White Baboon

We rode down to Tyre a few weeks ago along the Mediterranean to South Lebanon, the hotbed of Israeli conflict. Rob, Inma’s Director, was driving. The landrover was full of an unofficial religious delegation. One of these, an American–let’s call him Ray–rode in the passenger seat. He was speaking to Samir Inma’s founder, who sat in the back.

The topic was the upcoming Prayer Breakfast, a Congressional event held every February, where thousands of VIPs, including Bono and the current president, gather to speak with God in a non-denominational setting and without the presence of the press. While in D.C., Samir would be giving a lecture, his reputation as a diplomatic bridge-builder and international businessman preceding him. He and other special guests affiliated with Inma Foundation would be stay together at a special residence. This would all happen in a couple weeks.

As the six of us listened, Ray gave Samir a complete play-by-play of the Prayer Breakfast’s schedule of events, including where he thought they might lunch, at what time they would coffee break and who he was hoping to speak with.

At this point, Michael and I met eyes. There was nothing wrong with this scene. Nothing offensive. Nothing rude. But all we could think about was this: Those Americans, they sure do like to plan. Then they like to talk about the plan.

Sometimes I think Jesus gets a bad rap.

He reminds me of those musicians who began playing because they loved the sound of music but then everyone started calling them a “God” . . .and they were eventually led astray by either their agents or the rest of the guys in the band . . . and succumbed to the peer pressure of insipid lyrics, increased radio-play and high-priced tickets.

But it’s not fair to call Jesus a sell-out when he’s not actually here to make his own decisions.

Lucky for him, there exist busloads of devout followers who have taken it upon themselves to start their own churches and expose the teachings of Jesus without the baggage (or divisive agents and personalities) which seems to weigh down Christianity.

But the fact that I instinctively cringe when I see WWJD bracelets, or that I measure my words much more carefully when I’m with someone who has a cross around their neck, says that Christianity is still failing to spread the message about love and forgiveness. Because when faced with confident tokens of faith, I either categorize people as ultra-conservative or sit in fear of judgment from them. Somehow, Christianity has been taken to an extreme, encrusted with Teflon, repelling instead of replenishing.

I believe Jesus is actually ABOUT love and acceptance and forgiveness. And I’ll tell you why. About six years ago, Barb Kiebel, a dear friend and strong woman who used to serve me spiked lemonade and Marlboro Lights on her back porch when I was first starting my business, lent me a book called Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time. She was involved in her church—an open community where lectures on Islam were not considered threatening, even in 2002.

Upon reading the book, I was somewhat surprised to discover that Jesus, this guy from Nazareth, and religion, the Catholicism I’d grown to be suspicious of, were often two very different things.

However, let’s be clear about where I’m standing. It’s on the bottom rung. I’m talking about Jesus, the man. Not Jesus the divine son at the right hand of the father who will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead. Not the giver of life. Not the one whose kingdom will not end. Not Him.

Just an inspiring guy who has happened to have the biggest following of all time.

Since we’ve come to Beirut and began working for Inma Foundation, I feel I’m meeting Jesus yet again. Among other beliefs, at the very minimum, the staff of this organization follow his teachings. And it’s evident within their community. These people are balanced human beings who give of their time and resources without seeking something in return. They empower without controlling. They exude goodness without making me sick. They don’t really gossip. They make me want to be a better person.

This has been a recurring theme as we explore the earth. We’ve been part of “an economy where sharing is the primary currency,”(thanks Jen Lemen) as we couchsurf, hitchhike and rely on the kindness of strangers. We have become more aware of the impact of our own energy on others. About the sky-high value of old-fashioned, but evergreen kindness.

Funny, eh? How after so much meditative, deep-sea-diving into my soul, that life’s little sevens or twos or nines (or whatever you happen to need in your game of Go Fish) are not found in some spiritual temple amid the silence, but in a bomb-common place like Beirut, amid the chaos of Christianity and Islam.

When I was ?n my slumber party phase, my friends and I played those games. You know the ones. Light as a feather, stiff as a board, quiet as a churchmouse. We choked each other to deplete the amount of oxygen traveling to our brain and passed out for seconds at a time. But most of all, we sat knee to knee with the Ouija Board between us. Often at night. Sometimes at a cemetery. Obviously, we enjoyed fear and had a penchant for the mystical. But mostly, we wanted to find out who we would marry.

Years later in college, I Ouija’d with some of my sorority sisters in the attic of our 19th century house. The last thing I remember is running down three flights of its spiral staircase toward the land of the living. It was a fun freak out, but I decided then that I would leave devils and destiny alone.

So when I saw the board propped in my room’s fireplace at the olive farm in Turkey, it certainly contributed to the spookiness of our space. But I was no longer worried about spirits. I began thinking about free will.

As a child, belief in a predetermined path of fate through either a mystical presence or a religious God provides comfort and reassurance–especially at a time when we may feel lost or confused. But ideally, as an adult, we feel empowered to change and influence our own life, leaning on an alleged higher power a little less often.

Instinctively, I gravitate toward free will philosophies. I believe I am responsible for my own happiness. I adhere to the Open Space Law of Two Feet (if you’re neither contributing nor getting value where you are, use your two feet (or available form of mobility) and go somewhere where you can) . I am not repulsed by Tony Robbins. And I’ve always loved this little gem from Live Life To The Fullest, a gift from Aunt Sue at graduation: Act as if everything depends on upon you, but pray as if everything depends upon God.

However, for balance, and to help me release some control and literally go with the flow, I also sway toward more fatalistic mantras. I repeat: This is where God circled for me to be on the map. I believe in the other Open Space saying: The people here are the right people. I trust in the universe.

But in the past few years, a new concept has came rolling into my driveway. One that meets somewhere in the middle. . .and reconciles the two schools of thought. Two years ago, I watched science, positive thinking and mysticism collide in What the Bleep Do We Know. I listened to the hokily-delivered, but powerful lectures of Abraham Hicks. And at the olive farm, I read between the not-so-literary lines in James Redfield’s Celestine Prophecy. Here’s what they (and not coincidentally, Buddhists,) say: While I am the master of my own destiny, and I need not depend on the universe for answers or direction, my connection with the universe is still crucial. Because if I can harness its power and energy, one much greater than little old me, then through deliberate creation, (free will and intention) I can attract exactly what I want.

Tapping the universe? Harnessing energy? I know, it’s tough to believe, let alone embrace. And I’ve been thinking about it for a few years now. But . . .just give it a whirl, think of it as positive thinking with a pirouette and let it carry you away for a dance or two. It’s good stuff.

I’m still in denial about moving that mysterious Ouija planchette. At least on purpose. But even back then, as we reached out our adolescent hands to the universe, probing for information about our hopes and dreams, we were practicing for life. Because we did get something back. I think our only mistake was attributing the message we received to a higher force. . .when it was really coming from ourselves.

Beirut, upon first glance, is a Disneyland of dreaminess. There’s Chili’s, Hard Rock Cafe Starbucks, Subway, and this bizarre obsession with retro-style American diners, such as the one you see behind my unhappy husband.Because we want it so badly to be true, we are instant victims–convinced of this burger-oasis between the chicken, hummus and fatoush all around it. At first, as soda-pop-jerk-dressed waiters walk the floor, Cadillac headlights glow across our red-leather booth, and we spot bacon-cheeseburgers and coke-floats on the menu, we are forced to close our mouth and dab a napkin at our drool. But it’s only one bite in, and one exchange with the server when we know we’d been duped.There’s something special about American cattle and exaggerated customer service. And it just doesn’t travel very well.

We are now living in Lebanon. I say living because I believe that once you buy Cheerios and eat them with milk and bananas in a ceramic bowl with a real spoon, you can no longer claim to be a tourist.

In the news, I see that Clinton has won N.H. and Nevada, Obama stole the hearts of South Carolina, McCain’s gaining ground, and Kenya is in chaos. I learn that Heath Ledger is dead, China has outlawed plastic bags and that Bush was recently just a couple borders away having coffee with Abdullah.

But here’s what’s freaking me out. Through the same source, a day after the fact, I discover that while I was complaining about no hot water the night before, an American-vehicle targeted roadside bomb killed four Lebanese in “war-torn” Beirut.But wait. I’m LIVING in Beirut. And if I wasn’t online, I’d never know.

Yes, this is bizarre. Just as bizarre as getting a text message from our NGO director on January 21st that said: “Due to the situation in Gaza, we will not be having activities in the camp.” Just as bizarre as being advised to go home on January 25th because an undercover agent had been assassinated, and the tire-burning had begun.

Today, we met with the NGO director and were briefed on the situation. Road-blocks and protester-police clashes around the camp means we should stay in our area, a ten minute taxi ride away. You see, the Shiites are pissed about the electricity rationing. . .there’s some aftermath from the assassination. . .but we know this is also a way for the “opposition” to try and weaken the government. Over coffee, the three of us discussed what’s happened since we arrived and who might be responsible. I have to admit, being here is a rush.Between the bombs, the traffic, the strikes, the sectarian squabbles and the electricity outages, we are living in the news. Yes, Beirut is where Drama has purchased a permanent pad for herself and put down some roots. You know, joining the gym, picking out paint swatches, finding her favorite Whole Foods location. And the Beiruti’s, even the expats, have really taken to her. I’m starting to believe they might even feed off her. If we’re not careful, so will we.

But I know Drama. All too well. She’s super clingy. Like Friday morning, around 5:30, as thought-rattling thunder rolled through the sky and the naked women on our wall lit up like Moulin Rouge and the Call to Prayer began and I thought about the cold, long, dark hallway to the bathroom? Yeah. She wouldn’t let go of my hand.And last week, when I locked the door to take a shower and the water strangely stopped working just as I was finishing and then I swore I heard the front door shut, but then Michael didn’t answer when I called and so I brushed my teeth and lotioned my legs and by then he totally should have been home but he totally wasn’t and I had to dry my hair, but I was afraid to get, you know lost in the zone of the hair-dryer sound when clearly, the guys I saw earlier on a nearby roof were members of Al Qaeda and they were now in the house waiting to break down the bathroom door. Yeah, Drama was in on that one, too.As much as I get a rush from our stories of time spent in a city whose very name evokes visions of hostages, terrorists and masked militants. . .as much as I love the fantasy of starring in my own humanitarian action flick. . .and as much as I understand the excitement of leaving the house and never knowing WHAT the day might bring, the big D is not good for my well-being.So the idea of residing long-term in a city who seems to thrive on her very presence. . .well. . .no. Thanks, but no thanks.But I will leave here with a different view of the world and of my government. I am realizing that where your loyalties fall has less to do with open-mindedness or how broad your horizon is, and more to do with who you are deep, deep within. What comes out when your faced with conflicting opinions. The instinctive stuff that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of your genes. A place you don’t typically visit every day.

(Photo by Michael)

Garret and his sister Esther, the Irish backpackers staying across the hall, were planning a trip to Golan Heights. I’d never heard of it—and I apologize. But as Garret ranted on like an action movie trailer about the special permission, bombshelled buildings and sledge-hammered sight of this strange buffer territory, I wasn’t enthused. Hadn’t we seen enough ruins?

Well. .It all started back in the 1967 when Syria lost a bunch of land called Golan Heights to Israel in the Six Day War. This pissed them off. So during the Yom Kippur War of 1973, Syria won back 450 sq km of Golan Heights, and a demilitarized, UN-supervised buffer zone began to keep the peace. But now Israel was pissed. Just before giving up Quinetra, a part of Golan Heights just lost back to Syria, they went through and systematically destroyed everything in sight, removing, as Lonely Planet put it “anything that could be unscrewed, unbolted or wrenched from its position.”

(Photo by Michael)

Then they bulldozed what was left. While some say it was revenge, and others claim it served to strengthen the security buffer, it wasn’t pretty. Syria, as you can imagine, now welcomes tourists to witness this act of destruction, just in case there was any doubt about which country was or is in the wrong.Most of Golan Heights–1,200 square kilometres of territory, manned by thousands of troops–is still under dispute. Neither countries seem interested in compromise.

That morning at the bus station, I realized I’d forgotten my passport, which could have been disastrous. But I was optimistic. We made it through two checkpoints where no one seemed to correctly compare the number of heads with the number of documents. And at our final threshhold, after a promise to take photos and patient smiles, we were in.Rain fell freely into the roofless shops of Quinetra’s main street as the five of us shuffled in an unintentionally staggered formation up and down the empty roads, each on our own private walk through the modern ruins of real conflict. Dirt-stained goats grazed in the weeds between garlic-colored stone and gravel. The walls and arches of a stone church appeared like so many we’d paid to see in the past. Climbing the dark, narrow, princess-style spiral of a crumbling minaret, there was a disturbing view of Quinetra’s mine-filled fields and the Israeli territory in the distance. But kilometers of gnarled barbed wire and our Syrian guide kept us on the right path.

Coming upon a kind of checkpoint, our tour was abruptly over. We stood for over an hour in the slanted rain waiting for a ride back to civilization. Soldiers came and went. Gold badged and bereted, some huddled in a small office. Others shot the shit inside a checkpoint station. Another was in charge of lifting the gate for incoming SUVs with “UN” in big, bold and black letters along the side. When encountered, they were timidly friendly, always interested. One little boy, age 10, accompanying his father, practiced his English by shouting to us with a high-toothed, rabbit smile.

Finally, piling into an army jeep with other fatigue-covered men, we rode back to our first interrogator and stood awkwardly in a two by two shelter. Plastic white deck chairs slid on a muddy, public-school tile floor while a red, cable-wrapped, deckless boom box chanted Arabic radio and a small stove dripped propane. An extra-strength candle, which looked a lot like a stick of dynamite had been lit and placed outside the window. Kalushnakavs hung on a row of nails. The guards were nothing but nice.Golan Heights was plenty disturbing, just as anticipated. I kept thinking–all this fighting and destruction over a little piece of land? But Michael reminded me that everything is relative. When your country is this small, a couple hundred kilometers matter more. Who am I to talk, anyway? Had the United States ever permanently lost any sizable land? No, it seemed like we’d had much more experience in taking it away from others.

I am still digesting.

For our first couchsurfing experience, we stayed with Meriç (pronounced Merich) in Bursa. He lived in a farm of landscaped, pastel apartment buildings in the suburbs. He commuted to work, drove downtown to go bar-hopping, ate lunch and dinner in a company food court and shopped at a massive grocery store built just for his subdivision. The grocery store looked a lot like Albertsons. If it weren’t for the flags, it could have been any American suburb.

Honest, sincere and accommodating, Meriç was an angelic host. He took us to dinner, drove us around, helped us fax and print and picked us up from the ferry. We stayed two nights, but he would have let us sleep in his college-like flat for a week. Mer?ç and his easy-going, Facebook-belonging friends drank wheat beer and smoked Marlboro Lights. So I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when they said to us, upon hearing about our Peace Corps service and future plans: But what about security? What about your future? Aren’t you worried? How could you just abandon your jobs? And Syria? Be careful!The same comments we get from fellow Americans.You just never know what you’re gonna get. . .

These Turkish promenade-placed shrubs are like a cross between egg-dyed romaine lettuce heads and those trendy crocheted broches found at Urban Outfitters . . . .

From the Esisehir-to-Afyon bus. As a farmers daughter, I’ve been there before.

I’ve been looking for an antique-white, cherry-themed serving plate. Um, no. But if I was, I could find one in Turkey. The grocery stores here have just as many wicker cd racks, painted teapots and Elv?s twizzler sets as any Safeway. Ack. More stuff.

After much mourning I had accepted the fact that we would be traveling when the next season of Lost came out . . . .but can I help it if Sawyer is following me around the world?

Wait, where are we going again?A tribal circle. In honor of the full moon. To pray for world peace. Right.I saw a bad moon rising. Earlier.That day. After picking olives and finding the abandoned, hard-shelled houses of turtles and snails in the earth. Scraping my skin against the metal of the tree markers. Combing the tree as I do my hair, tugging at the knots of olives and waiting for the satisfying plop. Smashing olives with my bare feet. My purple-tinsel scarf wound around my head like a gypsy.

But trouble was not on the way. Tonight there will be nothing but a tribal circle in the round, stone wall dwelling in the orchard. The smoke of burning sage will be tossed into my fleece. I will sit, unspeaking, on a mat, staring at the well-tended fire for hours. I will meditate. I will struggle to get settled-I mean situated. I will see faces in the coals.What do you see?

There was no earthquake. No lightning. Not nasty weather. Nothing all that dramatic. But there was the sound of palm to drum and a child’s cough. The rhythm of shoes in the dirt. The music of a far-away Turkish wedding. The rooster’s insistent cockadoodledoos. The sound of Michael’s breathing.

Don’t come round tonight. And I didn’t. Not there. It wasn’t my time. I had both feet on the ground. No floating or zoning or rising. I was merely an observer, looking in. Others stared into their own possibilities. I just kept staring at the moon.

It’s bound to take your life. No, but I can see how they thought the moon might. I was giving it power with my own energy And receiving. . .something back. Staring like I’d never seen it before. It was no longer the moon, but the perfectly round polka-dot-on-a-dress sized window to another world. The pure white light of another galaxy. I felt so small, but part of something so big. Humbled and empowered. In one moment. And the gravity of my thoughts drug me to the ground. Kept me there. Clutching the earth.

There’s a bad moon on the rise. It was still going up when we left the circle and held each other’s soft, gloved doll-hands down the orchard path at 1AM. That’s when we saw the Yakaba horse. Calmly eating grass in the moonlight, shimmering olive branches between its head and the sky. A creature of the universe. Like me. Like Michael.And I. . kkkkk. . .kkkk. . . . I felt the energy kick in. The connection. The current through all of us. For just a few seconds. Before it slipped through my fingers once again.

At the Al Gawaher Hotel in Aleppo, Syria, we spent nine days (and Christmas) recovering from the past three couchsurfing episodes. In this city, when not gazing at its black-wafer-cookie-architecture, authentic bazaar, frequent stares and intimidating citadel-with-moat, we sat in our 50 degree room and enjoyed an Arabian network of satelite television, including four English-speaking channels! Pure gluttony with CNN, Seinfeld, Rocky and dumb Christmas movies followed. Anything to remind us of America.

But sitting in the heated (!) lobby on our very first day was what did me in. We caught a special on American football, a special which by some miracle had chosen to focus on a team called the Denver Broncos and present a photo-music montage (code for tearjerker) of 1995 Super Bowl clips as Cher sang the national anthem.It was quite a moment.

Thanks to fellow travelers, we are sometimes grimly reminded of America’s downfalls. We get shit for our fast-food, our “fake football”, our allegedly difficult border patrol, No Child Left Behind test-score-obsessed teachers, tawdry exports like Brittany Spears. . .and of course, Bush.

Yet, still. Despite ALL of that, what we most often find ourselves saying is: You know, America’s not such a bad place after all.