The inheritance of solitude II

It is not about a journey but the effects of one.

First post

To continue with where I left in part I, about disturbing factors, it perhaps comes down to what is written a bit further down. On one of my long travels through India I wanted to form a more sturdy opinion about ashrams than what I’d red in books. Though two books in particular that I red in ashrams were eye opening (and my opinion about ashrams? That I keep for another time).

When you lose touch with inner stillness, you lose touch with yourself. When you lose touch with yourself, you lose yourself in the world.

Your innermost sense of self, of who you are, is inseparable from stillness. This is the I Am that is deeper than name and form.

Echart Tolle

Ashram in Rishikesh, India

Solitude, silence, stillness is different for every individual, some can read ‘The power of now’ in busy restaurants on the main road in Rishikesh, others find it at noisy live performances. I did too, at gatherings on the Plaza Major’s in far-off high-altitude towns where Chilean artists and hippies performed quietly. That was soothing, just as cycling into the endlessness of the Andes and beyond was all encompassing for the soul. I never felt alone, was always filled with total contentment.

Outside, I was mostly among men in Yemen but I hardly felt intimidated. Often I would be invited by the moms of children I photographed and quite a few men wanted their picture to be taken too. Others were just surprised to see me appearing on their scene. I never had a problem, except one pubescent took his dagger out of his shaft when I pointed my small knife at him after I saw sexual assault in his behavior.

Coming by plane from Addis Abeba to Sana’a the passport official at the airport asked me: ‘How did you like Ethiopia?’ I can’t remember whether I told him the truth ‘a beautiful country but the people are less likeable’. I do remember his answer: ‘You will come to love my country.’ And that was true. These tiny boys encapsulate my feelings about their country pretty well.

Ujjain, India

It fits, to be among content and carefree freedom fighters, artists and unconventional minds is bliss, as long as they don’t identify with being an incarnation of Krishna and shriek their flutes or taking their spiritual quest to unfathomable heights what can cause all sorts of other troubles.

The cat woman with a sharp nose

Sinking into solitude is all too easy. Like the Austrian woman I met in the capital of Yemen, Sana’a; working with her husband on archaeological sites in the country she found out he cheated on her. Hurt by a partner who left her for a younger example she decided to stay alone. But that, to stay alone, was not entirely correct; as when I saw her in her house I could not count the cats dotted around on beautiful oriental pillows and sofas and chairs. We met the first time in the post office where I was surprised to encounter a foreigner.

At that time there were not many foreigners. Yemen was partly off limits and (suicide) bombings happened regularly on groups of organized tourism. There was also a feasible treat of kidnappings in the East. At that time a few groups of tourists were liquidated but I always traveled local style (by myself, but not alone, in taxi cars), local dressed and fearless without being naive.

The Austrian woman, living in Sana’a for about 20 years, turned out refusing to learn Arabic as her opinion was that others had to adjust to her. That same evening I was invited to her home and I came dressed local style in black abaya, matching hijab and two drops of essential jasmine oil, just like the ladies of Sana’a would.

Unfortunately, she was utterly disturbed by my strong scent of two drops, two drops too many, jasmine oil. Even the cats would run away from me, she stated, all the while holding a napkin against her mouth and nose. I watched the cats reacting nicely to me, eventhough they are said to have a superb smell ability. I rubbed off the oil behind my ears and swallowed her contempt: arranging myself in a way the Austrian woman could learn from, I might have thought. I was much younger than her, I tried to be kind and respectful, but all in vain. Then I said: ‘I go home and we skip our dinner altogether. If my natural Yemeni perfume is so terrible, if it makes you vomit and you are not able to eat with me, then don’t.’ I am not sure what I said, but it was something along these lines.

Look at the confusing salespitch of ghee (clarified butter): the Malaysian brand is called Girl and a European looking, very white, woman is cooking in a modern kitchen.

I was invited to join my ‘new friend’ to eat Ethiopian food. Injera was something I liked from the start, even in the days that I drank Coca Cola and was obviously not so into refined taste, I could tell that the Ethiopians had a mighty good cuisine.

She then was taken aback, saying that she was already used to the smell by now. In fact, she said, the oil seemed to be fading off a bit – I’d rubbed hard to get to this point. And so, not much later, we drove in her old Jeep to an Ethiopian restaurant of her choice – with open windows of course. Needless to say that the evening was not pleasant and I left her car without saying: ‘It was nice to meet you, hope to see you soon again!’

The East of Yemen. I was not allowed to go there as a foreigner but managed to get on a bus when I found out the security police was not aligned very well with the bus ticket office. This was one of the most beautiful places on earth for me. At one of the many checkpoints upon returning by bus I was noticed by police and picked out. They put me in a shared jeep with a personal armed military guy (who fell asleep during ‘protecting’ me) while I secretly would not mind a kidnapping experience (known for their truly hospitable nature).

While waiting in the taxi car to fill up a man came over with the newspaper opened at a page where yet another suicide bombing was reported: 9 tourists were killed. ‘Be carefull, you better don’t travel at all’, I suppose he’d advised me. I answered that I would be safe, on my own, unrecognizable as a group, without escorted vehicles in tow. He and all the other men in the taxi agreed with my point of view.

When quietness has turned into the expected, sounds become like foreseeable mortars which nonetheless hurt your eardrum hard. I understand the Austrian woman a lot better today (if not fully).

The ease of solitude

I’d rather be alone in solitary mode than talking for its own sake. The nature has lots to say: the early morning rising, its stillness and slowly coming to life. The rays of light building up, flowers opening, new fruit forming, birds activated, insects busying around and thoughts brewing from stillness to activity.

Towards Santiago, Atacama desert.

In the camp spots throughout South America I longed for quietness and solitude and it came naturally. The magnificence of outside, its heavy rainfall, thunder, lightening, wind, or the motionlessness is always present and ever intriguing. The outbalanced portion of quietness turning into a bubbling concoction of energies at the start of the day, just after waking up is remarkable powerful.

So much that over time talking, communicating information and connecting through words is disturbing this powerful potent of the early morning goodness. Friendliness can be transmitted through quietness but it seems that in a normal society a constant stream of sharing opinions and thoughts is the preferred manner.

Sri Aurobindo and Sai Baba ashram, India

But coming back to ashrams in India, I thought it odd when people wore ‘no talking’ signs around their neck. Now I understand.

Listening to the voice inside you it will tell you where to go

When I met a cyclist for the first time, I wondered how one could find their way on a bicycle. It turned out to be very easy: either North, South, East or West. Soon I got hooked to the great amount of independence your own vehicle would give. So much so that all public transport, including driving a car, becomes a thing of the past and even something to avoid.

Unlike in Yemen, in Sudan I traveled more often by bus. But Sudanese desert coaches were wearing me out, even as a youngster and used to travel in hardship, I decided to stop the journey and take a Toyota Hilux instead. By car one can enjoy the relative ease of rest in a shady restaurant, but always accompanied by only men.

South America was a reform. India was the mold. The Muslim societies were the new ethics. Paraguay the finer tune up. Hungary the normal outcome. So far, so good.

Rather no shower for 2 weeks than a public sauna or pool, unless a strict separated Afghan bathhouse. The ocean will do too.

Rather an outhouse or the woods than a flush toilet. Long alone in solitary places means also to pee when and just about where it occurs. Up to this day I realize how cities are a bother when it comes to ‘public toilets’. My first reflex is to pull down my pants and sit in a corner, whether at an airport or city. Of course, its just a reflex.

Much, much rather local style establements with limited choice than fast food chains or all-you-can-eat in encouragement for obesity. None of which existed in Sudan nor Yemen. In Yemen I ate often secluded behind curtains or in family rooms upstairs (which I liked very much).

Seven times much rather alone in the woods than having futile talk. One doesn’t need all too much company and can fully do without not connecting people. True connectivity arrives at the spot and if not, it’s not worth the energy for one who’s content by her self. Energy must flow between the two – said by a very solitary loving persons arching to the introvert side.

Border Chile with Argentina, Jeffrey

Cycling South America I was often deeply drowned in solitary style and would talk too much to people who happened to speak English. A few exceptions among travelers, Jeffrey one of them, made my day. A long talk did wonders to me, lifted the spirit and along with sunshine and clear skies, it was all I needed.

Solely a photo for show as I absolutely did not have the patience nor desire to listen to guitar play of the Argentinean swim teacher from Patagonia. My posture says it all, I guess…

On my South American cycling tour I met an Argentinean swim teacher on his bicycle touring the country on hardly any financial support. A slip of the tongue and I invited him to share a meal with me and, unlike Iranian habit, without hesitation he accepted. Now I had to share my solitary camp and this was a mistake. There is nothing more needed after a day of much mental ongoing (whether work, cycling, cultivating) than silence and contemplation. I had to abandon my cocoon of meticulous weaved softness for idle talk, and felt like a mom I never wanted to be, caring for him as he was a baby (he simply did not cook nor wash up instead tinker on his bicycle).

That was another reason for me to always travel alone. Sometimes I would fit into a small group or form a duo but never for long and upon reaching India I would without exception split (which I succeeded over 15 times). India is so overwhelming that there is no place for another mind speaking its opinion.

When traveling you will notice that nature has a say and processing what has gone by on a day is rather very connective for the soul. Though social media seems to fit the desire to share. Sitting and talking was never part of my make up, it rarely matches my biochemistry; running a vegetable garden the size enough to feed a boutique restaurant does. Sitting and talking connected is a rare occurrence. Sitting and talking is usually disliked by one who fits the box hyperactive. Unless it makes the surrounding fades into a blur and goosebumps appear on intervals. Talking needs space, a place to be cultivated. Otherwise working the garden, watching naturals, creating beauty and silence are king.

From the moment I met the former translator of Geo, who both worked in the aftermath of Bosnian war, I felt a bolt smoothly falling into place.

Solitude is not about feeling superior but solitude makes you not want to share your feelings or your experiences with someone who does not live and feel on the same level. And if the levelness is not there it’s soon over with depth too. Talking for the sake of talking or arguing is done more easily when you’re twenty. A person in loneliness knows much better ways of enjoyment, though there is always this risk of becoming an awkward loony, inapt to be social, stressed when there are more than three mouths speaking.

Outcasts who’d invited me over to their makeshift shanty town. I learned how much they are looked down on when I met one of the the ladies somewhere in town to give the photos I made of their clan.

To be continued with part III (part I)