahead of us so that we could stay in the AC longer. And on really sultry nights, we secretly wished for central air.
• We unknowingly let Thea swim in croc infested waters.
• We invited wolf spiders into our room so they would eat the bugs.
• Althea’s favorite toy was an old piece of bamboo that she saddled up and rode around the village.

• We paid $7.50 for Tom’s of Maine toothpaste.
• We still miss Mexico.
• In arguments with Althea, we tell her not to speak Kriol to us, but secretly we’re jealous of her accent.
• We went to a movie and when it was over, we forgot we were in Belize.
• We had frogs living in the water tank (they were small ones).
• We threw rocks at the neighbors’ potlicka dogs (they kept eating our food!).
• For 6 weeks we were right next to the Western Hemisphere’s largest barrier reef and didn’t go diving once.
• Althea dropped a brand new roll of toilet paper down the already full outhouse hole (sorry, Jes).

• We ate bowls and bowls of corn flakes (with warm powdered milk).

• We had the village kids rat Althea out when she ate sugar.
• Althea begged to play with the village kids every morning, but last night she said: “I’m glad to get away from those sick kids who run around barefoot and tattle-tell on me.” She still cried when we left though.
• In 6 weeks we’ve been to 6 mechanics and still haven’t fixed our van.

2006-06-22T13:06:00.000-07:00

The late afternoon rain relieves the day’s heat. It relieves the need to being doing something fun, something creative, something inspiring, something productive, something enlightening. It stills the nagging questions of where to go and when. Suspended here in the mama-like arms of a swinging hammock under the tapping of the tin roof I write. We just finished reading aloud “Sleeping Beauty and the Airplane,” a four-page story by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Althea was content to not comprehend and instead dedicated her full attention to a star fruit—picked fresh from Johnny’s farm—a sweet spot on the Sibun River at the foot of Sleeping Giant Mountain.

Is it possible that at least one lunar cycle has run its course since the time of our previous post? One full moon ago we were on the Caribbean coast of the Yucatan peninsula. Two full moons ago we were on the pacific coast somewhere between Puerto Vallarta and San Blas. This full moon found us under the street lamp on the dirt road of a small village outside of Belmopan, Belize’s capital city. You won’t find Camelote in any Rough Guides or Lonely Planets. There is no pristine spring, no waterfall, no mountain peak, no stellar sunset view; there is not even a round table. There is, however, good good company. Our friend Jes rents a small house here and has been kind enough to let us squat for a bit. The timing syncs up perfectly w/ the on-going engine quirks that remain unresolved but not unsolved. We are glad for this forced stint of domesticity.

We joke about the irony of living once again in the suburbs of a capital city. This is not to mislead you into thinking that this is some kind of sterile gated community with paved streets and sidewalks. Life abounds here. In fact a shiny black skink just scampered into our room. During the morning Rufus-tailed humming birds linger at the red hibiscus flowers. In the afternoon Blue Morpho butterflies float among the coco, citrus and plum trees and green iguanas dart beneath the woodpile. In the evening, matrimonial pairs of parrots squawk overhead. Some people complain about the lack of nightlife in Belmo, but we’ve discovered a decent amount. Darkness brings on densely layered rhythms made by crickets, cicadas, tree frogs, geckos and toads. A few nights ago we played with a Rhinoceros Beatle, and we’ve grown quite fond of the Tarantula who lives beneath the house.

Time here seems more circular than linear. Activities rotate between trips into town, mini-projects around the house, extended searches for a mechanic, and short visits to rivers and the ocean. Good times were had kayaking the Mopan River, visiting Johnny and Lindsay at Sleeping Giant Farm and spending a night at our friends’ beach house on the coast.

Most of the time village life is friendly and warm, but sometimes it is overwhelmingly hot and harsh and can even be stultifying and boring. These are the times when we sit, scratch our innumerable bug bites and wonder just what the hell we are doing here. (Mom, I’m sorry for the profanity but its true). That’s where the rain comes in. It remedies the heat and also alleviates the bouts of confusion tinged with homesickness. Homesickness is an illness with its own beneficial qualities. Like a sieve it filters out all of the negative associations of the stressed-out-traffic-laden-overly-developed DC-metro area and leaves behind only the pure memories of home—of late-night conversations around the kitchen counter, of lazy Sunday morning breakfasts at the diner, of drop-ins from friends, and of Leroy in the backyard. We consider ourselves lucky to the have the good fortune of being homesick. For now we reside in Camelote but we’re not sure where the next full moon will find us. Hopefully we’ll let you know sooner than later. But in the meantime drop us a line and let us know what’s happening at home (wherever that may be) . . .

Also, if you post the blog could you send an email to thosewilsons@gmail.com with your email address. (Unless you’re positive that we have yours) A few of you have responded to the blog but we don’t have a way to contact you.

When she was good, she was very, very good....

2006-05-13T12:05:00.000-07:00

This blog for those of you who miss the clarity of her sapphire stare, for those who long to squeeze once more her plump tympanic belly, and for those who wish to awaken, if for only one blinking second, to the sound of her impish giggle. On our journey we daily ride the exuberant, the tyrannical, the exhilarating wave known as Althea.

We soar to exalted heights as she delights in the lapping of the tide. She loses herself completely in the white swirls of churning wavelets. Even when she is momentarily conquered by the ocean’s surging force she fearlessly returns for more. We listen, ourselves like wide-eyed children, as she recounts triumphant tales of swallowing salty gulps while spitting the grit from her victorious lips. Althea, our guru, teaches us that the ocean gets “hot hot hot” as it absorbs the setting sun. We unanimously agree the next night and the next and the next. Indeed it is Althea and the ocean that define the passing moments of our days.

And like the ocean, the four-year-old Althea can be one minute gleeful and placid and the next raging and torrential. The sound of “no” resounds in the chamber of her indomitable spirit like an all-out declaration of war. She lashes out with a full arsenal of yelling, screaming, stomping, hitting, and even spitting. We stand in shock and awe as she articulates adamant refusals in our faces. Our cache of time-outs, privilege-removal, and corporeal punishment seems to wither impotent in the heat of her scoffing rancor. She remains unaffected by our consistent authority, and we remain aghast at her defiant hubris. In vain, we search for a curandera, an exorcist, anyone who might vanish the Mr. Hyde who momentarily takes up residence in the body of our little girl.

But alas, the storm exhausts its efforts and releases its rage. Althea regains her limits, shores up a smile and resumes her cheerful ways. It is this infectious cheer of hers that instantaneously makes friends of strangers. It dissolves the divisions of cultural difference. In seven weeks time Althea has developed an essential Spanish vocabulary—“Quieres jugar?” . . . “Donde esta el perrito? . . . Puedo tener helado? . . . and much, much more.

Although the confines of our casa móvil test the limits of parental patience, the vast space of sea and sky affords countless teachable moments. To watch her search for Orion and the big dipper, to hear her shout “look, look” through a snorkel, and to rest against her at the day’s end all far outweigh the ferocity of her tempestuous tantrums.

If, however, you’d like to visit us and baby-sit, we welcome you. We can guarantee and abundance of fresh food, and infinite supply of stars and plenty of good laughs. So drop us a line and mark your calendar.

Althea promises she’ll be on her best behavior.

From the Desert to the Coast

2006-04-19T15:26:00.000-07:00

Don’t let them call you loco when you say you’re heading to the beach for Semana Santa. At this time of year its difficult to find an empty inch on the shore. But here we are in Chacala, a small fishing village north of Puerto Vallarta. The beach that had 300 people when we arrived may have 10,000 by the week’s end, and trash is accumulating, and yes, we are entirely blocked in by a makeshift tent city with jerry-rigged electricity and competing Mexican stereos on all sides, but all is well. It’s Wednesday and today is the big official national holiday during Easter week. Buses are expected to arrive through the night bringing in vacationing Mexicans from all parts. Many will meet up with their large extended families which have already set up a home for a week on the beach (often complete with televisions and refrigerators). Others will just sleep wherever they end up when morning comes. The infrastructure that supports this longstanding tradition is surprisingly efficient, with daily trash pick-ups, potable water trucks, bathrooms and showers that are cleaned daily, and, yes, electricity, tenuous as it may sometimes seem. Some of the families that come here, like our neighbors, have been doing this for over 40 years, so they have gotten pretty good at it. Many come and vend all manner of goods, some setting up stores, others trekking the beach. In a manner of minutes you could have yourself a beach umbrella, mat, fresh mango, a sweet coconut ball, flan, fried platanos, tools for sand castle crafting, and toys for conquering the surf. We, however, haven’t purchased much because the family next door has adopted us for the week—Pati brought chilaquiles for breakfast, Guicho served ceviche for lunch, Gloria, Rosa, Bere, Leti and Enrinque have also cooked splendid treats and all have shared basically everything they have.That's Alex (Gloria's son) and Bere in the picture. There are a total of twelve siblings and eight are represented here. With their respective spouses and children we’re having a hard time keeping up. In the line up of good people who have crossed our path we cannot fail to mention Buddy (pic to come, check here later), a gringo/ex-marine/ex-cartographer from Missouri. He left the States three years ago heading for Belize, but never made it past Chacala. He spent a year in a tent on the beach, and then by the kindness of locals landed himself a pleasant sand-floor cabin on the high end of the beach. Buddy is quite the generous Chacaleno, and readily fills in on the history and small-town politics of the village. He also won Thea over by giving her a real peanut butter sandwich (something that is non-existent in Mexico). Regardless of the crowds, trash and noise we’re thoroughly enjoying the company of good folks. The beach scene is also and incredible spectacle—Bands often march the shore, people dance in the tide, the sunsets are brilliant, the waves can get enormous, and Althea usually spends half the day playing in the surf, making sand tortillas, and running around with other kids.

We know this is getting long but we would be remiss if we didn’t back up a bit and tell you how we got here. After leaving Zacatecas, we spent the night in front of a family-run llantera (tire shop) in the petit village of Limon. Along with tires the family also had about 25 goats. We watched as the husband and wife carried newly sharpened sickles and empty feed sacks up the hill. They returned with bags full of fresh-cut alfalfa, and before we knew it they served us up a warm bubbly cup of leche de chiva – goat milk. Suffice it to say that Althea and Courtney now make references to it at least once a day. I guess it’s a form of therapy to conquer the pangs of deprevation.

From Limon we drove through the grinding heat and crowded streets of Guadalajara to Laguna Santa Maria del Oro, a pristine crater lake about 80 miles from the coast. Our days there consisted of swimming, cooking and chatting it up with locals. It was muy tranquilo but the coast was calling.

The only way to the beach from the lake is through Tepic, a noisy sprawling city. Here its very common to see gas stations with all-female attendants and shrubs that are shaped like whales, sharks and dolphins. It’s an odd detail we couldn’t leave out. Once through Tepic there is a distinct, almost immediate change in scenary to something more tropical--large banana plantations and a series of the towns nestled in the sharp curves of the winding mountain road. The drive was complimented by first-rate banana bread and other banana goodies. At sunset we pulled right up to Platanitos (little bananas), a small beach with a few restaurants. When we heard the mariachi band and saw the tide coming in and the sky lighting up with orangy reds and dusty purples we had to pinch ourselves.

But the next day when the buses roared in and hundreds flooded the small quarter-mile shore with paper plates, coke bottles and dirty diapers we knew we were still in Mexico. At Platanitos we met the Duartes, who invited us to their home near Tepic. That's Gerardo Duarte in the picture of Althea buried.

They told us if we ever came to simply pull into town and ask for Gerardo and Berta. They made tempting offers of hot showers, frijoles and horses. Two days later, on a whim, we pulled into San Cayetano and inquired about the two. I don’t think they really expected to see us again. But to make a long story short we spent three days enjoying beans, horses and hot showers. Althea was charmed by their parrot and hedge hog (which was smuggled in a glove box from Las Vegas—but that’s another story) and, of course, their many grandchildren.

They also sent us on a mini-adventure to a river where we took a lancha through mangroves with enormous crocodiles, swam in the crystal clear water of a natural spring, and ended up stopping by an enormous and nearly deserted beach just waiting for the hordes that would come for Semana Santa in the week to come.

And now our story is still being told but we’ll have to put that in writing later. We’ve got some serious fiestas to tend to here! Much love to all those logging in, happy Easter, and congratulations if you made it this far!

PS: For those interested (and you must be if you're reading), the last pic is of Corrina writing our last post on a rooftop in Zacatecas.

Zacatecas

2006-03-31T10:20:00.000-08:00

It’s been awhile since I’ve had the Sunday evening blues. I guess the logistics of getting from A to B and all the ups and downs that happen in between have served as an effective distraction. Tonight is a bit different. We actually found a place that makes us sad to leave. Getting here took two days of long driving through mountainous terrain, the stench and haze of industrial cities and the wide expanse of prickly deserts. Along the way we were fortunate enough to stay in the small pueblo of Leon Guzman. The owners of a small restaurant treated us with great hospitality and allowed us to park outside for the night. We woke to a miniature oasis of green fields, a swiftly flowing river and the inexplicable charm of people going about their daily business. And now we are here in Zacatecas, a kind of urban oasis. If you can picture the narrow latern-lit streets of Barcelona and the steep vibrant hills of San Francisco then you can transport yourself here for little while. You can sit here with me on the roof-top terrace of Hostal Margaritas in the comfort of a warm tiled kitchen watching the brilliant glow cast by the setting sun on the pastel houses of the opposite hill. . . . Here are some highlights from our stay in Zacatecas . . . Riding the Teleferico (a cable car) over the town to La Bufa, the highest point of the city . . . Following Trobadores through the city at nighttime. These are small bands of musicians dressed in casual clothes who walk the city streets at night. Groups of young and old follow the pied pipers in a procession through the winding alleys taking part in the revelry. They even make stops in the various plazas for people to rest and to dance. . . . Wandering in the market on the outskirts of town. We stuffed our bags with fresh papaya, pineapple, nopalitos (edible cactus pads), avocados and much much more. Rodrigo and Daniel, who help to run the hostal with their mother, escorted us as we drank auga de miel (sweet honey-like water from the Maguey cactus) and tried other mysterious treats. Incidentally we are now paying a small price for our intrepid experimentation . . . Sipping coffee on the terrace and practicing our Spanish with Rodrigo, Daniel and their friend Omar. That’s a only little taste of Zacatecas. We could probably fill pages but its time for us to head to the coast. Drop us a line we want to here from you.

Here’s a rundown of the pictures: 1. Althea and I fighting over our last bit of food in the cold copper canyon.

2. A pastoral scene of from Leon Guzman (they're harvesting alfalfa)

3. The view from our roof-top in Zacatecas

4. Trobadores fostering great merriment

5. Josh and Thea in the market

And now for a brief update:

We've just spend three days at Laguna Santa Maria del Oro and now we really are on the hunt for some salt water. Pics and details will be coming soon.

Chihuahuan desert wanderings (long post)

2006-03-21T09:27:00.000-08:00

We’ve pondered many names for our combi/casa, as we refer to her with people we meet. Rosito was one of the original contenders, and althea really likes rosi, but it doesn’t seem to be sticking. Courtney proposed Remedios la belleza (Remedios the Beauty, from 100 Years of Solitude). I like the idea of her as a remedy, but remedios doesn’t seem to roll well. I’m thinking we’ll go with Commandante Catarina, after the more common name for ladybug. There’s some continuity there.

After crossing the Mexican border, thankful for our long anticipated reprieve from the US and especially the crazy bureaucramania of DC, it was laughably absurd to drive up on, in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert, on a road without any other signs of civilization, a near exact replica of DC’s most emblematic monument. Looking back over the past week, we are now able to see the irony of this dreamlike moment as a portent of things to come.

Driving on into Ciudad Chihuahua, we spent the night at the Deportivo Ciudad, where there are excellent sporting fields situated amidst a beautifully groomed park ringed with a dirt track for jogging and the like. We had heard it that the parking lot there was open for overnight camping, you could use the bathrooms, and there was some security as well. It was surprising to see such a diversity of activities going on—large volleyball practices, pick-up basketball games, baseball practice, intramural flag football practice, tennis, squash, on and on. We had the most fun watching track and field practices while the sun went down. Althea loved trying to work her way into what appeared to be Olympic-like high jump lessons for girls as young as 5 or 6. I must say, though, that the extreme athleticism of these Chihuahuans was a little annoying. Even as the hours waned on, and the air became quite cold, the activities didn’t cease. It almost seemed like the number of joggers (and the ages of the joggers) was increasing. And there was a band practice—marching band or something, I don’t know, but it was big and interminable, like a Phillip Sousa free jazz experiment. We expected to be some of the only people camping here, but no, there was a caravan of 20 RVers already parked here when we arrived. The morning brought with it a grand exodus of this caravan, as well as a police academy training session in its place, filled with interesting and unusual exercises that made for an entertaining breakfast.

We wanted to go see Poncho Villa’s bullet-riddled Dodge, but we felt the need to get out of Dodge. So we drove down to Cuatemoc, which is a small town famous for its Mennonite settlements that are numbered, not named (e.g., Campo 22, Campo 2B, etc.). This wasn’t especially appealing to us, but it was a midway point and the thought of some queso mennonito sounded kind of nice. We first went to a campground that was supposed to be kind of nice, with showers! which we really needed. But sure enough, when we pulled in, the same RV caravan had already staked the place out. So we did an about-face, and ended up parking outside a hotel, next to an apple orchard. The moon was full, which was reassuring to watch rising over the orchard. We heard there was a lunar eclipse, but we didn’t see it.

The next day we headed to Cascada Basaseachi, the tallest waterfall in Mexico. We camped at a nice ranch, finally had hot showers, and enjoyed hanging out with the manager, Renaldo, and his dog, Max. Renaldo brought us some Ocote pine to burn. It’s quite fragrant, and lights as soon as a flame touches it, making for great fire starter. We were not expecting the Chihuahuan desert to be as dry and dusty as it has been. It hadn’t rained in months, apparently, and all the vegetation was trying to bloom, but begging for a little water. The lack of rain also meant that any and all waterfalls looked more like leaky faucets, and this was precisely the case with the falls at Basaseachi (though the canyon was striking). The quietude and isolation of this area was a pleasant change.

From Basaseachi, we began our way to Las Barrancas del Cobre (Copper Canyon) via a route that is not so typical. To make a long story short, we spent the next four hours driving over one of the bumpiest and dustiest mountain roads we’ve ever seen. Althea was in the middle of a record-setting 6 hour marathon of nonstop talking and singing (we let her eat some chocolate the night before). Add in the flatulence of a campesino we picked up part of the way, and the experience was truly purgatorial. Once we reached pavement, we spent the next 3 hours at a carwash trying to at least control the damage the dust had done to our van, both inside and out. There was nearly a ¼ inch of dust on every surface and in every crevice. Our air filter was clogged and our engine caked. We hobbled through the town of Creel and made our way to Lago Arareko, where the Tarahumara Indians have an ejido that is nearly 200 sq. kilometers. We ended up spending two nights there, hiking, enjoying the lake, and bouldering. Althea has become quite the boulderer. She’s constantly scouring rocks for good foot and handholds.

When we decided to leave the lake, the engine was idling very high, so we went to a gas station to clean it. Our air filter is one of the K&N types that has to be cleaned specially with their cleaner, allowed to dry thoroughly, and then oiled before using again. So I’m in the middle of this process, at the drying stage, and sure enough, the grey clouds overhead begin to sprinkle. Then the sprinkle turned to rain, and the rain to an outright downpour. Along with the entire region, we had been hoping for this rain to relieve the unbelievable dryness. But the timing couldn’t have been worse for us. With the air filter off, we couldn’t drive the van anywhere, and needless to say, the air was no longer conducive to the drying of a wet cotton filter. And so began our first 24 hour stint trapped in our beloved van stranded in the back of a rather dirty Pemex (they were kind enough to let us use their bathrooms for free, though they looked more like crime scenes). Before we left Virginia, Courtney and Althea used to say, “I’m going to miss (fill in the blank), but I’m not going to miss this cold.” We have long looked forward to a warmer climate, and now we were stuck with the temp steadily dropping and the rain turning to sleet. Our batteries were pretty low from the fridge accidentally being set too high the nights before, so we didn’t have enough power to run the little space heater donated to us by Courtney’s brother, so we huddled under our comforter and played go fish and old maid until nightfall.

Yesterday, upon waking to a sky that was beginning to clear, we decided to find a hotel for the next night. It felt good to have weathered the storm and suffered through it in our combi/casa, and this somehow justified the expense for the hotel. I found a quaint little place off the main strip in Creel with clean cabanas, hot water, and woodstoves. We put the air filter back on, and parked right in front of our room. We had a pleasant comida yesterday, and enjoyed drinks and dominoes last night in a local tavern nearby. Luli, the duena where we are staying, often walks in unannounced to make sure our fire is still going. This morning she brought us cappuccinos in bed, and took Althea off to play with her grandchildren. Today is Dia de Benito Juarez, so the kids all have off from school. We’re not too sure what we’re doing tomorrow, or even today, but we’ll let you know how it turns out.

Big Bend Recap

2006-03-21T09:21:00.000-08:00

Here are a few pictures from our stopover in Big Bend National Park, where we met up with my parents. We soaked in hot springs, skipped stones in the Rio Grande (Josh’s literally made it to Mexico), and hiked to Boquillas Canyon and Cattail Falls. Althea now has a full two miles under her belt, and is constantly honing her climbing skills. There was also plenty of time for eating and chatting and playing cards in the swanky comfort of Gloria and Jerry’s luxurious airstream. It’s a good thing we met up with them at the border since they’ll likely be in Alaska by summer time. Parting ways was bitter sweet to say the least. But I guess traveling runs in our blood.

bienvenidos a mexico

2006-03-13T10:36:00.000-08:00

We're now in Mexico -- we finally crossed the border and bid a bittersweet farewell to the good ol' US of A. We'll certainly miss her smooth roads and clean agua, but we will adjust. So after a relatively easy border crossing at Ojinaga (we got the green light, baby), what was our first stop? Why the little town of Aldama, of course. Aldama is about 20 minutes outside Ciudad Chihuahua, best known for its Sunday night "vueltas", when young people who have no class on Monday cruise the strip into the plaza, make the circle, and come back down the same road, only to turn around and do it over again. We didn't know anything about las vueltas until we had already settled in for the evening along the side of the road where the actual turn around happens and the whole thing begins again. It made for an interesting evening of revved up engines, thumping ranchero music, and people-watching, to say the least. The other thing Aldama treated us with was a pack of children who loved Althea, and our van, and tolerated our broken Spanish enough to ask in about three hours more questions than Althea asks in an average year. They informed us, amidst uncontrollable giggling, that the name of our van, which we understood to mean "ladybug", is more commonly understood as the Spanish equivalent of "fag." Needless to say, that's not a great way to introduce your home, so we are now riding across the desert in a van with no name. We are soliciting suggestions, so feel free to send us your ideas.

We spent the past week with Courtney's parents at Big Bend National Park. We went on several great hikes, bathed in hot springs, enjoyed beautiful sunsets, and had a wonderful time all around. Unfortunately, I do not have the camera on me which has all the pictures we took on it. Courtney has it with her, and she just took Althea back to the van after a little bit of turista hit Althea on the street corner. I guess it's good to get it out of the way, though I am hoping not to have to do major cleaning in the van. More pics to come.

Next stop, Barranca del Cobre (Copper Canyon)...at least, we think.

winding up the US leg

2006-03-07T12:25:00.000-08:00

It’s March 4, 2006 (well, this is getting posted late) and we’ve been out of cyberspace for a while so here’s an update. Our visits with Josh’s family in Tuscaloosa were full of good southern cookin and warm hospitality. Our first night was spent w/ Josh’s grandmother, Lutricia. We then spent a couple nights w/his grandfather, Roy and his wife Jane, and after that we stayed with Aunt Gail and Uncle Lennie. After addressing some minor mechanical issues w/ our gal mariquita we headed on over to Lafayette, Louisiana for a visit w/ Aunt Joann and Uncle Jack. We only managed to get pulled over once by the kind police officers in Dixieland. Althea talked them out of the ticket and we cruised on. Currently we’re in Texas hill country visiting my sister, Stephanie and my brother-in-law Steve. Althea fits right in with their three kids, Jack, Lucie and Lincoln. We’ve had quite a week at the Gillette ranch -- horseback riding, go-carting and more spectacular eating. Josh worked like a madman to get the Vanagon ready for her debut border crossing. Tomorrow we head out for Big Bend national park. We’ll be rounding off our USA tour with a short visit to my folks, Gloria and Jerry. Please reread this as there will be a quiz next Monday on all the relatives names and locations. Reading about other people’s family is soooooooooooooo much fun!!!! There will also be a matching section so make sure you study those pics!!!

-Courtney

josh had been on the planet 10, 001 days

2006-02-23T20:33:00.000-08:00

on saturday february 18th those wilsons left d.c. it was about 8 p.m. when we pulled out of our driveway and down tucker avenue for the last time. The instution of 6514 is officially history. and a great one at that. thanks to all the good people who have breathed life and exhuberance into our suburban existence. leaving you is the greatest sacrifice we have yet to endure. (courtney cried all the way to tennessee) we have, however, temporarily left behind our beloved dog, Leroy. so if you're needing your wilson fix please feel free to pay him a visit at the house of our friend, Aaron, in falls church. you can write us for details.

we have now been on the road five days. our US trek is full of family fun. we first stopped in tennessee to visit courtney's brother and his family. mark and christal live in the town of kingsport with their adorable and extremely articulate three-year old son, Ethan and their spritely sixteen-year-old dog, Bea. Next stop was Tuscaloosa, Alabama. We've been here since Monday visiting Josh's family. Here's some pics of the last days of tucker and the first days of our trip . . . we'll keep you posted and love to all.

out with a bang

2006-02-16T14:00:00.000-08:00

The farewell festivities at Tucker were not hindered by the storm -- we scoff at snow. In fact, the snow actually helped to provide the pyrotechnics for the evening. At around 3:30am (I think, time becomes fuzzy around that hour), the power went out and a transformer blew right in front of our house when a snow-heavy branch fell and took out the ground line. It was quite the spectacle. It went on for some 45 minutes like a giant roman candle emitting surreal colors and a heathly dose of radiation. The explosions were so striking that Courtney was convinced it was the apocalypse, and she was poised to video the entire thing and sell it to Fox. My concern was with our new home, which was inconveniently parked right below the fireball. Eventually it set fire to the pine tree in front of the house, and despite some 15 phone calls, the fire department never showed. We got some of it on video, and you can at least get an idea from the pictures below. And the snow brought us one other special gift: the last Tucker house party was the first one where the cops didn't show up.

There were a number of people who were deterred by the snow (probably for the best, as around 20 people crashed out at our place--think bodies, not cars), and I must say, each of you were missed. For those of you who came and ducked out early, thanks for making the effort. Thanks to our djs: I'll put the link up soon so you can listen to them spin live over the internet.

Philly & Back

2006-02-08T10:42:00.000-08:00

We managed to fit in one last excursion before the big shove off. We went up to Philadelphia for several days to visit friends one last time before they come to visit us someday somewhere south of the border. Althea may have found her extreme subculture sport of choice: bouldering. Here she is with Ant climbing on the wall he built in his basement.

Don't forget this Saturday is the farewell Tucker Ave party. Several DJs lined up. You know. Hey, bring food if you can.

thosewilsons are leaving dc

2006-01-03T20:11:00.000-08:00

Yes, we are for real. We're selling most of what we own, quiting jobs, packing up in a van, and heading south where the climate suits our clothes. What are we going to do? Well, we're going to work on farms for food. "To forget how to dig the earth and tend the soil is to forget ourselves" (Gandhi). So maybe we're going to find ourselves, too. We're going to do some language schools and improve our spanish. We're going to visit friends and family. We're going to detox from the beltway insanity, and try to live closer to the earth. We're after places where we can still see the stars and the vastness of space, and also swim in a clean river. We want to live with less, and still have more. It's crazy and romantic, but it's an adventure that's calling our names.

the suburban exodus begins for us on 15 february.
farewell festivities at tucker avenue on 11 february.