JamieSue

Communing With Nature

I maintain that I grew up on a lake.  Google maps claims that it is a swamp. Wyboo Swamp, says Google maps. Lake. It is a lake.I swam in this lake for many years and I’m swimming in it again now. Yes, there are fish, turtles, crawdaddies, and snakes and yes, even alligators, but this is a lake (not a swamp) and it is safe.  True, I have a security routine. When I go swimming, I make a lot of noise on the pier, because, you see, nothing wants to eat me on PURPOSE.. perhaps a startled water moccasin might bite me, perhaps a confused alligator might take a shot if it didn’t realize that I’m a big people sized creature, so I make a lot of very intimidating pier stomping. Then, I slosh my way into the shallow water and then I swim. Noisily. I kick very loudly on top of the water all the way out past the pier, then back in, then out, then in many times, startling away all creatures which I might otherwise surprise.  Once I feel like I have identified my territory, I drag in my float. It’s a lovely float- more a mini bathtub really – only the edges are inflated and the center hangs down into the water so it’s like a water hammock with only my head and feet sticking out of the water.  And I float and I read for an hour or more. Lovely, really.

 

So, there I am reading The Inheritance of Loss. Floating in the lake, reading about India, transfixed, out by the end of our neighbor’s pier. I’ve been quiet and still and reading for about an hour when  a striped green and black turtle head pops up right next to my float.  I smile. Obviously the turtle doesn’t realize I’m a person. Obviously, he thinks I’m just a floating log or something. You see, turtles float out in the lake all the time – their little green heads are everywhere and you can see their big brown bodies just below the surface, but as soon as you walk on the pier or get close to the turtles they disappear quickly underwater. I smile at the turtle. He blinks at me and I can see his big brown clawed feet treading water around his body. I’m being very still so I won’t scare him away. I’m admiring his black and green stripes.  He goes under then and reappears further down along my float only an inch or two away. His body is bigger than a dinner plate. I’m really grinning. Mockingbirds and finches are calling in the trees overhead. The water is perfectly smooth. The day is very humid but overcast and the lake water is bath temperature. I am trying to be so very still because I don’t want to change anything. The turtle’s back comes up above the water for a second and I can see the smooth brown layer of algae growing on him and the way it moves under the water is beautiful. He blinks at me again and I wonder if he is scared or completely oblivious to my presence. Turtles have totally black eyes – expressing nothing. They would be good at poker, I think. The turtle goes under again and reappears near the end of my float. He still doesn’t realize I’m a person, I think. Probably thinks I’m floating debris, perhaps a log, or a fellow lake animal. I’m smiling. Peaceful. Me, here, communing with nature so successfully that I am indistinguishable from a log.  Then suddenly there is a harsh pinch on the side of my foot and I see the turtle’s beak latched on just under my small toe. I shout, “you little fucker.” And I’m kicking my foot. The turtle loses his grip, but I have kicked him into my little hammock float and now the dinner plate with claws is scrambling across my belly, digging his little nails into my Argentina Boob-exposing swimming suit, and I’m trying to eject him from the raft but the pleasant inflated edges encircle me and the turtle. He’s panicking. I’m panicking. My book is also panicking because the bottom of it is now wet. The raft is indifferent to all of our plights. The turtle decides to climb toward my head. I’m trying to grab him but his shell is slimy and slick. I’m still half-shouting “you little fucker” and probably startling the hell out of the quiet fishing Baptist a few piers down. Finally, I get one hand under the turtle and flip him out of my raft. Then, very suddenly, I’m laughing loudly.

 

If I were you, I wouldn’t believe this story. Totally improbable. Why would a big box turtle float to the surface of the lake and bite some girl on the toe?  He wouldn’t. Really. He just wouldn’t.  But it really did happen. Right now, I imagine the dinner plate turtle swimming back down into the depths where he will return home and tell the story of this strange white log he bit that suddenly started moving. Or perhaps he will collect the bet money from his turtle friends, proving once and for all that he had the guts to attack a person.  I don’t know.  The only thing I do know is that this is a lake, not a swamp. No matter what stories you hear.

 

(June 30th, Manning, South Carolina)

English?

My plane in from Buenos Aires arrives at 5:00am and my plane out doesn’t leave until 9:30 am. I have slept for only 2 hours on the plane because I spent the night talking with Claudio the elderly Argentinean man next to me – he’s a neuroscientist in Chicago but later divulges that he has lost belief in science and developed faith only in spiritualism and he hides this from his colleagues. About the United States he advises me, “In the US there are too many things that you can’t talk about. Religion. Politics. Sex. Not sex but man woman relationships. Especially at work “In Argentina, you must have a strong opinion and shout about everything or else you are nobody.” Claudio can’t sleep on planes and so, neither can I.

 Standing in line for Customs in Chicago, I find myself planning what I will say in Spanish to the customs agent and I am shocked when he speaks English. I forget I am in America. I plan my phrases for ordering breakfast at McDonald’s…and they speak English. I still say gracias and por favor. I can not stop. I have $9.00 USD which I found in a wad of bills at the bottom of my travel bag and the money is confusing - all the bills look the same no matter what their denomination is. While eating my Egg McMuffin I try to read my book, the one the religious neuroscientist kept me from on the plane, but everyone…and I mean everyone….around me is speaking English. I can’t concentrate. I can’t stop hearing the meanings. I can’t stop listening to the conversations.

“I’ve never partied with Todd.”
“Yeah, no. He gets weird”
“There were a lot of people at the party.”
“Who else was in there?”
“There was…well…Shayna. He came late. Yeah. There were so many people.”
“A lot of shit went down.”
“Yeah. No.”
“I can text him. I know how to text.”
“It’s cheaper than calling.”
“That’s what I’ll do, text him.”
“Yeah. Text him. I bought hundred calorie muffins.”
“We are currently at Code Level Orange.”
I can’t turn them off.. Being out of the Spanish language I suddenly have no privacy. The language comes to me from everywhere. I can’t be alone.

I go to the gate to wait for my plane. I sit as far as I can from everyone, but it’s not enough. Announcements, a distant television, people approaching the window to watch the planes – it’s overwhelming. I feel like I have a tiny bit of knowledge what it might be like to suddenly be able to read minds. For many months now, understanding has been an option. Participating in the Spanish around me was a choice. I could try to understand the meaning behind the sounds or I could let them become background noise. I could choose to read signs or I could look at them like aesthetic symbols. Then, suddenly, in 11 hours, communication is no longer optional and I feel entirely overwhelmed.

I get up to go to the bathroom and I bump into a woman in the entrance. “Lo siento,” I say. She just looks at me. English. I am supposed to speak English. I’m back in the United States for only three hours and already I’m overwhelmed.

I have more to say about Argentina. I have many notes on adventures untold and many thoughts unprocessed. But I’m going to step away from that trip for a little while now. I plan on continuing this blog with material on South Carolina, past trips, and some of the Argentina material not yet done.

 At this moment, I’m sitting a table in small town South Carolina. I haven’t spoken Spanish for several weeks. Already, I’ve forgotten so much. Yet, I still occasionally say “como?” instead of “huh?” and my brain keeps thinking “pero” instead of “what”.  I’m happy to be home. I miss my Buenos Aires friends terribly. I’m glad to see my family. I miss being alone- really alone, the way I could be alone in the center of Patagonia where I couldn’t understand anyone and they couldn’t understand me and I could pretend that was only because of a language barrier.

Patagonia....where?

One of my readers (I have readers! You can't believe how excited this makes me. I don't even know some of them. They are strangers. Who Read My Blog. And I'm not even paying them or anything!)... Sorry, as I was saying, one of my readers brilliantly suggested that I create a map of my drive through Patagonia. So, here ya go. You can also click on the blue placemarkers and see what an excerpt of the blog and a link to the entry. Thanks for reading!

View Larger Map If you are receiving this through email, you probably can't see the map. But, clicking this linkhttp://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&msid=110751487102589403862.00044dfc9e22a9101378d&ll=-41.085562,-67.458801&spn=17.907344,45.527344&t=p&z=5 should work for you. Also, if you view the map through that link you might have a better view of the names of the towns...not sure how well this all works yet.

Naked Wet Spanish

I am comfortable being naked around strangers now. Well, semi-comfortable. Thanks to a fella I dated. We’ll call him, um, Bob. Bob enjoys comfort. Fantastic food. Nice hotels. All things plush and lazy. We were in Las Vegas and staying at The Venetian, my first experience in an extremely nice hotel. Honestly, The Venetian had my heart when the bathtub was deep enough for water over my shoulders and there was a flat screen T.V. in the bathroom. Star Wars in a bubble bath – a dork girl’s dream. Anyhow, Rob, I mean, Bob, wanted us to go to the spa.  I, of course, mocked him. Haha. You’re a boy. You want to go the spa? Haha. That’s such a pansy thing to do. Haha. Etc. He made appointments for us to get massages and facials.  Oh, more mocking. You’re a boy and you’re getting a FACIAL? Bawwahaha.  Then, I had my first spa experience. All mocking stopped.  Bob and I dated for several years and I got just a bit spoiled.  Then, the problem.  I am cheap. Yes, I love a massage, a mud wrap, a facial, a spa-anything…but I am not willing to spend $150 for an hour of ANYTHING. Then came Copahue, Argentina. The experience, however, is just a bit different. I’ll compare my experience getting a mud wrap at Silk spa in Manhattan to Copahue, Argentina.

Silk Spa: They give you a locker, a cushy bath robe, nice slippers, and they ask you to change in a room where there is a shower, steam rooms, and perfectly lit mirrors which make you feel thin and attractive. Once you have changed, they give you an aesthetically pleasing glass of water and ask you to sit in a dimly lit, slightly warm, very pillowy enclosure where there are nuts and berries which no one eats.

Copahue: You get a number. When your number is called, a lady at a computer fills out a form. You get another number. When that number is called, you pay. You get another number. When that number is called, you get a timeslot. You wait for your timeslot under florescent lights sitting in plastic chairs like the kind in the public school. The entire building feels like a communist encampment. You wonder if you will get your ration of bread and water or if your children will go hungry again this winter. Perhaps there are wolves circling.

Silk Spa: A woman with a melodious voice calls your name using the “excuse me for disturbing you” tone. She introduces herself and her name is relaxing, perhaps Charlotte . You are led into a small, candle-lit room covered in soft things. Even the walls are padded. Charlotte asks you if you would like music in the background: world, jazz, or piano. No matter which you choose it will sound like upper-class elevator music. You are left alone to remove your robe and climb onto the table which is also soft and warm.  You cover yourself with the light sheet provided.

Copahue: Your timeslot arrives and a hairy man in dirty green scrubs calls your name. He does not introduce himself, but that doesn’t matter because you are certain his name must be Boris. He leads you into a compartment that looks like a utility closet. It is lit with florescent light. Along one wall there is a steel metal table. Above the table there is a long light like the kind they use to keep fast food warm. Boris tells you to take off your clothes and then get on the table. He leaves your utility closet. There is no music but you can hear all the attendants talking and laughing and snorting outside of your utility closet. If your Spanish was better, you’re pretty sure you would hear them talking about you.

Silk Spa: You are so cozy, even naked, under the blanket that you are dozing before Charlotte returns. When she comes in, she knocks softly and uses a library voice to ask if you are ready. You are ready. Charlotte strategically realigns the blanket to expose only the part of your body she is working on. You do not know where the supplies are coming from, but suddenly she is rubbing mud onto your body, half massaging your muscles, and thoroughly warming your skin and, perhaps, your soul, you think.

Copahue: You have climbed onto the metal table in only your underwear. There is no modesty blanket. You lay under the florescent light hung just above your body and think about all the fat pocks being highlighted. You know that Boris has never seen a girl as white as you are and there will be more snorting-attendant laughter.  The metal table is very, very cold. At this moment, you think only a Pap Smear would be worse than this spa experience.  Boris does not knock before re-entering your utility closet. The door on the metal door frame slams against the wall as he comes lumbering through. He is carrying a grey bucket like a janitor uses to mop the floors. He drops the bucket onto the floor next to you, sticks his long hairy arm into the bucket, and then with a big slopping noise a chunk of mud is plopped onto your back.

Silk Spa: After 30 minutes of the rubbing and warm mud, you are a puddle of uncontrollable bliss. You think this could not get any better but then magically Charlotte is producing a giant sheet of cellophane material, wrapping you in it, and then wrapping you in a warm blanket, covering your eyes with a cool mask, and then putting you under some kind of warming device which you can not see. Charlotte tells you to relax and that she will return shortly. You are slowly baked in a gelatinous muddy messy of drowsiness. You never want to leave. You would like to ask Charlotte to marry you even though you are not gay.

Copahue: After 30 minutes of having gelatinous mud tossed onto your back, you feel like you are the target of a mob of angry children armed with mud balls. Boris produces a giant sheet of cellophane material from the closet and wraps you in it. He produces a wool blanket which looks like the kind used on the backs of horses and lays it over you.  He moves the Fry Warmer light so that it is directly over your body. You are scoffing.  Boris leaves your utility closet. You are slowly baked in a gelatinous muddy messy of drowsiness. You never want to leave. You would like to ask Boris to marry you even though you are not gay.

Silk Spa: Charlotte returns, unwraps you, and tells you to take a shower in the corner of the room where there is every bathroom supply you can imagine. Charlotte leaves.

Copahue: Boris returns, unwraps you, and tells you to take  a shower in the corner of the room where a rusty showerhead juts from the corner of the closet. While you shower, Boris stands on the other side of a curtain which doesn’t close all the way. When you are done, you stand in the center of the utility closet in only your underwear, now wet, having a broken Spanish conversation with Boris where you learn that you were supposed to bring your own towel. You did not bring a towel. Boris leaves and returns with a rag that looks like it is usually used for dusting.  You are grateful anyway.

Silk Spa:  Your bill is $140.00 + tip.
Copahue: Your bill is $3.00 + tip.

Copahue certainly does not have the overall spa feeling, but the actual treatments are pretty darn good.  I am spoiled. I do love a warm, plush, melt me spa.  But, knowing I could have that warm mud feeling 50 times for the cost of one trip to Silk Spa…well, what can I say. I may build a cabin in Copahue. Especially after I realized that at Copahue’s prices, I could easily afford a massage every single day. For the rest of my life. I’m packing my bags now.