Trail Magic # 5- The Sign In The Road.

"He who lives amongst men will be irremediably vexed. If he wants to avoid it he will have to go and live in the mountains, but when he is there he will discover that to live alone is vexatious." Francisco Goya, caption to "Los Caprichos # 58"

Many of my family photos feature mysterious phantasms. A basket of puppies, a family reunion picnic, and a tentative man-hug, all partially masked by a pink cloud-not the workings of the spirit world, but those of a hasty photographer. My maternal grandmother was forever taking pictures of her fingers. In the snapshot above, I am not unhappy to discover that (at a crucial moment) I've made the same mistake myself. My grandmother died many years before her time, yet the smudge is there like a little wink from the past. A friendly ghost in the woods. This picture was taken towards the end of my 2006 solo Appalachian Trail thru-hike. The A.T. is a 2,175-mile hike that starts on top of Springer Mountain in Georgia (outside of Atlanta) and winds its way through 14 U.S. states before finishing at the peak of the mighty Mount Katahdin in Maine (outside of Bangor.) The trail goes over many roads, streams, and bridges along the way, but the crossing I remember best is the one shown above. Its just a little paved track though the Maine wilderness, but the thing that makes it so special is the magic number painted on it-2000 miles. Due to trail rerouting over the years this sign now sits roughly at trail mile 2010, but all of those round numbers still made my imagination spin. The year 2000. One million dollars. "Bill-yuns and uh...bill-yuns." Did I really walk all that way? The whole time I was hiking, I avoided looking at maps of the entire A.T. This was not easy, because in trail towns and hostels they are as common as flags at a Fourth of July picnic. Somehow I thought that it would be bad mojo to consider all that I'd done and all that I had yet to do, like "The Snows of Kilimanjaro"-taking stock and coming up short. I first saw the sign in the road when I was watching a documentary about thru-hiking the A.T. on public television three weeks before I started my hike. My tent had just come in the mail and I had it spread out over the living room floor in a tangle of poles, chords, and smelly new plastic. I missed the first part of the film where, presumably the hikers didn't have their shit completely together. Maybe they had been a little pudgy (like me,) or had had a pack the approximate size and weight of a professional wrestler (like me.) I hoped that this was true, but when I tuned in, the hikers looked rough and ready. "Two men enter. One man leaves," tough. Calves hard and brown like temple bells. They stepped out of the woods and on to the pavement with all the emotion of pilgrims slipping into the Ganges. Some giggled nervously. Some posed for photos. Most sniffled and stopped a few beats before before pushing on. When I started my own hike in an icy February rainstorm, I had no reason to expect any more then hypothermia or trench foot. I wasn't an athlete in high school (or a math-lete for that matter.) When I was picked to play a position in gym class, you could usually find me picking at the grass or examining the clouds as the ball whizzed by. While I was living in rural South Africa the idea of doing a thru-hike got into my head and would not go away. I asked my Mom to send me a copy of Bill Bryson's audio book version of "A Walk In The Woods" and I listened to it nearly every night as I went to sleep. During that time, I was going to funeral after funeral-friends, neighbors, students, and members of my adopted African family, all victims of the AIDS pandemic. I spent my weekends handing out condoms and helping to dig graves in the red sandy soil. I could feel myself growing very brittle and tiny inside, like rushing water wearing away a stone. In January of 2005 I started jogging every morning in a fallow field near my room. At first I would lumber around for fifteen minutes and then collapse on my bed with my head swirling and stomach heaving. But within two weeks, I noticed that it didn't hurt so much and that I could go longer and longer without getting winded. I was also learning more about the tradition in African spirituality in which a person separates themselves from society in order to gain greater access to ancestor spirits and the unseen worlds. As a person who sees the world from a largely scientific vantage point, I believe that the source of these visions is internal (mental) and not external (otherworldly.) However, the traditional healers that and I both agree that dreams have tremendous value. For me, a source of ideas and images for painting. For them, an insight into the psychology of themselves and their patients. When I returned to the U.S. a few months later and actually started walking the trail, I had hopes that isolation in the woods would help me both manage my grief and gain access to seldom visited mental nooks and crannies. Physically, I found that (for all my training) I was at the very lowest level of fitness that would allow me to continue hiking without blisters or serious pain. Thankfully, thru-hiking is one of the few endeavors where the training and activity are rolled into one. Its just not possible to walk for twelve hours a day and hold down a job, or a relationship with a non-hiker, or anything at all. Being sort of a thru-hiker is like being a little bit pregnant. Mentally, I was happy to discover that I was better suited for the journey. I was accustomed to spending days alone in the studio, so spending the equivalent time in the woods did not hurt as much as it could have. I had time to dream deeply and practice what I learned in Africa-chatting with a few friendly ghosts. And, as winter bloomed into a warm Virginia spring, the world started to look less like an open grave. I met other hikers, hitchhiked, laughed, ground one pair of boots to powder, found a free pair of trail sneakers, proudly took on a silly trail name, and ate entirely too many Snickers bars. Then, I found myself standing alone on a little paved track in the Maine wilderness and looking down at at a sign written there-2000 miles. I felt like singing out, and also like setting up my tent on the double yellow line and waiting for a logging truck to come along. I sniffled and stopped for a few beats before pushing on.

My Youth In Asia # 2-"Pardon The Way That I Stare."

"Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it."-Confucius

“You have blue eye, big big nose, small small mouth,” observed one of my students this week. When you live in a place where the dominant racial make-up is different from your own, you have to be prepared for people to take notice, and Seoul, South Korea is no different. At least people here tend to limit themselves to stares or muted giggles. During the three years that I lived in rural South Africa, my every step out-of-doors was accompanied by pointed fingers and shouts of, “White Man! White Man!”-like I was a polar bear escaped from the zoo. These days, I get a little thrill every time a pretty girl looks at me on the subway before I notice that she’s not flirting, but giving me the kind of look people usually reserve for bearded ladies or a sweet potato resembling Richard Nixon. Being mostly solitary and not much of a bar hopper, I was in town for nearly a month before I spotted another white person-a slender woman in her mid-30’s reading a book on the subway. After seeing only Koreans for a while, my mind did a little double take to find her there, like a CD player hitting a scratch. I probably looked at her longer than should have and if I hadn’t been wearing my “Super-Bored Subway Face,” I might have let out a little snort of surprised laughter. It was a couple of minutes before I realized that that this is exactly the same reaction that Koreans have when they see me walking around loose. They don’t mean to be rude- I’m just not what they expected to see. Sometimes I go around a blind corner and people actually take a startled step back like they’ve seen a ghost. Little children cry and hide behind their mother’s skirts. In old British movies, great white hunters are always running into each other in dusty backstreets of B.F.E. They become fast friends, get pissed, and complain about the heat and “the natives.” I’m not sure what to do when I run into other foreigners here. Are we supposed to cling to each other like shipwreck survivors, or play it cool and pretend like we didn’t just see a reminder of home? In my case, shyness won out and left the woman to enjoy her book in peace. Next time though, I’ll be prepared. I’ll walk right up to her and say, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

My Youth In Asia # 1-Resident Alien.

"Men's natures are alike, it is their habits that carry them far apart."-Confucius

I'm a stranger in town. I can't read. I don't speak the language. And I'm not exactly sure which way to face when using the toilet at school. I even have a little plastic card with my picture on it that ominously says, "Resident Alien." If you travel far enough from home you become like an infant again-dependent on the good character and kindness of those around you to just make it through the day. Tourists and business people pay good money to be wrapped in the trappings of home while staying abroad, but long term visitors don't have that luxury. Thus, life overseas has the potential to become an ongoing comic opera with the visitor wearing the bells and multi-colored tights. Strangely, I have made a habit of this over the past several years. After a year in India and three years in South Africa, I now find myself teaching English at an elementary school in Seoul, South Korea. The job opportunity came to me quickly with a snowstorm of faxes, rushed packages, late night e-mails, and a dash to Washington DC to collect my work visa. I needed a job in the worst way, and it just so happened that South Korea was the first to seal the deal. If the paperwork had gone slightly different, I would be in a jungle in Thailand or teaching overstressed businessmen in Japan right now. My great college professor Joanne Scott once told me that, "an artist should know everything." Yet, I always seem to find myself in situations where I know nothing or next to nothing. A crafty Zen Buddhist will tell you that to know nothing is to know everything-beautiful poetry, but not very helpful when trying to find out the price of carrots. At school I teach English lesson for several 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th grade classes. The kids troop in and I do my dog and pony show with my Korean counterpart. Before I got here, I imagined South Korean students sitting quietly and taking instruction like little monks-not even close. They are as rowdy as any children in the U.S.-boys and girls smacking each other Three Stooges-style during the lesson and practicing their professional wrestling moves during breaks while the teachers sit calmly by sipping from small paper cups of "Maxim Coffee Mix." "They are playing," said Ms. Kim, commenting on three girls giving a small boy an atomic wedgie. The first lesson I taught with each class included a little Q. and A. session and their questions soon developed into a pretty clear pattern: "Are you married?" I showed them my ring-less hand. "Do you have a girlfriend?" I admitted that I don't. "If you were in the market for a girlfriend, what style would you choose?" Style? Am I shopping for sneakers? "Umm..." I said, "I guess, I like girls that like me." "Do you like Korean girls?" "I like them fine," I said carefully, remembering my audience. Actually, I think Korean girls are sexy as hell and I've spent half my time here wandering around with my eyeballs busting out of my head and my tongue unrolling like a red carpet like the horny wolf in the old Tex Avery cartoons. In The States these gorgeous young women would be prancing down the street in designer originals followed by a flurry of modeling contracts and sugar daddies. Here, they calmly stroll around unobserved buying onions in ratty sneakers. Amazing. The kids had many follow-up questions in the same vein, but thankfully the Korean teachers refused to translate them. I wonder if I can officially classify myself as a hermit, now that 11-year-olds show more interest in my love life than I do? Someone from each class invariably asked if I like kimchi (spicy pickled vegetables-the Korean national dish.) An alimentary blitzkrieg, this 5-alarm death cabbage scorches me both entering and leaving. I like kimchi about as much as I like mixing ground glass in with my contact lens solution, but their expectant faces told me there was only one answer to this question. They actually stood up and cheered, “He likes kimchi! He likes KIMCHI!” Maybe I should give the horrible stuff another try. Between classes, I am besieged in the halls by students wanting to shake my hand, try out their English, or teach me a new Korean word. Mostly this is very pleasant, but they have shown a bizarre fascination with my hairy arms. If I stop for just a second to talk to another teacher, I will feel the touch of a little hand petting me like the world’s most deformed sheep dog. The older girls give me the most trouble in the hall-taking little movies of me with their cell phones and shoving their notebooks under my nose and shouting, “Sign!” I try to explain that they will get my autograph every time they do their homework, but it does no good. Last week, one girl grabbed my arm and declared, “You are my new boyfriend.” Another girl bounded over (“No, he me boyfriend!”) and a short slap-fight ensued. I retreated to the safety on the teacher’s lounge and breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, teenybopper hearts are as fickle as the breeze and they will soon move on to younger prey and leave this 30-year-old Pooperoo alone. In their own sweet natured way, the other teachers have gotten around to asking the same sorts of probing questions that the kids did-my love life, kimchi , my love life, my favorite pop band, my love life...Yet they have very good to me and have been kind enough to include me in all the bewildering number of after-school outings, diners, and club meetings that comprise life here. They even try to catch me up on their impenetrable conversations by giving me little summaries-after a half an hour of drumming my fingers, somebody will take pity on me and whisper in my ear, "They talk about TV show." For all my foreignness, I am surprised how quickly I have settled into my new life here. After all, Seoul isn't exactly the outback.The school has taken pains to provide me with a furnished apartment with all the trimmings. I have been loaned a laptop for the duration and I am the proud owner of a slightly used cell phone that appears to be many times smarter than I am. I wonder what the next year will bring? FOOD UPDATE : Since writing this essay two months ago, I've learned that most Koreans would rather hear you insult their mothers than talk trash about their national dish. I still would rather polish off the contents of my sink trap than eat the standard red and white lunchroom kimchi, but I have to report that I now love most kinds of it. The name kimchi refers to a pickled vegetable mixture and the dishes that fall under that name are as varied as the Western dishes that are called "salad." The big misconception about Korean food is that you will wind up being slipped dog meat at some point during your meal. Was it in the dumplings? Was it hiding under the lettuce? Actually, it wasn't anywhere. Dog soup is a relatively rare traditional delicacy enjoyed mostly by older Koreans. Anyone serving you dog soup would would be proud of their cooking and make sure to let you know what you are getting. The role of the dog in Korean life is very similar to the role of the rabbit in Western life. 95% of the time its a lovable family pet and 5% of the time its the blue plate special. Here, bunnies are strictly for petting and not for snacking. On a recent group hike in the mountains, we spied two fat bucks sparring under a tree and I said something dumb like, "Oh, boy! Dinner for two." My Korean companions stared at me as if I had professed a longing for deep fried cow pies. I guess that I won't be eating at their houses anytime soon.

South Africa # 43-Trouble At home: Part 3.

South Africa # 42-Trouble At Home: Part 2.