Tag Archives: expat living

Going Off The Grid

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I got a wild hair. Perhaps because I was asking our young son to be brave about boarding school, I wanted to do something brave, too. So, I signed up for a rustic, four-day yoga retreat in a remote African rainforest with a group of strangers.

The retreat leaflet provided little information- just the words “Sharabi Village” with a few pictures of a brown lake and four wooden structures: a one-story lodging cabin, an eating area, an open-air yoga platform, and a shared shower/bathroom building. We six yogis were told by Ananda, the yoga instructor and owner of Sharabi Village (population: 12) that the trip would take about four hours by boat and car. He asked us to bring a bathing suit and bug spray. The retreat would be in French and the meals would be vegetarian.

A few days beforehand, I looked up directions to Sharabi Village in Google Maps, which responded, “can’t find a way there.” I nearly bailed, but met a new embassy friend who said she’d go, too. We’d attended one yoga class together then paid in cash for an experience called, simply, “stage d’eau,” or “water internship.”

Life near the equator is always warm, but on the morning of departure, the heat was unusually intense. I climbed into the cab of a pick up truck, wondering if I’d made a huge mistake. My friend and I sat quietly in the back seat and watched Libreville fade into the review mirror. My cell phone tracked us on GPS for only the first 40 kilometers, then we fell off the grid. Pavement gave way to gutted earthen roads that kicked up dust the color of fire. Store fronts ceased, replaced by sporadic market stalls. Palm and banana trees dotted the rural landscape and a young boy walked along the roadside, arms weighed down by jugs of water.

Two hours into the journey, we stopped to refuel the two vehicles (and find bushes for the loo). Back at the truck, I was offered something dark and round from a plastic bag. We were far from medical help and I was skeptical to try it. “Nut,” I was told. I scraped it with my front teeth to look inside. It was a raw almond, softer in texture than ones I’ve tasted. “Thank you for trusting me,” Ananda said. I prayed my intuition was serving me well to do so.

In the town of Bifoun, we exited the truck with our bags and boarded a boat. Our fellow Gabonese yogis threw coins into the river as an offering. One poured juice over both sides of the boat for good luck. Our interaction with water had begun. The breeze was a magnificent reprieve from the heat- that is, until we docked at the edge of Lake Ayem and a thick cloud of mosquitoes and humidity enveloped us. It was hotter than any August afternoon in south Georgia I could remember, and I expressed silent gratitude for my straw hat and anti-malaria meds. “Bonne Arrivee,” Ananda said. Happy Arrival.

I chose one of the wooden doors along a long corridor and put my backpack down in a room. There was a single bed with a fitted sheet and a mosquito net, one small screened window, and no moving air. The tin roof created a greenhouse effect like a pressure cooker and I was pretty sure I was going to have dig really deep to endure this. Adding to the doubt were flying and biting critters in my room, undeterred by my 40% Deet bug spray. I swiped at something crawling on my upper arm then realized it was just my own beads of sweat. Please let it cool down, I begged the universe as perspiration from my forehead dripped into my left eye.

For the third time, I checked my phone and had no service. There would be no calling Brad to come get me, (not that anyone would know the many road off-shoots and river turns to get here). We had a few hours free. It was too hot to read in my room. I considered showering, but then I’d just be hot and wet and have to reapply bug spray. I sighed loudly, resigned that I’d be permanently pink and sticky all weekend. Better to make the most of it. I grabbed my journal, a pen, and headed for a hammock outside.

This gentler, prettier part of Gabon started to work its magic. A monarch butterfly danced by. I turned toward exotic bird calls in the trees, spotting toucans and grey and red parrots. Ananda walked up. “Take off your shoes and feel the earth. Empty your thoughts, Tracy. The novel you wish to write comes from spirit, not from the mind. Put down your book and take a walk instead,” he instructed, pointing to the forest. Begrudgingly, I did so.

At 5pm, an old-fashioned fire bell rang outside the wooden structure for yoga. Banana leaves covered the dirt before the stairs. The word EAU was written in stones on the entrance floor. Ananda played Sanskrit music as we got centered on our mats. I sat cross-legged and wiped a slick sheen from my face, then lower back, pushing away my strong desire for air conditioning.

“Respire. Relache,” (Breathe. Release,) Ananda said, kicking off our ninety minutes of yoga and meditation in French. I quietly translated for my friend. Mostly, we just copied Ananda’s graceful movements meant to open our chakras, raise our frequencies, and regenerate fresh energy. At the end of the session, we formed a circle and passed around an obsidian sphere. One by one, we held the black stone and shared what we were grateful for. As we were dismissed, generators provided lights in the bathroom building and in our rooms for a couple of hours.

The stream of cold water in the shower felt amazing after its initial shock. More surprising was a snail, the size of a conch shell, that appeared on the path back to my room during my four-minute rinse. It looked like a character from Alice in Wonderland and I watched it slither away in awe.

By the time the dinner bell sounded, I’d worked up an appetite. Like a little kid, I plodded barefoot across the property and was the first to arrive in the dining area, waiting and willing the others to show up. We politely served ourselves from the long buffet table, sampling dishes of button mushrooms in tomato sauce, sauteed sorrel, fried potatoes, assorted fruit, pasta salad, and hunks of bread, (while avoiding the sugar ants marching across the rim of the dishes). Drinks were hot tea, water, or “bisap,” a sweet, cold hibiscus drink that reminded me of Cairo.

We dispersed to tables and chatted briefly. The food was delicious and plentiful. (Unsure of what to expect, I’d packed granola bars, but never ate them). After dinner, we returned to the enchanting open-air yoga space where candles had been lit. Ananda spoke of a Japanese man named Emoto who’d experimented with speaking loving and unkind words over separate bowls of water. Under a microscope, the loving water crystals stayed clear and the water crystals that received ugly terms were murky. We then each drew a circle on blank paper and wrote our desires inside. We filled glasses of water, placed them on top of our circles, then meditated over the water with positivity. Afterward, we were asked to wake in silence at 5am the next morning to reconvene for meditation. There would be no talking before breakfast. (We carried our glasses of water like a pet to and from our rooms for each yoga session and told not to drink it- yet).

Some time after 9 p.m., although darkness had fallen, the temperature in my room had not. I peeled off the clothes clinging to me with perspiration and lay under the mosquito net, listening to the night sounds. Frogs and crickets echoed outside. Inside, flies buzzed, mice chattered in the wooden beams, and someone snored in the next room through the thin wooden wall. I read with a flashlight, too tired to be agitated by the heat, and eventually slipped into slumber.

At 4:50am, the gong sounded and the day began. For some reason it hadn’t really registered for me that at a yoga retreat, I’d be doing yoga and meditation for several hours a day- before breakfast, before lunch, and dinner. By the end of day two, I’d memorized many of the songs in Sanksrit and my whole body was sore (but also relaxed).

Over the next two days, we chanted at a miracle tree, washed dishes and swept the floors as we meditated, swam in a velvety, cold river, released fears and negativity into a vessel of water which we poured out. We gave offerings to the forest and hiked through dense, slippery underbrush behind a guide who cut a path with a machete. We learned how much bites of “fourmis,” African fire ants, hurt, and how thick mud can suction your shoes right off. We spoke our desires into a waterfall and took a boat ride back to the village under the stunning tangerine glow of sunset.

After unblocking our channels and raising vibrations, I felt my mind quieting, my pace slowing, and my strength and patience growing. In a closing ritual, we drank our glasses of water that we’d meditated over to ingest our written desires. We then burned the papers in a bonfire and watched luminous embers rise into the sky.

Those four days were the hottest I’d ever been, but what started off as almost a dare to myself-to be brave and get outside my comfort zone-became an important few days of self-care. After the hours of reflection, exercise, connection to nature and spirit, simple meals, and the detox from technology, I left the yoga retreat feeling fluid in my limbs, truly peaceful, and deeply content. My French had improved and I slept better those first several nights home than I had in years.

Sat Nam,

-Tracy

A Peackock and an Elephant

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The rainy season arrived in Gabon with hypnotic, heavy drops that drummed on the tin roof. Downpours saturated the earth, forming reflecting pools in the garden. Leaves faced skyward, unfurling on their branches to catch the water like outstretched hands.

Afternoon clouds parted, so we walked to the beach behind our compound. The air smelled freshly washed. Kingfishers fanned their wings to dry.

“Elephants live over there,” I told Ramsay, pointing to the isthmus across the estuary.

“Really? Right there?” he gestured to the thin, blurry line of trees on the horizon.

I understood his confusion. Although the strip of land across the water looks fairly close, our house is nestled in a congested, urban area inhabited by a few bats and birds, but not by pachyderms.

“Yes, it’s Pongara National Park, accessible by boat. We’ll go there.”

I’d made the half-hour crossing across the Gabon Estuary only once before. It was a day trip with friends to the lovely Baie de Tortues resort, where a woman greeted us with a welcome drink and then gave us a tour of the property.

On the boardwalk, she stopped abruptly. “Une paonne,” she said, pointing. Rolling the word around in my mouth, whispering it slowly, pa-onne, I flipped through my mental Rolodex of French vocabulary and came up blank. Then I saw what she meant; a live peacock on the porch of a thatched-roof bungalow.

The vastly different landscape felt further away than the thirty-minute journey from home. Here, the sun danced across clean water that spilled onto unpolluted, powdery beaches. Palm fronds arched over the sand, casting long shadows like the arms of a ballerina.

We soaked in the salty sea until the scent of grilling meat and fish lured us to lunch.

Two months later, I crossed the estuary once more; this time with Brad and Ramsay. Cresting silvery-jade waves, our roofless motorboat rose and fell beneath an encroaching storm.

Maybe we should’ve wrapped our overnight satchels in a clean trash bag, I considered as I envisioned drenched clothes from the threatening skies hovering above. But the weather held, and minutes later, we sighed a breath of relief when the woolen wall receded.

The hosts of Pongara welcomed us into their spacious lodge, decorated with carved animals and tribal masks. Looking like a watercolor painting, the open-air, wooden structure blended into a backdrop of savanna grass, forest, and sea.

We were offered a late breakfast of croissants, mango, passion fruit, and Gouda cheese. The coffee was good and strong. When I commented on this, the chef brought out the bag from the kitchen, proud to show me the beans were African, from Cameroon.

The boys played mancala, a strategic game not unlike backgammon, that involves taking your opponent’s seed pods.

At the nearby lagoon where we were told, “There are crocodiles, but they are small and not offensive,” we kept vigilant just in case, stepping gingerly through the shade.

Inside our bungalow, the air conditioning unit fogged the nearby window. Beads of evaporation made slow trickles, like veins on the glass. An optical illusion formed; one window reflected in another, creating a nature collage.

On the sunny porch, it was hot. Ants were plentiful- on the ground, on the wall, on the lounge chairs. I gently brushed them in another direction and focused on the lovely bird calls and rhythmic waves.

On a beach walk, the birds were elusive to photograph, so I focused the lens instead on patterns of bark, designs in the sand, and watery reflections.

Beneath an abandoned, overturned barge, water lapped and clanged eerily against the rusty metal.

On an afternoon hike, birds, locusts, frogs, and crickets chattered simultaneously, adding to the mystique of trekking deeper into the shadowy wilderness. I swatted away a thick swarm of mosquitoes, grateful for anti-malarial meds.

A bird in the forest made the exact two-tone squeak of a rusty swing, momentarily transporting me to childhood.

Movement in the bushes on the far side of a field caught our eye. A baby elephant! The guide, Abdul, explained it wasn’t young; rather, forest elephants are smaller than the ones that roam across East Africa.

Abdul paused to show us tree sap from an Okome tree. The sap is flammable and can be used in villages as a torch. Its smoke is a natural mosquito repellent.

“It has a soul,” he said, patting the tree. “It takes our carbon dioxide and turns it into the oxygen we breathe. Nature gives us much.”

A monkey flung itself from a branch, its mischievous face changing from intently curious into a comical grin. I got a blurry shot from the camera lens, steamy from humidity. Chimpanzees screamed to one another in a faraway canopy.

We stopped to examine an elephant print and Ramsay found an iridescent beetle exoskeleton in the leaves.

After lunch, we kayaked through the mangroves to the mouth of the river where it touches the sea. Gnarly brown roots bent like fingers and clawed at the brackish water, creating mirror-like reflections. As a “goliath” heron glided over the river, it’s silhouette chased behind.

The next day, toting binoculars and cameras, we clamored into an ATV for a safari. The small truck chugged through muddy trails and over rough terrain. A breath caught in my throat as our tires crossed a rickety, wooden-plank bridge over a rushing river. We ducked to avoid vines dangling like thick, twisted ropes.

A clearing appeared. In the bright green grasses of the savanna, buffaloes stood with birds on their backs. A vulture lorded over the field from a barren tree, keeping a watchful eye on a leaping antelope.

Our overnight adventure ended too soon. As an unexpected gift before leaving Pongara, Ramsay found a discarded pinwheel. Under fair skies, it spun wildly in the wind like a celebration.

Moments of Merriment and Where I’ve Been Lately

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A Heartfelt and Happy (quite belated) New Year!

You haven’t heard from me lately because not only did we receive our international shipment of household goods, (hundreds of boxes, now unpacked), but a Christmas miracle happened! After five months in our new country without transport- our car arrived by boat to Central Africa from Japan! Freedom! Hooray!! I’ve been exploring… stories to come.

After settling in those first months, we took a break from tropical Gabon during the holidays in search of a change of seasons, Christmas lights, and festive spirit. Here are a few moments that charmed us on our trip to Paris and Munich.

As darkness blanketed Paris, trees lining the Champs-Elysee came alive, illuminating the avenue with enchanting champagne glass shapes with moving, silver twinkling lights simulating bubbles.

The upscale patisserie Laduree had special holiday macarons in flavors of pine and rosemary, and even one coated in gold-leaf like pirate treasure.

Ramsay, age ten, wanted to go into Rolex. “There aren’t toys in there- just very expensive watches,” I said.

Undaunted, he passed through security and entered the crowded shop with confidence. His intuition served him well. After a quick tour inside, he exited smiling. He had gotten a photo with Santa and was given a cup of hot cocoa along with a cola-flavored candy cane. (Well done, Rolex! Kudos to their brand manager in Paris).

We were enticed by the gorgeous window displays and festive Christmas music in the shops. For my own stocking, I was delighted to find Damman Freres loose tea and good quality stationery. Chef Brad was bewitched by a single fried egg-sized, gleaming copper pan.

Rams used Christmas money to purchase an instant Polaroid camera. In the cold, when it took a long time for his first photograph to develop, we thought perhaps it wasn’t working, but once inside the warm lounge of the Crillon Hotel, to the sound of live piano, the picture emerged.

Through the train window in Germany, I was moved by the silhouette of black birds flying across snow-covered fields.

In Marienplatz, there was a contagious joyful spirit with live Mozart bands, carolers, an enormous Christmas tree, and happy dogs with their owners strolling about. We were impressed when a knight in shining armor slayed a horseman in the moving Glockenspiel.

And oh, the winsome wooden huts strung with lights at night in the Christmas Markets! Frosted gingerbread cookies, wooden ornaments, and artisan crafts. We found a darling ceramic house with candlelight glowing through its windows.

Our nightly ritual for our few days in Munich was to browse Christmas markets in the evening and hold warm, stocking-shaped mugs of marshmallows floating in hot chocolate and clove and cinnamon-spiced gluhwein. The delicious scent of doughnuts, crepes, and grilled sausages wafted from the stalls with steam rising into the cold air.

At the Hofbrauhaus, a Bavarian oompah band played, men wore lederhosen, and we ate oversized pretzels, bratwurst, and sauerkraut and drank from and steins. There was also a game or two of gin rummy with Batman cards. (Ramsay is practicing so he can beat Gran when we visit the U.S. this summer).

We had a gorgeous day trip driving through the snow-capped mountains to the opulent Neuschwanstein Castle. We took a horse-drawn carriage and enjoyed learning there were mysterious circumstances around King Ludwig the 2nd’s death.

On our return to Munich, we made a detour to see a stunning, cobalt lake, have a snowball fight, and giggle our way down a hill while tobogganing.

And to complete our trip, a yodeling Lego lady.

Wishing you joy and merriment in 2023, with experiences that make you feel alive!

Tracy