Tag Archives: Gabon

Going Off The Grid

Posted on by
10

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

Then There Were Three

Posted on by
3

The morning after Christmas, I heard the comforting chatter of Brad and Ramsay in the kitchen. Seated on the living room sofa, the cold pressed in against the window panes. The thermometer outside of Mama’s dark green cottage registered 28 degrees. Sleepily, I watched plumes rise from the chimney at a neighbor’s house, silhouetted against the soft glow of dawn. A cardinal darted into a magnolia tree and the clock on the mantle piece rhythmically announced the seconds like a countdown: tick. tick. tick. One week until boarding school.

We celebrated New Year’s with friends. I chose a word for the year- intention-because of its definition, “stretching toward a new way of being.” Oh, yes, 2024 would bring plenty of challenges.

January 2nd, leaving Ramsay at school was downright heart wrenching, hugging our only child goodbye at age eleven: so young, so vulnerable. The dorm staff could not have been kinder or more supportive, but I could hardly breathe when Brad drove us off campus, like someone had taken my air away. I sobbed in long inhales and exhales like strange notes of an accordion. Brad talked me down several times that night from driving back to get Ramsay.

In the following days, our tight-knit family scattered like jacks on a map- Brad and our dog Biscuit back in Gabon, me living out of a suitcase stateside, yet hours from Rams. The school counselor assured us our anxiety and questioning our decision was common, so normal- we had to give the homesickness time. “Wait a month before visiting,” they suggested. With a leaden heart, I practiced yoga, took walks, leapt at a glass of wine at cocktail hour with my mother, and immersed myself in writing my fiction manuscript. The absence of Ramsay’s happy spirit was all encompassing and I impatiently waited for those 5-minute intervals when I got to speak to him on the phone, a fake smile pasted on my face. Be strong. Don’t cry til you hang up, I told myself each and every call- a pep talk that rarely worked those first few weeks.

Days passed without seeing his face, just the occasional text that gave me no sense of what life was like for him. Was he sleeping? Making friends? Doing okay in school? “Yes, he’s doing fine,” school staff encouraged, but I was lost, mothering from afar. Desperate to bring us all back under one roof, I day-dreamed of buying a house a few miles from the school. Maybe I could apply for a job there and beg Brad to quit the State Department. We’re serving our country, I told myself. The coup that led to this wasn’t our family’s fault. Count our blessings. We can bear anything for a year. Pretend it’s COVID again.

When I felt like crumbling under the weight of missing my child, I reminded myself it’s temporary, that Rams was getting an excellent education we could not otherwise afford him, and that this was an American experience he’d never had, having been raised overseas. I shifted perspective with positive affirmations- trust that this life is happening FOR us, not TO us, and, especially, I often whispered internally- he’s safe and in a caring place. My mommy guilt serves no one.

It was impossible to imagine that weeks later, we would have days without tears and Ramsay would be well-adjusted to dorm life and school abroad, but we all transitioned to a better place. I got to visit Rams after a month and although I was so choked up when I hugged him that I could only whisper, “Hey sugar, missed you,” I could tell he was settling in well. We gathered his sheets, bathrobe, uniforms and loads of clothes in his dorm room to take to the AirBnB rental. I threw out a stale, partially-eaten bread roll on his desk and poured out a murky cup of steeped-for-days tea.

Rams and I chatted incessantly and indulged in little celebrations- sparklers and hot chocolate, a mini-pinata to break open, and a snow-tubing trip. I was determined to live in the moment all weekend as the deadline of returning him to campus pushed in like a storm on the horizon. He asked for, and received, new tennis shoes, a basketball, and a haircut. We took long walks, watched funny videos together, and cooked his favorite meals. He enthusiastically shared his new knowledge of race cars and sports teams.

During a steak dinner out, I detected Ramsay’s slight new southern accent as we laughed and played cards. (Ramsay won, not because I let him, but because he is a card shark like his Gran). I took breaks from folding laundry that night to listen to his soft breathing as he slept. Our weekend together released me from the constant fretting. It was evident his boarding school community was providing a caring net to fall into. My heart swelled with pride for this courageous fellow who had surmounted this monumental life change much better than I. 

Weeks later, Brad flew to the U.S. and the three of us had a wonderful Spring Break with Ramsay. Rams had just taken his first unaccompanied flight to see his Godparents, whom he adores. “Were you scared?” I asked. “Mom, come on,” Rams replied. (This was a silly question for a kid who had been on 30 flights by age 5). “It was awesome- I got to see the cockpit and they gave me guac and tortilla chips.”

Hibachi night with Gran
In the Captain’s Seat
A Hockey Game in GA

A few days later, it was time for me to return to Gabon. It’s just the three of us now in Libreville- me, Brad, and Biscuit. The first couple of days home, at 3:45pm, my heart filled with anticipation, waiting for Ramsay to burst through the door after school like he used to. Biscuit, too, seemed to remember our old routine and sat by the entrance, tail wagging. We needed a new schedule. To push through that witching hour, I began afternoon beach walks with Biscuit in tow, repeating adapt, adjust, and keep looking ahead.

In our absence, cherished friends and family hosted Ramsay for visits, fueling him with love and food, for which we are deeply grateful. Rams made the baseball team, has played laser tag, and got a signed puck at a hockey game. He does his own laundry, irons his clothes, does chores at the dorm, and is soaking up learning without language barriers. He chipped a front tooth, took it in stride, and coordinated with the school nurse to have it repaired at the dentist. He continues to amaze us with his positivity, resourcefulness, and gumption.

Recently, Rams sent a quick voice message on text- further evidence that he was finding joy there. On his weekly grocery trip back from Wal-Mart, there was abundant laughter in the background from his dorm buddies. Classic rock played and Rams said he was eating a Subway sandwich on the bus, mentioning between bites that he liked this song, by the way, and could we hear it? And oh, yeah, we’d see a credit card transaction for LED lights for his room, and he hoped that was okay. He recounted that he’d seen Aquaman at a real movie theater and recently learned the concept of “family style” dishes. “Mom- have you heard of this, family style eating?  When the bowl is empty, they just refill it- it’s amazing!”

Ramsay’s enthusiasm was contagious and Brad and I laughed out loud, content that our family had shifted out of a place of heartache about boarding school into a place more flourishing. Soon, summer break arrives, and once again, we will be four.

With Love & Light,

–Tracy

Gabon: Our New Equatorial Home

Posted on by
6

Our three-year assignment in Libreville began with a curious incident at the airport. With six rolling suitcases in tow, we exited the customs area, where a uniformed man was inspecting a styrofoam box. “Pangolin,” he said in a defeated French accent, shaking his head. A quick search later on my phone revealed that Pangolin, an ant-eater-looking animal, is poached in the Congo Basin for its scales. On a positive note, we’ve also learned that Jeff Bezos’ Earth Fund has pledged $35 million to Gabon for conservation efforts.

During our first two weeks, jetlag morphed into temporary overwhelm, discerning the perils and promises ahead. Even now, commencing week three, my alligator brain craves creature comforts and familiarity. I miss having a car, but also the absence of seemingly insignificant things such as my own comfy pillow and bath mats. Air thick with humidity leaves a thin, damp sheen on the chilly tile inside our home, which seems ironic; cold feet in a tropical climate. Moisture clings to the dust I bring home after walking Biscuit outside, creating a trail of black footprints like a Sherlock Holmes cartoon across the white floor.

Hacking up a whole pineapple for breakfast with a dull blade, I long for my sharp kitchen knives. “Mom, I didn’t know pineapple came in octagonal shapes,” Ramsay teases. I practice yoga breathing and concentrate on finding the beauty and counting our blessings: we are safe, our condo has a screen porch, we live near the ocean, people are kind, and I’m able to converse with the locals in French. In the evenings, lovely pastel colors bleed into the sky as we watch a fiery orb slip rapidly behind the horizon.

Having grown up in the U.S. on the east coast, it seems odd to view the Atlantic from the west. Below swaying palms, corpulent trunks of driftwood lay strewn across Libreville’s beaches, their chalky branches reaching toward the ocean with knarled, thirsty fingers. Tangles of roots like wild, messy hair add to the untamed seascape. The scenery is gorgeous, but the water near our house isn’t swimmable due to sewage, old shoes, plastic bottles, and shards of the forgotten. Perhaps Ramsay and I can participate in beach clean-ups and join the Sea Turtle Patrol we’ve heard about.

There have been surprises, good and bad. After accepting an impromptu invitation for a glass of wine on the beach to bid an embassy friend farewell whom we’d only just met, my mouth hung open slightly when bats appeared with the wingspans of crows and heads nearly as big as kittens. (not kidding). But the next morning, also taking flight, were uplifting lemon-yellow weaver birds, turquoise-tinged Kingfishers, and a grey and red parrot; the yin and yang of living in an exotic locale.

Parts of the city resemble the Caribbean, full of tropical vibes, dance music, and riotous color: the brightly painted houses, cheerful Hibiscus, lizards with orange tails, and exotic flora and fauna. As in many developing nations, the stunning beauty here is juxtaposed with dilapidation and brokenness behind the scenes, especially the trash on the shores.

In contrast, further afield, on the outskirts of Libreville, (via a forty-minute 4×4 drive over bumpy dirt roads through the edge of the Congo forest), lies a stunning, rugged coastline where sea and sky meld into a nickel-colored light of other-worldliness.

 

Along with its rich biodiversity, Gabon hosts malaria and other infectious diseases. Week One, Ramsay broke out in bright red hives from an allergic reaction. My Mama-brain went into overdrive for days as I sterilized sheets, towels, and surfaces. Should we treat it as something fungal or bacterial? Did it come from the ocean? the pool? new sunscreen? sand fleas? new plants, fruit juice, insects… or maybe from the laundry detergent? The Malaria Meds? ( I stalk mosquitoes in the house with my hands open in attack position as if they are tiny armed robbers). Alas, the source of the outbreak is still unknown, but we are enormously grateful Ramsay is on the mend.

The local food we’ve tried so far is good. Oil-rich Gabon imports 90% of its food, much of it from France. Commonly offered are grilled kabobs “brochette” of gambas, fish, or chicken served with rice, fries, or potatoes au gratin. The French influence is apparent in the grocery stores and boulangeries. To my delight, there are abundant cheeses, macarons, fresh baguettes, and good quality tea. And Mohammed at the unmarked Lebanese place near the airport makes very tasty Shawarma. We sit on his patio overlooking the main road (one of the few that are paved), where traffic is occasionally blocked by President Bongo’s siren-happy motorcade.

In an artisan market, I was informed that many handicrafts here are imported, too. However, I did find local bird collages made with butterfly wings (and I’m hoping this art was not created from illicit trade because I love this creation).

Awaiting our air and sea shipments to make our house feel more like home, I clean the screens and windows and re-arrange the furniture to claim this new space as ours. We engage with our new community of friends and begin to develop rituals, like having coffee on the beach, going outside to watch the sunsets, and sometimes indulging in local ice cream before lunch just for fun.

As we create wish lists of places to see, we remind ourselves on the difficult days to anticipate the magic that always comes with exploring a new land.

Bonne Journee,  Tracy