Bonga Bonga hits the Kingdom of Tonga

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In August, I was incredibly fortunate and honored to be invited as a "last-minute entry" on a sailing adventure in the South Pacific Ocean. (Someone had to back out of the trip. I selflessly volunteered to take his place. It's the very least I could do, right?) ANYWAY, some friends of mine who are experienced sailors organized the entire trip, which involved bareboat chartering three 42-foot catamarans (each outfitted with 4 cabins and 4 heads, a kitchenette and a small salon). "Bareboat," by the way, means that you crew your own boat. It has nothing to do with nudity; albeit, there was some rum-infused flashing of arses at one point during the trip. It could have been a South African and a New Zealander, but I'm not naming any names.

ANYWAY, there were Austinites on two of the boats, and one boat full of Kiwis (our buddies from New Zealand). Together, we set sail among the 171 pristine islands that make up the Kingdom of Tonga. Specifically, we sailed among the island group known as Vava'u. Look it up on Google Maps. Go ahead. I'll wait.... You see those dots that look like someone spilled crumbs on a blue rug? That would be the Kingdom of Tonga.

We traveled for 1.5 days from Austin to LAX to Auckland, NZ, to Tonga to Vava'u. The journey was worth every recycled breath of stagnant airplane air I ingested. I offer Exhibit A at right as proof. Observe, dear friends, the Bonga Bonga Files. (Click on the image to view the entire album.)

By the way, "Bonga Bonga" is a term coined by the founding fathers of these annual sailing adventures that take place in far-flung corners of the world. The founding fathers are the awesomest skipper ever, Mr. Michael Landry of Austin, Texas, and the greatest sailor south of the equatorial divide, Mr. Grant Headifen of Auckland, New Zealand. I want to take this very public opportunity to once again say thank you to these guys for an amazing seven days of sailing in Paradise. (And, yes, that's paradise with a capital P.)

This trip represented many firsts for me: first time in the Southern Hemisphere, first time living on a boat, first time to ingest kava, first time to use a hand-pump toilet, first time to snorkel with sharks, first time to see a whale, first time to use SPF 100, first time to see the Southern Cross, first time to sit at a table with a glazed pig staring me in the face, first time to speak Tongan ("Fakamolemole!"), and I'm sure there are many more firsts that escape me here.

I liken the whole experience to camping at sea. We took military-style showers, woke every morning to witness the sun rise, and ended each day watching the moon climb into the night sky. My boat mates and I morphed into sun-kissed creatures (I heart being tan!), and we lived in our bathing suits. None of the women bothered with makeup or their hair. Our days were filled with good conversation, good eating (thanks to my bunkie, Allison "Party Pants" Waddell), world-class snorkeling, gratuitous napping and sunbathing, sarong wrapping, vodka mixing, anchor lowering, anchor raising, dinghy beaching, rum drinking, making jokes, making toasts, collecting shells, reading maps, reading books (thanks, in particular, to Natalie for her excerpt readings from Chelsey Handler's "My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands"), beer drinking, applying and reapplying sunscreen, drinking coffee, boat bacon!!!, laughter, and nicknaming. (It seemed we all earned nicknames before the week was over. I was dubbed "Geez Louise" because I exclaimed these words upon spilling plastic cups and dishes all over the deck.)

Yes, it was a one-of-a-kind adventure, hands down my best impulse buy of 2010. I brought a journal and recorded some moments in writing. These, I'll share with you here:

Scenes from The Flying Fox Cafe

The women behind the counter at The Flying Fox cafe in the Tonga International Airport are amazed at all the travelers who suddenly have descended upon the premises -- Americans, New Zealanders, Japanese ... and a few Tongans. I was told that only 17,000 tourists a year visit these islands. The oldest of the cafe employees (the kind-faced woman who served me an ice-cold coconut with a straw in it) has a camera in her hand. She points it at the modest collection of tables in her cafe, which is now full of people of all dialects and color. Everyone is giddy with excitement. There's chatter about snorkeling and sailing. People are getting to know each other. Bursts of laughter here and there.

I walk into the gate area just outside the cafe. A group of Tongan men and women dressed in black shirts and woven grass skirts sit quietly. I take a seat next to a man whose fingernails are overgrown and clodded with dirt. He smells of tobacco. I read my book. He sips his coffee. "We're going to a funeral," he says, and I realize he is talking to me. I ask if the deceased is a relative of his. No, he says. He was a friend.

Apparently he was only 40 years old, a farmer who died unexpectedly. The talk among friends and relatives is that he wasn't handling his pesticides correctly. I nod, as if this sounds logical enough. I tell him that I'm sorry for his loss. He says thank you and then abruptly stands up, wishes me a good trip and steps outside to look at the airplane parked on the tarmac.

Not Your Mama's Lullaby

I've decided to sleep on deck under the stars tonight. I bring my pillow and blanket out to the trampoline. It's close to a full moon and I cast a long shadow as I unfurl my blanket and then roll myself up like a burrito. I take stock of the milky streaks of constellations. The boat gently rocks underneath me; the breeze intermittently brushes my bangs away from my forehead. I want to stay awake, stay in this moment, but, man, this is relaxing. My eyes close and I start to drift.

Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train
And I's feeling nearly as faded as my jeans!

A man's voice bellows across the black water. Now several other voices chime in...

Bobby thumbed a diesel down just before it rained,
It rode us all the way to New Orleeeans!

Apparently the party isn't over on the Bonga Bonga catamaran that's anchored several meters from ours. I had left the festive gathering 30 minutes early, eager to stake out a place to slumber under the stars back on our boat.

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose!
Nothing don't mean nothing, honey, if it ain't free
And feeling good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues,
You know feeling good was good enough for meeeeee,
Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee!

I start giggling and I hear Deb, wrapped in her blanket a few feet from me, giggling too. Judging by the passion and conviction with which these partiers are belting out the lyrics, I don't think the night will be silent for some time. I continue to listen to the string of serenades coming across the water -- everything from John Denver to "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Miraculously, I eventually fall asleep, anyway.

Not your mama's lullabies -- but effective, nonetheless.

Morning Routine

Sitting on deck in my PJs and watching the sun come up over the palm trees on the horizon. An orb of soft yellow grows larger, with wispy clouds continuously shaping and reshaping into dramatic displays of pink, lavender and orange. Someone turns on the stereo below deck. Big Head Todd's "Bittersweet" reaches my ears. I smell coffee, onions and bacon. I hear grease frying in a pan. Newby sits a few feet away, elbows resting on knees, a mug of coffee between her hands. I hear Kennedy and Landry at the back of the boat. They're messing with the masks and flippers, talking about a morning swim. A big splash. Some shuffling. Another big splash. I turn back around to face the sun, which now hangs several "feet" above the island in front of our boat. I get up from the trampoline and head below deck. Time to get some coffee and put my swimsuit on. It's going to be another good day.

Like Lewis and Clark, Sort Of

We beach the dinghy on a small island whose entire circumference is comprised of white, sandy beach. The interior is thick with palm trees and other tropical varieties. A swirling, chatty flock of birds circles above the treetops. Jared and Deb take seats in the fine sand underneath the shade of the treeline. Langford starts collecting small rocks and making a design in the sand. The two couples pair off for a leisurely stroll. Allison follows the shoreline and collects shells. I follow her lead, staying a few yards behind her, but eventually ending up several yards ahead of her.

I'm enjoying this solo exploration -- just me, my sippy cup of rum and juice and the constant crashing of the waves as I circle to the backside of the island. I come across an intricate arrangement of large, gray rocks -- each measures maybe 8 to 10 feet in diameter. Their surfaces are perfectly smooth and flat, like larger-than-life stepping stones. It makes me think of landscape architecture, and how nature is The Original.

I collect shells and pieces of coral of all colors, textures and sizes. The farther I walk, the pickier I get about my collection. I start swapping out previous finds for better ones. I'm meticulously combing the sand and pebbles under my feet, but intermittently I stop to look up and assess the view in all directions. There are times when I'm the only human in sight. I bet it has looked this way for hundreds - maybe thousands? - of years. The thought sends a tingle up my spine. I must never forget this moment! I'm on a thumbprint of an island in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean. Pinch me!

I eventually reach the point where I began. I slurp down the last few sips from my Camelbak thermos and join the others. The guys have noticed that the wind is changing direction; we need to get back to our anchored boat. I toss my two handfuls of shells into my empty thermos for safekeeping and follow the others into the dinghy.

We motor across the choppy turquoise water toward the Tigress, leaving behind the birds, still circling and swirling above the treetops.

Peeping Tom

I wake up to find the moon peering in at me through the open hatch above our bunkbed. I meet his silvery gaze for a few seconds and then drift back to sleep.

The Big Race

On my belly in a lounge chair at the Tonga Beach Resort, I peer over the top of my book to watch a hermit crab and a lizard race across the beach. The lizard seems to be the clear winner until he suddenly ducks into a hole and the hermit crab steadily waddles past toward an unseen finish line.
 

The Whole Boy Bird Meets Girl Bird Thing

We're anchored in a cove. Our catamaran faces an island whose trees are various shades of green and yellow. Two white birds catch my eye. They chase each other from tree to tree, swooping, diving and intermittently coasting in sync on the ocean's breeze - their wings broad and still. They duck in and out of sight several times, but always reappear together, never straying more than a few yards from one another.

I keep thinking that this chase will end, but it doesn't. I follow them with my eyes for what seems like 15 minutes. Eventually the chase begins to look more like a well-choreographed dance. I wonder if this is some sort of mating ritual. Am I watching a courtship transpire? You know what they say: The chase is always the most interesting part.  

More West Texas Snapshots

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Click on the photo at right to see more images of my West Texas adventure. Also scroll down to read memoirs and observations from my time out west.

Getting My Fix

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This house I'm renting includes a mountain bike. It's nothing fancy, but it allows me to get anywhere in town within minutes. I just strap my bag across my shoulders and take off to the grocery store, the bookstore, the coffee shop, wherever. My car sits in the driveway for days at a time, my freckles are coming out in patches across my shoulders, and my legs are always a bit tired. It's a great feeling.

However, I got a flat tire a few days ago, and with no tools (or wherewithal) to fix it, I posted a plea for help on Marfalist.org. Within a day I had a couple of offers to help. The first was from a girl named Emily. Emily said she could probably fix the tire herself, so we arranged a time for her to come by the house.

When she showed up, I immediately recognized her from a poetry reading I had attended at Marfa Book Company the previous week. I had noticed Emily sitting behind me because she was wearing these eyeglasses with gi-normous O-shaped frames that would make Elton John go bananas. This is how it is in Marfa; the same faces keep popping up, wherever you go. As one of my Marfan friends told me, "The guy who seats you at the restaurant is the same guy who rings you up at the grocery store. Everyone has two or three jobs -- all of them part time or just some of the time."

So, Emily showed up - minus the Elton John eyewear, but not without a conversation piece. Over a black bra, she wore a thin, white T-shirt with the words "Fuk Nation" defiantly scrawled across her chest in black marker.

Wallflower she is not.

I welcomed her into my house and showed her my bike. She deftly analyzed the damage and commenced the task of taking the tire off of the bike to work on it. As she did this, we talked -- or rather, I interviewed her, as I often find myself inadvertently doing when I meet new people, particularly when they wear shirts that say Fuk Nation on them.

I learned that she has two undergrad degrees (one in history and another in studio art) and that she speaks fluent Russian and studied in St. Petersburg for a while. So impressive! I thought about how I attended a university whose mascot was a lumberjack and felt it best to keep that to myself.

I then asked her the question that all visitors to this town ask of full-time residents: What were you doing before Marfa and how did you end up here?

Emily, who grew up in Texas, was living in Brooklyn and working as a youth programs coordinator and translator for a Russian arts foundation in NYC. Then she kicked around in Los Angeles for a bit. On a road trip home for the holidays, she discovered Marfa and loved it. She "found herself" applying for a job at the local chamber of commerce and got it, and that was pretty much that.

I thought about where I was at her age (her age being 25). I was living in a small ranching community between San Antonio and the Mexican border and writing for the local newspaper. I had moved there without knowing anyone, because it was the only job offer on the table after graduating from college. My first front-page story was about a rodeo cowboy. We started dating soon after -- a "city mouse meets country mouse" kinda tale that involved numerous highs and lows, a marriage, a divorce and plenty of lessons learned.

What a ride, my twenties! A series of seemingly haphazard experiences that now, in hindsight, appear perfectly calculated because they led me to where I am today. In some ways, it's how I continue to see my life. It makes it easier to accept the parts that don't make sense.

But I digress...

After several minutes of chit-chat with Emily, I realized that she wasn't making progress on the tire. The bike was old and rusty, and the poor girl had toiled so much with the wrench that beads of sweat dotted her forehead. I didn't want her laboring any more on my behalf. I told her we should give it a rest and think of a Plan B.

Emily put the wrench down and thought for a moment. I wondered where Fuk Nation was on the map.

Emily was the first to offer an alternate plan. The nearest bike shop was The Bike Man in Alpine, about 25 miles away. She had a bike part that needed to be returned. Emily said she would lend me her bike rack so I could take my bike to The Bike Man and get it fixed. In return, I could take her bike part back to the shop for her. Sounded good to me.

That afternoon, with Emily's bike rack on my car, I visited The Bike Man, also known as John Elsbury. John shuffled some jobs around to work me into his schedule, and my bike was ready to go within a couple hours. If you're ever near Alpine and your bike needs attention, go see this man.

I was back in Marfa within a few hours. When Emily came by the house to get her bike rack, she invited me to have drinks with her friends. So, that evening I sat at an outdoor table at Maiya's Restaurant, sharing a bottle of Pinot Grigio with Emily and another young woman who also once lived in Brooklyn and now serves as an intern at a local gallery. We talked and laughed until the moon took its spot among the stars.

That evening I pedaled home on my rusty bike with a brand-new tire -- thankful for Emily, for The Bike Man and for life's haphazardness. 

Balmorhea Sounds

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Stretched out on my back in the grass beside San Solomon Springs pool in Balmorhea State Park, I take in the world's biggest breath and then let out the world's biggest sigh. I pull my straw hat down over my face and close my eyes. I take inventory of the sounds:

• the hum of vehicles on the highway beyond the park
• the splish-splash of kicking legs
• the relentless winding up and fading out of harmonizing locusts
• birds querying and answering amidst the trees
• the hurried patter of wet feet, the boing-yoing-yoing of a spring board and a bass thump-splash as the fat kid hits the water (I peeked.)
• "If you want to clear your mask, honey, just press the top, lift the bottom and blow out your nose ... that's it! You did it!"
• the shuffling of ice in a cooler
• the steady slap, slap, slap of a football being tossed around

I open my eyes, and through my loosely woven straw hat I see a bird soaring directly overhead. I shut one eye to focus and I watch her drift from one straw picture frame into the next until she disappears from my sight.

A Tire Check and Reality Check

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Today I decided to drive to Balmorhea State Park for a swim, but before I ventured out, I stopped at a small garage in town to have my tire pressure checked.

At the garage, I parked my car in front of one of bays and walked over to the tiny office. The only mechanic on duty was hunched over a desk and fully engrossed in a pile of grease-stained papers and ledgers. A few seconds passed before I realized the old man had no idea I was standing in the doorway. I took the opportunity to look around and assess.

The clutter that covered his desk had metastasized like a cancerous growth to the surrounding walls. Yellowing photos of -- his children? grandchildren? great-grandchildren? -- were posted amidst children's drawings, expired legal notices and flyers advertising cars for sale. Judging by the hairstyles and clothing of the teens in the photos, I imagined that they were now my age or even older. Probably had kids who were teens.

I looked back at the man. He had put down his pencil and was now assessing me.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you standing there." He slowly rose to his feet to face me.

"That's OK," I said. "I've got a car out there. I'd like to get my tire pressure checked. I've been hearing this noise - like, a clicking or a ticking. And it seems to increase in frequency when I accelerate. Maybe it's nothing, or maybe it's something. I really don't know. But I thought I'd better check because I'm driving to Balmorhea State Park today."

The man stood there and made no motion to speak. So, I continued.

"It's a 2006 Saab. It's parked right outside. That's an OK place to park? I mean, do I need to move it into the bay?"

The old man was squinting at me, his mouth shaped in a silent "Eh?" How old was he, anyway? 85? 125?

"...sooo, can you check the tire pressure then?" I wondered if maybe he was a bit senile.

But suddenly the old man came to life. He took one step closer to me and leaned in so his eyes were level with mine.

"Who ARE you?"

His question was so sincere, so joltingly confrontational, that I almost wanted to confess that I was still trying to figure that out.

But instead, I chose a simpler reply.

"Oh, excuse me, sir. My name is Katie Ford. I'm visiting from Austin."

"And you want me to check your tire pressure?"

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble."

The old man spit out a cough. Or was it a laugh?

"Sure, I can," he said. "But your generation is gonna have to learn to do these things. What are y'all gonna do when my generation dies off?"

He paused for my answer. I laughed halfheartedly, not knowing what else to do. He raised an eyebrow and then continued his speech.

"In my opinion, it all started to go downhill in the '60s, and then in the '70s it went like this... "

His hand took a dramatic dive toward the floor.

"And then there were the '80s... ." His voice trailed off as he dismissed the decade with a swat in the air.

I stood silently, a helpless and despicable child of the 70s and 80s.

"So, you're from Austin, huh?" His expression, for the first time, looked friendly.

"Yes, sir."

"What are you doing in Marfa?" The amusement in his voice now unmistakable.

"Well..." I began, but then stopped. Admitting that I was on a "working hiatus" probably wasn't a smart move with this particular audience. "Um, I guess I wonder that myself sometimes."

This time, for sure, it was laughter that came from the old man. He stood there for a moment, clearly amused with himself. Or me. Or Lord knows what.

I smiled apologetically, and the old man pat my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"Let's go check those tires of yours," he said with a conspiratorial wink that told me I was going to be all right - even if I was a child of the '70s and '80s.

Lost and Found

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While having breakfast on the patio of the Chile Pepper Cafe in Terlingua I found an 11-year-old Amtrak ticket stub on the ground under my table. Cari Cain was going from Philly to NYC, apparently, in the fall of 1999. Was this trip a turning point in her life? Had she saved this ticket stub all these years and used it as a bookmark to remind her of that day?

I'd like to think that Cari took a chance in November 1999 - a chance that changed her life forever in ways I'll never know.

Terlingua - Take One. Take Two.

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Sam at Upstairs at the Mansion.

Twice while in West Texas I made overnight trips to Terlingua, a ghost town on the Texas-Mexico border that flourished in the early 1900s as a mercury mining town. (Gee, I wonder why most of the population ended up six feet under?)

Both times in Terlingua, I stayed at a place called Upstairs at the Mansion, a ruin of a structure (literally) that stood abandoned for many years until Kaci Fullwood, a visionary Alaskan with Texas roots, transformed it into a charming boutique hotel. Well, to call it a hotel is a bit of an exaggeration, as the mansion offers only two bedrooms that share a full bathroom, a kitchen and a library. However, I guarantee in Terlingua you won't find a more personable proprietor or rooms with such charm. Moreover, the beds are dressed in cozy linens (no nasty motel bedspreads here!), and the whole place is thoughtfully appointed with antiques, found objects and curiosities. Another fun factoid: the town's underground radio station operates out of the mansion. And by "radio station," I mean a marathon-long iTunes playlist that's overseen and broadcast by some locals.

Terlingua: Take One

On the first overnight trip, I was with my friend Samantha ("Sam"), an Australian-born, part-time Marfan by way of NYC. Ya got that? Sam and I had signed up for a full-day canoe trip through the Santa Elena Canyon in Big Bend and we wanted to get down near the park a day early since the river outfitters required a 7 a.m. start time.

We got to Terlingua around 4 in the afternoon to find Miss Kaci relaxing on the mansion's veranda, which overlooks the entire ghost town. She greeted us like we were old friends, gave us a quick tour of the mansion and then showed us to our room upstairs. We took the opportunity to freshen up a bit and then we moseyed over to the Starlight Theatre for $2 margaritas and $2 tacos. In Terlingua, it's always a happy hour, whether the drinks are on special or not.

Somewhere between margaritas No. 2 and No. 4, the power went out. Our bearded and pierced bartender was quick to explain that this happened sometimes -- and by "sometimes," I'm sure he meant "frequently." Seconds later, a generator kicked in, bringing the ceiling fans, music and frozen margarita machine back to life. Arribe!

Having had our fill of food and libations, Sam and I drove down the road to the neighboring town of Study Butte (that's pronounced Stoody Butte, by the way) to La Kiva, where the locals were putting on a play in the restaurant's outdoor theater. Sure, the actors occasionally forgot their lines, a gal playing a guy kept losing her fake mustache, and someone's dog sauntered onto the set and momentarily stole the spotlight, but it was still entertaining nonetheless -- if not specifically for those very reasons.

By the time the play was over, a nocturnal dome of stars and planets had closed over the Chihuahuan Desert, reminding me of childhood field trips to the planetarium. The gravel parking lot glowed a silvery-blue under the light of a full moon. I felt like we were two astronauts traversing a barren planet.

As Sam and I drove back into Terlingua, we discovered that most every building was still operating on generators or by candlelight. At the mansion, Kaci had left at the foot of the stairs several candles in brass candle holders and a Bic lighter. These we lit before making our way up the stairwell to our room, each step eliciting its telltale squeak along the way.

Kaci also had opened all the windows in our room, but it was still quite stuffy. Even the gauzy window drapes hung motionless, as if frozen in time. Sam and I dressed for bed in the dark and settled in for the night; she graciously took the twin and gave me the double bed. I stretched out on my back above the covers, arms and legs spread wide like I was about to make a snow angel in the sheets. Minutes later I heard Sam's breathing change to that relaxed rhythm of someone fast asleep.

"It's hot," I whimpered to no one in particular.

I looked at the motionless ceiling fan above me and sat up with a start to turn it on before cursing my stupidity. Then I remembered a trick someone once told me. I walked over to the wash basin, turned on the faucet, soaked a wash rag and then wiped down my arms and legs. I returned to my bed, sufficiently cooler and so pleased with my survivalist thinking. Until I was bone dry and hot a minute later.

Somewhere in the midst of intermittent tossing and wash-ragging, I realized that I needed to use the bathroom, which was downstairs. I pictured negotiating a pitch-black stairwell by candlelight and pretended really hard that I didn't have to go. But when nature's call started yelling, I sighed with resignation and reached for the candle holder on the nightstand. I flicked my Bic and made my way to the door.

I paused on the first stair, holding the candle at various angles, trying to figure out which one gave me the best visibility. I discovered that if I bent forward and low to the ground, I could see the stairs and my feet, so this is how I descended -- hunched over and limping forward, one stair at a time, like some kind of modern-day Igor. All I needed were Marty Feldman's buggy eyes.

As I approached the bottom of the stairs, my hand and foot suddenly felt like they were on fire. I looked down to see hot wax pouring over the saucer onto my fingers and my bare foot. Not wanting to wake Sam or Kaci, I dropped a series of silent F-bombs into the night, like a raving mad mime. I managed to do this two more times (spill wax and wildly curse-mime) before making it to the bathroom and back to bed.

Back in bed, I rolled onto my side and fixed my gaze on the full moon that peered back at me through the window. I realized that it wasn't hot anymore -- the air was quite pleasant, actually, and the silence that surrounded me was almost palpable. I don't remember much after that.

At 6:45 a.m., the alarm on my phone went off, marking the beginning of our big day on the river. Sam and I stumbled to our feet and began gathering our things. Precisely three minutes later, all the lights in our room flickered on, the swamp cooler kicked in with a guttural hum, and the ceiling fan wound up to full throttle like the propeller of a prop plane.

Terlingua: We have power.

Sam and I had to laugh. What else could we do?

Terlingua: Take Two
The second time I headed down to Terlingua, it was just Martha Dog and me. We once again stayed at the mansion. It was a Monday, which is 2-fer-1 Burger Night at the Starlight. Kaci had a couple of friends coming in town for it, and she kindly invited me to join them. My "burger buddy" was Alpine City Council Member Mike Davidson. What a great guy. Back in the 1970s, he and a friend started Far Flung Outdoor Center, which operates out of Terlingua and offers all kinds of excursions in the Big Bend area. Kaci, Mike and I were joined by a husband-wife couple from Terlingua and a river guide who makes his home somewhere between Terlingua and Fort Davis, I believe. We sat around the table, enjoying homemade burgers and $2 margaritas. We talked about water rights, small town culture and several other topics that have become blurry with time. It was a perfect way to spend an evening in Terlingua.

After dinner, I went out on Starlight's famous front porch to retrieve Martha Dog, who was passing the time by charming all the passersby -- one of whom apparently fed her her first deep-fried, oversized onion ring. She was working it, I'm sure. "I'm soooo excited to see you." lick lick wag wag "I love you, in fact." lick lick sniff sniff  "Spare a ring for the poor dog?"

Martha Dog and I spent the rest of the evening on the veranda up at the mansion. I stretched out on the futon and rested my head on the festively embroidered pillows. The night air was cool this time, dipping into the lower 60s, because rainy season had come. Martha curled up on the floor beside me, and we watched the lights in the town blink out, one by one, until all that shone were the stars above.

I slept so soundly that night. No candles. No Bic. Just Martha, the moon, and me.

Next morning I walked around the town and took photos of the Terlingua Cemetery and other odds and ends. I stumbled upon a health food store that serves hot tea and espresso. Score! A British woman owns the place, but that day a river guide was minding the store. I bought a latte and some Carr's Ginger Lemon Creme tea cookies and then made my way to the Chile Pepper Cafe for breakfast.

It continued to be a morning of curious discoveries. I found an 11-year-old train ticket stub on the porch of the cafe -- a trip from Philly to NYC. Then the legendary Butch Hancock walked up to the cafe with his son in search of breakfast. I nerded out and asked for a photo with them, and they kindly obliged. I ordered huevos rancheros and did a little reading and journaling. But mostly, I just sat on the porch and stared out into the distance, acutely aware of where I was and simply noticing.

I had to smile. What else could I do?

A Noteworthy Day

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FM 170 is a very roundabout way to get from Marfa to Big Bend, but this ribbony stretch of asphalt is notorious for its dramatic and desolate scenery and well worth the extra time behind the wheel. You basically go south from Marfa for about an hour until you hit Presidio at the border, and then you hook a left and drive parallel to the Rio Grande for another two hours until you hit Terlingua.

While making this drive, I stopped in the town of Redford, which is a dot on the map between Presidio and Terlingua. There isn't even a gas station in Redford. Well, technically there's a building that looks like it once functioned as a gas station, but I don't think those tanks have seen petro in years.

ANYWAY, I stopped in Redford because I wanted to say hello to a new friend of mine whom I'd met in Terlingua a few weeks earlier. This thirtysomething artist, originally from California, had moved out to Marfa a few years back to "get away from it all" and then decided that even Marfa was too crowded for her taste. I can't imagine what she'll do if Redford becomes too much of "a scene" for her. A remote island in the South Pacific perhaps?

So, this wonderfully whimsical woman had told me how to get to her place in Redford, should I ever be "passing through." Her directions went something like this:

"Exactly one mile from the city limit sign, you'll see a squatty palm tree on your right -- although it's not very squatty anymore. It has grown some. You'll turn right at the palm tree before the fence line. Follow the fence down the dirt road. Well, it's not really a road, but the ground is level enough to get your car down it. You'll pass a trailer and then you'll see my house."

One day I'd like to live some place where I use vegetation as a directional marker. How cool is that?

So, I followed her directions as I remembered them, and -- lo and behold -- I found her place, exactly as she had described it! Bicycles in various states of repair were strewn about her yard. A symphony of wind chimes blew in the breeze. I knocked on the front door, ready to see her surprised face, but no one answered. I went around to the back of the house to see if maybe I'd have better luck. And that's when I discovered the note she had taped to the back door. It read:

J.D. --

Don't go in my house or feed my cat when I'm not home.

Who was this J.D. character? I certainly didn't want to stick around and find out. Who goes around breaking and entering and feeding felines?! My mind started to race. Was he nearby at the moment? Was he -- GASP! -- watching me right now???

I quickly retreated to the Swedish Land Rocket for a speedy getaway -- but not before leaving my own note. It read:

Dear R,

I was just passing through (no kidding!), so I thought I'd stop by. Sorry I missed you. Take good care!

-Katie

As I drove away, I kept an eye on her house, which got smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror. I guess I was expecting to see ol' J.D., but he never did show. Probably busy feeding someone else's cats down the road.

Breakfast Serenade

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Had pancakes with Nina Simone this morning. Oh, how I love to hear her sing!

Birds flying high, you know how I feel.
Sun in the sky, you know how I feel.
Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel.

It's a new dawn.
It's a new day.
It's a new life for me
and I'm feeling good.

Fish in the sea, you know how I feel.
River running free, you know how I feel.
Blossom on the tree, you know how I feel.

It's a new dawn.
It's a new day.
It's a new life for me
and I'm feeling good.

Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don't you know.
Butterflies all having fun, you know what I mean.
Sleep in peace when the day is done, that's what I mean.

And this old world
is a new world
and a bold world
for me.

Stars when you shine, you know how I feel.
Scent of the pine, you know how I feel.
Oh, freedom is mine, and I know how I feel.

It's a new dawn.
It's a new day.
It's a new life for me.
Oh, I'm feeling good.

A Chance Encounter

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I woke up because I felt light on my face. I opened my eyes in anticipation of morning and found myself face to face with the moon -- its silver-blue light cast across the bedsheets like spilled milk.

Marfa in Snapshots

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Here are some images I've taken over the past couple weeks. Click on the photo at right to access the entire Picasa album on Google.

Bonnie Lu Ford, June 29, 1945 - June 28, 1990

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Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 64 years old. She died in 1990, the day before her 45th birthday. I was 19 years old and I had just completed my freshman year of college at Virginia Commonwealth University. It's hard to believe that another 19 years have passed since then. This morning I woke up acutely aware that starting today I will have been living without her longer than the years I had her in my life. That's an odd thought to embrace, and I'm still letting it sink in.

It's incredible how someone so significant in your life can become a mental montage of images, moments, feelings, sounds and smells. But this is what happens. My mom brought me into this world and made an indelible mark on who I am today, but there's been so much life since her death -- college graduation, three cities, five jobs, marriage, divorce, countless firsts and lasts, losses, new beginnings, the birth of a nephew. So much. So much. So much of my life has happened without her here with me. I want the people who are in my life today to know her, my mom, Bonnie Lu Ford.

• She was born Bonnie Lu McNutt and she grew up in Cleveland with one older brother.


• She graduated from Ohio University, where she was in a sorority and where she met my dad.


• She was married to my dad for 13 years and they had two girls - my younger sister, Jill, and me.


• She was 5 foot, 4 inches, and 108 pounds.
• She had olive skin, brown eyes and dark brown hair that turned mostly gray in the last years of her life.


• She drove a Saab before anyone in Texas knew what they were. It was the color of a kidney bean and the few other drivers on the road who had Saabs usually waved at us as they passed.


• As a single, working mom raising two daughters, she pursued and earned her master's degree in marketing from North Texas State University.


• When we were growing up in Dallas, she worked in the marketing department of a national restaurant chain. Her last job was a marketing manager position for a D.C.-based, national trade association.


• She was an avid tennis player and played in tournaments when my sister and I were growing up. Her trophies were displayed among the books and knick-knacks in our living room.


• Her all-time favorite singer was James Taylor, although she listened to a lot of Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Fleetwood Mac, Julio Iglesias and Neil Diamond.


• She went to Michael Jackson's Thriller concert and brought home purple-and-black Michael Jackson bandanas for my sister and me.


• She loved pickles, root beer floats, mint chocolate chip ice cream and Fig Newtons.


• She drank original Coors.


• She liked to put peanut butter on sliced apples -- she also ate peanut butter and pickle sandwiches (a McNutt family favorite). It's actually good. I swear.


• She made simple, convenient dinners - baked chicken, pork chops, frozen pizza, fish sticks, spaghetti and tacos -- always with two sides (corn, brocolli, baked beans or rice were favorites) and a tossed iceberg lettuce salad.


• She always set salad dressing on the table - usually Wish-Bone Italian and Kraft Catalina.


• She liked liverwurst.


• She kept powdered Nestle's NesQuik and Tang in the pantry.


• She made great Christmas cookies -- especially the powdered-sugar wedding cookies that she'd shape into balls or crescent moons.


• Without her contacts or glasses, she was legally blind. I liked to wear her glasses and pretend I was walking around a fun house.
  
• Many times when leaving reminder notes for Jill and me, she would sign them "Yo Mama."


• When she was thinking hard about something, she'd pucker her lips and furrow her eyebrows.


• Her hair was very thin and fine and super soft.


• She used a pick to tease her permed curls.


• She liked to accessorize with bangles - necklaces and bracelets, mostly.


• She wore clip-on earrings.


• She had lots of tailored skirts and blazers for work.


• When she moved to Alexandria, she sometimes put on tennis shoes with her work clothes and walked to the office.


• She used Vidal Sassoon shampoo and conditioner.


• She wore Ralph Lauren perfume.


• Sometimes she would refer to Jill and me as "my goils" or "my lil' chillens."
• She bravely and generously gave my sister and I creative license with our bedrooms. In Dallas, Jill's room was lavender and I chose a color called "Bolt of Blue" (a.k.a. turquoise). When Mom moved into a renovated row house in Old Town Alexandria, Jill painted the original hardwood floors in her room pink (picture Pepto-Bismol), and I opted to paint my walls black.


• She loved Woody Allen movies.


• She thought Steve Martin's "The Jerk" was hysterical.


• She played piano and guitar.


• She didn't have much of a singing voice, but she tried.


• She liked camping and loved the American Southwest and the Colorado mountains.


• She liked the artist R.C. Gorman, and we met him once during a summer vacation to New Mexico.


• She looked great in a tennis skirt. She usually wore sweatbands on her wrists and a sun visor when she played.


• She owned a Wilson racket.


• When we were in grade school, she had a striped bikini that reminded me of Fruit Stripe Gum.


• She had a slight frame with a long neck, thin wrists, long fingers, long arms and legs. She walked with her hips slightly forward and her feet turned a bit outward.


• She wore Maybelline eyeliner in Velvet Black.


• At night she often put Mary Kay night cream on her hands and it smelled like peaches.
  
• She rarely cursed or cried, so when she did, it got your attention.


• In the late '70s and early '80s she wore her hair in a quasi-mullet, but we called it a "bi-level" and, for a time, my sister and I had one too.


• She would get really tan in the summertime.


• One of the most soothing memories I have as a little girl is of being in her lap with my head against her chest and hearing/feeling the vibration of her voice as she talked on the phone.


• When she really got to laughing she would snort, and that would make her laugh even harder.


• Not hearing the lyrics correctly, she thought the Go-Go's "Our Lips are Sealed" was "Alice the Seal."
  
• When I felt unhappy or disenchanted as a teenager (which was often), Mom would make me write down a list of all the good things and bad things in my life, and inevitably the good would outnumber the bad and I'd feel a little better.
  
• She once told me that love really is the best medicine, and I certainly believe it.

Truth Be Told

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It was the last thing I expected to hear coming from her lips. The poised, well-dressed woman at the front of the room was telling us that she had spent 15 years in prison ― 15 years that she will never get back. She completely missed her now grown children’s formative years, a soul-crushing reality that caused her to choke back tears as she spoke.

Rutanya Pearson was one of the panelists at a Seedling Foundation mentor training session that I attended in the fall. She represented Truth Be Told, an Austin-based nonprofit group that provides creative tools for personal and spiritual growth for incarcerated women. According to Truth Be Told, the goal is to “encourage in these women a deeper sense of personal responsibility and to help them face the truth of their pasts and embrace the hope of their futures.”

After the training, I asked Rutanya how I could learn more about Truth Be Told. She suggested that I volunteer to be an audience member at an upcoming “graduation ceremony” for 29 female inmates who were about to complete the latest Truth Be Told series.

And that’s how I found myself spending an afternoon at the Lockhart Prison Unit.

It turns out I wasn’t the only Seedling representative who signed up to be a “respectful listener” at the graduation. Six Seedling directors were also there. At first, I was surprised to see their familiar faces; but, in hindsight, our shared curiosity in Truth Be Told makes perfect sense. The way I see it: If I’m going to be the best mentor I can be to a child whose mother is incarcerated, I need to seek to understand the parent’s experience as well as the child’s.

The graduation ceremony didn’t entail caps and gowns or long-winded speeches. There were no cheering relatives saddled with camcorders in the stands. After turning in our drivers’ licenses at the prison’s entrance and being frisked by security guards, we volunteers were escorted through a maze of drab, concrete corridors. There was not a single window in sight and the air smelled like a hospital.

Eventually we arrived at a gymnasium. The female inmates, in their standard-issue blue scrubs, waited just inside the door, a makeshift receiving line for the guests. As I shook their hands, I noticed that some of them were trembling with nerves as they smiled their best smiles. I felt my apprehension slowly shift to something that felt more like compassion.

Prior to arriving at the prison, we were informed that the Truth Be Told participants were asked to put together presentations that reflected their personal journeys of self-discovery. The women could use any of the skills they had learned in Truth Be Told, from public speaking to creative writing to dance and movement. They could work on something individually or in small groups. Whatever they chose to do, the women had to present their creative works at graduation.

The Truth Be Told founder opened the program with a prayer and then the presentations began. Over the next 90 minutes, I watched a myriad of performances. Some women sang songs or read poems they had written. Others performed group skits; a few presented monologues. The range of stories, memories, perspectives, epiphanies and emotions overwhelmed me. Their truths were raw, funny, painful, disconcerting, inspiring, candid, brave, optimistic. I could go on forever with adjectives.

Our role as volunteers that day was to be a "respectful listener," but still we were perfect strangers to these women. They stood before us, anyway, risking judgment and unloading their greatest sorrows, admitting their deepest fears, owning up to their biggest mistakes and ― perhaps most importantly ― giving voice to their newfound hopes and dreams.

Afterwards, the audience members were given an opportunity to stand up and give feedback on the presentations. I thought this was brilliant, because I’m sure these women rarely hear things like “You fill me with hope” or simply “Thank you for being so honest."

At the program’s conclusion, the atmosphere was not unlike your typical post-graduation scene. Volunteers and graduates mingled about the room, laughing, hugging and sharing high fives. Heartfelt compliments and thank-yous were expressed. I wanted to tell each woman directly that I was proud of her, but the warden suddenly entered the gym and sharply announced that our time was up. As I watched these women file out of the room, I no longer saw only abusers, addicts and thieves. I saw mothers, sisters and daughters ― each with a truth to tell and a dream in her heart. And I genuinely hoped the best for them.

We were at the Lockhart prison for only an afternoon, but the experience has left an indelible mark on my conscience. Until that day, it was easy for me as a Seedling mentor to demonize the incarcerated parent. Now I find it harder to cast such a final judgment. To see someone in such black-and-white terms.

I don’t know. You could spend a lifetime debating who’s to blame and where the evil begins. Maybe it’s better to focus on where it could end ― with the ones we mentor.

Bringing Home Stevenson

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I am staring at the ceiling when my alarm goes off at 4 a.m. Sleep has eluded me; all I did was toss and turn and think about where he must be at this very moment. Is he somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean or is he still on a layover in Germany? Today is Wednesday, January 16, and I am driving an hour and a half northwest to Fort Hood to welcome home my friend Stevenson Charite, a squadron leader in the 2nd Battalion of the 1st Brigade Combat Team under the U.S. Army's First Cavalry Division. He has been in Iraq for the past 15 months.

Stevenson and I met the day before his deployment in October 2006. It was Halloween night and I was dressed as Frida Kahlo, Dia de los Muertos style with skeleton makeup on my face. My friends and I were dancing at the SpeakEasy and I noticed Stevenson grinning from the sidelines. I motioned for him to join us on the dance floor. That sparked the beginning of a friendship that has evolved into something more like family. During the past 15 months we've exchanged countless emails between Austin and Iraq, gradually learning more about each other.

Things I have learned about him:

• This is his fourth tour in the Middle East.
• He's the son and only child of a Haitian father and an English-French mother.
• He was raised in Florida and spent his youth attending a private boarding school.
• He's a big fan of opera and classical music, and he speaks French.
• His dialect is a one-of-a-kind mix of Creole, French and American English.
• He has been in the military for eight years. During that time, he has been peppered with bullets; survived countless IEDs (improvised explosive devices) and fire fights; rescued stranded civilians and comrades; helped build a school, a fire station and a clinic; lost a comrade to suicide; and lost several more in battle.
• January 2008 marks the end of his time in combat. If the current plan sticks, Stevenson will have only stateside assignments for his remaining three years of Army service.

So, it's a little after 5 a.m. and I'm now heading to Fort Hood, where more than 33,000 soldiers and their families are posted. Today there are two "Returning Heroes Ceremonies" scheduled. Stevenson will be in the second group, arriving at 10:45 a.m. Between now and then, I have to go to the Fort Hood visitors center to get a day pass for my vehicle and then drive onto the base in search of Cooper Field, where loved ones will reunite with their soldiers.

As I drive along a pitch-black stretch of Hwy 190, I picture Stevenson touching down in Bangor, Maine -- his first stop on U.S. soil. I smile at the thought and then take a deep breath - in and out -- trying to release the butterflies that keep filling my stomach.

I get to Fort Hood about 6:30. The visitors center doesn't open for another hour. It's still dark outside, 33 degrees and misting. I debate whether to sit in my car and wait. I think of the Starbucks I passed on the way in and put the key back in the ignition. No need to wait outside in the freezing cold without hot coffee in my hand.

However, when I pull out of the visitors center parking lot, I accidentally take a ramp that leads straight to the Army base. No turning around. I approach what looks like a row of toll booths with armed guards at each station. I tell the guard that I don't have a day pass yet, that I made a wrong turn. She asks for my license, registration and proof of insurance. I show her my papers. She tells me I can go on base but I have to return to the visitors center when it opens to get a pass for my car.

Before turning around, I decide to drive to Cooper Field. I want to make sure I know how to get there. The buildings on base are lit brightly, but they're surrounded by large open fields, cloaked in darkness. I'm one of only a few cars on the road; soldiers with flashlights stand at each intersection, waving me to proceed through the red lights.

I turn onto 761st Tank Battalion Avenue, looking for the First Cavalry Division Headquarters and Cooper Field. I gasp as my headlights, panning across a dark field, suddenly illuminate a formation of soldiers -- maybe 100 -- dressed in black pants, gray sweatshirts and reflective vests. They stand at attention, their backs to the road. More soldiers instantly materialize as my headlights hit rows upon rows of reflective vests, and there are hundreds more to my right. I decelerate and turn off the radio; my car is parting through a sea of silent statues. I feel like I'm seeing ghosts, though I know what I've stumbled upon is only morning formation.

I find Cooper Field and ask the soldier on duty what time I should return if I'm meeting the 10:45 arrival. He tells me to get there an hour ahead, so I turn the car around and head back to the main gate. At the visitors center, a line of five people has formed outside the door. I take my place and wait. By 7:15 there's maybe 75 people behind me. I eavesdrop on the conversations. There are fathers, girlfriends, brothers, best friends -- all waiting to embrace their soldiers. I get my vehicle pass just after 7:30. I then sit at a Jiffy Lube in Killeen and get my oil changed. The clock could not tick any slower.

I drive back onto base around 9:15. There's a heated tent next to Cooper Field for family and friends. A concession stand hands out free coffee, sodas, granola bars and Dorito's. Three sets of bleachers face Cooper Field. A deejay is set up on the sidelines; he plays everything from the Grease movie soundtrack to the Macarena. Families are milling about the scene -- lots of red, white and blue outfits. Streamers, balloons and homemade posters are everywhere: "We love our Heroes!" "Welcome home, Daddy!" A pretty blonde walks by with two kids in tow. They wear matching sweatshirts with a picture of a soldier on the front and customized messages on the back -- Paul's Wife, Paul's Little Girl, Paul's Little Man. I try to breathe away the butterflies again. I look at the time on my phone. Another hour to go.

As the time grows near, I leave the heated tent and take a seat in the bleachers. The deejay plays "Hokey Pokey" and the kids in the stands stick their right arms in and shake it all about. Fresh-faced female soldiers in fatigues, who look not a day over 17, follow along from the sidelines like cheerleaders at a football game. After a while, I notice a mounted cavalry riding out into the field, directly opposite us. I am wondering what this means when the Brigadier General approaches the podium. He tells us the soldiers have been loaded onto the buses. They'll be here in 20 minutes.

It is a very long 20 minutes. The cheerleading soldiers are clapping their hands to MC Hammer's "Can't Touch This." The kids boogie along, but the adults look anxious, distracted. We all stare at the intersection south of us, where the buses are supposed to appear.

Minutes later the music changes. It sounds like air traffic controllers speaking over a dramatic score. The Brigadier General is at the podium again. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the moment you've been waiting for. Here come our heroes." Precisely on cue, a police cruiser with lights and sirens blaring leads a caravan of six white buses up the street on the opposite side of Cooper Field; they stop when they reach a point that's directly across from the bleachers. People jump to their feet, screaming and hollering. Some kids are cheering, but the younger ones grasp their moms' legs, not understanding the abrupt commotion. There's a sick heavy pounding in my chest and tears fill my eyes. I'm simultaneously excited and frightened by the intensity of emotion around me. The buses sit across from us for what seems like forever; we're straining our necks to see what's going on. Then suddenly, like a scene from "Extreme Home Makeover," the caravan of buses slowly pulls away, unveiling a formation of soldiers standing at attention in the street. The sea of grayish-green fatigues is like a mirage. The music changes to a patriotic score and the soldiers begin marching toward us. As they get closer, I see their faces more clearly; many are blotchy red, raw with feeling. Brows are furrowed. Lips pressed hard. Mid-field, the soldiers stop. The music stops. The crowd in the bleachers falls silent. Then someone calls out from the stands: "I can see you, Tanya!" A woman's voice cracks: "I love you, Scott!

The Brigadier General asks for everyone to bow their heads, and then he leads us in a prayer. He follows it with a brief speech about honor and valor that nobody hears. The soldiers are now spotting their loved ones and waving. The loved ones are excitedly whispering to each other and pointing at their soldiers in the formation.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, go forth and welcome home your heroes!"

Wives, girlfriends, daughters, sons, grandmas and grandpas stampede onto the field; the soldiers break from formation in all directions like billiard balls on a pool table. It's absolute chaos. I walk on to the field. My teeth are chattering though I'm not cold. People rush past and bump me, making bee lines into their soldiers' arms. I can't find Stevenson in the swarm of faces. And then I spot his last name on the back of a soldier's hat. "Stevenson!"

He turns around, that unmistakable smile beaming. I run over to him and we hug. I am so glad I am here. I am so glad he is here. He feels strong and healthy. He is not a mirage. He is alive.

After a moment, he tells me we have to go get his bags. It feels surreal, like I'm greeting a friend at Bergstrom airport. We walk over to a warehouse filled with Army green duffel bags stacked in rows -- it's baggage claim at Fort Hood. Soldiers holding their children or walking arm-in-arm with their spouses search for their gear.

"Is this yours, son?" a man in a cowboy hat and starched Wranglers asks the soldier near him. He moves quickly from bag to bag, swiftly turning them over, checking the names, so eager to help his soldier.

I stand out of the way while Stevenson locates his bags and then we head to my car. It takes us a good while to walk from baggage claim to the parking lot, though it's only a few yards. Some of Stevenson's comrades who live in Killeen have come out to the reception. Each time he is approached, Stevenson drops his heavy bags with a thud and embraces his friends warmly. "Welcome home, man," the guys tell him. "It's good to be home," Stevenson replies.

I ask one of his friends to take a picture of us. Then we load up the trunk of my car with his Army gear and head toward Fort Hood's main gate. We chatter nonsensically.

"I can't believe you're here!"
"I can't believe you're here either!"
"You look great!"
"You look great too!"

I announce that today is officially Stevenson Charite Day. Whatever he wants to do, just name it. It's time to celebrate! He says he wants to go to the mall in Killeen.

OK. Not what I anticipated. But Stevenson has nothing but dirty clothes and he can't wait to get out of his fatigues. So, Killeen Mall, onward ho! We stop at a kiosk so he can buy a cell phone; I help him pick out some shirts, pants and new shoes at Dillard's. We hit the Food Court. Stevenson indulges in a triple-entree platter at the Chinese food place. Intermittently we're approached by other soldiers.

"Stevenson! I heard you were coming back this month. Welcome home!"
"Look at you, man. You've lost weight!"

There's lots of ribbing and laughter. Stevenson's smile is infectious. I find myself giggling a lot for no particular reason.

Stevenson asks me to drive him to his rent house so he can turn on the water and electricity and take a hot shower. He's a little anxious about what the place will look like. While he was in Iraq, the duplex flooded. Fortunately a friend was able to move his belongings before the water got to them, but the place still looks ransacked and deserted. Everything is in piles or covered up with blankets. We get the electricity to come on, but can't figure out the water situation. He thinks it might have gotten turned off accidentally, but nothing can dampen his spirits today. We have to go to San Antonio next, where a friend is keeping his car, so I suggest we stop in Austin so Stevenson can clean up at my house.

On the way to Austin, we talk about some of the things he saw and did in Iraq. But for the most part, we keep the conversation stateside. We talk about his elderly grandparents, whom he'll see when he goes home to Florida in February. We talk about his mother, who's battling cancer and couldn't make it to Fort Hood. We talk about his father only briefly. It doesn't seem like a welcome topic; I don't press. I thank God a million times in my head that I met Stevenson on October 31, 2006, and that I was able to welcome him home today.

Later on, after we've had time to settle into each other's company, the conversation circles back to Iraq. How different it is to hear about the war from someone who has been living inside it. I try to imagine seeing what he has seen; I wonder how he hasn't lost his sanity. I marvel at his ability to still joke, smile, feel love and hope.

But it's not all horrific. He also talks of building schools and clinics, of handing candy to children -- the youngest of whom seem genuinely happy, unbroken, unaware. Ironically this is what makes Stevenson grow silent; I sense if he continues talking he will cry.

"They have no idea what's waiting for them; they haven't become a part of the mess yet."

He tells me it bothers him when his friends at home don't ask about the positive things he and other soldiers are doing in Iraq. His civilian buddies just want to know if he's ever had to kill someone. I shake my head disapprovingly, silently wondering the same thing. But deep down I already know the answer.

He also tells of a deep distrust between the Iraqis and American soldiers, poor communication in the field, lack of adequate equipment, failed missions. For every step forward, there are three steps back. People betray, people disappear, things get bombed, shot at, boycotted, vandalized.

I know that war is not clean, nor is it exact. I know that changing the course of history -- the collective consciousness of a people -- can't be done overnight, or in five years. But I'm hearing from the inside what I have long suspected from the outside: We have gotten ourselves way in over our heads. Who do we think we are? What the hell are we going to do now? Are we going to withdraw our men and women and leave the Iraqis to clean up our mess? Or are we going to continue to occupy Iraq as long as it takes to strong-arm the Iraqi people to do it "the American Way"? I recognize that it is a good thing that Saddam Hussein is no longer in power; he was beyond evil. But after listening to Stevenson, I wonder if we have removed one version of Hell in Iraq and replaced it with another.

I ask Stevenson whether he thinks his time was well spent. Are we making a difference? Are we succeeding in making things better for the Iraqi people? I want him to give me an enthusiastic "yes" so I can make sense of it all. But he just stares past me for several moments, thinking.

"I guess we are -- in some ways, in small ways."

***

I started the day literally in darkness, with this distinct impression that all the activity on Fort Hood was some kind of self-contained, make-believe world of uniforms, artillery and slogans. But tonight I go to bed knowing that their business is very real. It's my world here in Austin that feels like the illusion.

I think of all the families and friends of the 3,943 dead American soldiers (CNN, Feb 2008). I think of the loved ones who never got the chance to stand on Cooper Field. To watch the white buses roll down the street. To run across the grass and jump into their loved ones' arms.

I am grateful that my friend was spared. I am overjoyed that Stevenson can move beyond Iraq and live out his dreams. Because, in the end, that is very real too. And it makes me smile.

Words and images printed with Stevenson's permisson.

Introduction to India

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In May I took an organized trip to India through Friendly Planet Tours called "The Taj Mahal Express." An express, it was. We visited three cities (Agra, Jaipur and Delhi) over five days. Flying to India is a 15-hour ordeal each way, so I almost felt like I spent as much time in the sky as I did on the ground. But it was all worth it. To me, India was not a vacation, but a field trip -- an opportunity to see how others live. What I saw made me smile, cry, cringe, laugh, and give thanks to God. I carried a small notepad in my camera bag so I could record stories and observations while they were still fresh. I've posted them here so you can see India through my eyes.

Arrival in Delhi

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MAY 23, 2007 -- It's a little after midnight and I just checked into The Claridges hotel in New Delhi. There are about 20 people in this tour group -- all of whom I met upon getting out of customs at the airport. Amit, our guide, greeted us with a Friendly Planet Tours sign. He's about 40 years old and very pleasant. You can tell he has dealt with a lot of anxious tourists, as he talks to our group in a very calm, reassuring manner. We learned on the bus ride to the hotel that our day tomorrow starts bright and early -- a five-hour drive from Delhi to Agra, where we'll be visiting the Taj Mahal. My wake-up call is in six hours so I better make this quick and get some sleep. I did my best to not sleep on the plane so I'd be good and tired when I arrived here. (Note: My strategy worked.) I just brushed my teeth using the hotel's complimentary clove-flavored toothpaste. The taste takes me back in time: I'm 16 years old, wearing lots of black eyeliner and writing depressing poetry on my school folder as the physics teacher drones on in the background. What ever happened to clove cigarettes, anyway?

But I digress. Before going to bed I need to put together my "supplies" for tomorrow and make sure my camera batteries are charged. My checklist:

Sunscreen - check
lip balm with sunblock - check
Purell hand sanitizer - check
Charmin on-the-go wipes - check
Stickers to hand out to kids - check
notepad and pen - check
camera with both lens and fully charged battery - check
controlled-release insect repellent with 20 percent DEET - check

OK. I think I have everything and it's time for some shut-eye. Nightie-night!

Fun Factoids about India

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MAY 24, 2007 -- The great thing about taking an organized tour is that you learn oodles about the country you're visiting. Here are some things I picked up during the five-hour bus ride from Delhi to Agra:

• There are 1 billion, 100 million people in India.
• Delhi's population alone is 15 million. It takes three hours by car to drive from Delhi's south city limit to north city limit.
• Only 3 million people live in Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. (Practically a small town, eh?)
• In an attempt to improve air quality, Delhi has banned all industry from setting up shop within the city limits. Consequently, a "factory row" has developed just outside city limits. This is also where you'll find the majority of call centers owned by foreign companies. I kept my eye out for Dell Computers but couldn't find it.
• In India there are three kinds of schools -- federally funded ones for the children of federal government workers; state-funded schools for the public majority; and private schools (mostly populated by children of diplomats and India's wealthier families.)
• According to our guide, all good office jobs require a university degree, so the federal govt offers highly subsidized tuition assistance to those who meet financial and academic qualifications.
• It largely depends on the city, but the average monthly salary for factory workers is $250 (and that often includes some meals on site). Teachers get about $500 to $800 a month.
• Rent in Delhi for a decent apartment ranges between $100 to $200 a month.
• The major religions in India are Hindu (about 80 percent); Muslim (about 20 percent); and then Christianity, Catholicism, Buddhist, Sikhs and Jains (Orthodox Hindus).
• There are three kinds of health care in India: federally funded hospitals, state-funded hospitals and private hospitals. The federal and state hospitals provide free medical care to the general population but you have to buy your meds. At private hospitals, the patient pays for everything. Read: It's also where you'll get the most advanced, qualified care. I, fortunately, did not visit any of these facilities.
• ABOUT THE DOT: Many of you wanted me to find out about the dot on an Indian woman's forehead, so I did some diligent research.
  Me doing diligent research: "Excuse me, Amit? About those dots on foreheads of Indian women... What's up with that?"
  Amit: "If it's a red dot, higher up on her forehead, that means she is married. Any other dot -- whether it's a jewel or another color -- is just a feminine touch. It's merely for decorative purposes."
• India is agriculturally self-sufficient. It doesn't have to import any produce, though it does export some produce. To keep the farmers happy, the government excludes them from income taxes, and there's lots of subsidizing of utilities and major farming equipment purchases.
• The signs you see along the street in India that say "STD" with an arrow pointing to a nearby door does not indicate that a man with gonorrhea lives there. STD stands for "Subscriber Trunk Dialing" -- India's public telephone system.
• Likewise, the UTI Bank (one of the first private banks in India beginning in 1994) is not a business that caters only to women with urinary tract infections. Although it does offer a free liter of cranberry juice when you open a checking account. (Kidding!)

Taj + Teenagers = Big Fun

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MAY 24, 2007 -- We arrived in Agra around 2 in the afternoon. Our guide told us to check into our hotel rooms, relax for a bit and then meet back in the lobby at 4 to drive over to the Taj Mahal. Being that this structure is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, I was plenty excited. I also was relieved to know that we'd be viewing the Taj in the late afternoon, because I assumed it would be a bit cooler (read: under 100 degrees). But I was wrong. I believe the temp sat somewhere around 110. It was as if the accumulative heat of the day had soaked into the pavement and was now radiating back toward the sky like a gigantic stove top. I wasn't dismayed though. As far as I knew, this would be the only time in my life that I would view the Taj with my own two eyes. I couldn't be bothered by no stinking heat.

There's a really ornate wall that surrounds the Taj, and within those walls there's another enormous gate (sort of the shape of the Arc de Triomphe), so you can't actually see the Taj Mahal until you literally step onto the mausoleum's front lawn. The initial view is quite breath-taking. It almost looks like a white mirage in the distance. Quick executive summary of the structure's history: It was built in the 17th century by Emperor Shah Jahan to enshrine the mortal remains of his queen, Mumtaz Mahal. It took 32 million rupees, 22 years and about 20,000 laborers to build it.

But enough about the Taj. Let's talk about teenagers -- specifically, the Indian teenagers I met that afternoon. Unlike in China, where it seems like the sight of Westerners is "so last year," in India, Westerners are quite a curiosity. Everywhere we went, Indians (in particular, children) openly stared, smiled, nodded at us -- even requested photos with us. That's what I love about traveling: You get to see "minorities" as the majority and YOU are the odd man out. I think every white person should experience this multiple times in life -- just as a reality check. The United States is not the epicenter of the universe. But I digress...

After touring the Taj Mahal (no cameras or shoes allowed inside), we were allotted 45 minutes to roam the grounds on our own. I found my way to a shady spot on the great lawn in front of the Taj and took a seat in the grass. Not long after, two little girls whom I'd photographed earlier came up to me and asked my name and "where from?" They wanted me to take more photos of them. They were gal smileys in action. Too cute.

Anyway, after snapping a few photos, I reached into my camera bag and pulled out some stickers of Disney princesses and The Incredibles. I pointed to the stickers and then to the girls, indicating that they could choose their favorites. They smiled big and intently reviewed the selection, finally deciding on Cinderella and Ariel. As I pulled the stickers off the sheet, I suddenly felt the sunlight eclipse overhead. I looked up to see 16 Indian faces -- all teenagers -- peering down on me.

"What is this?" one of the boys inquired.

"Um, they're stickers. You want one?" I showed him The Incredibles and then turned the Disney princess sheet toward the female faces.

This began an excited exchange of the teenagers pointing to their favorite stickers and me slapping the stickers on the backs of their outstretched hands. I assumed that the boys would prefer the superheroes, but funnily enough the Disney girls proved the crowd favorite. I thought it unusual until I looked at these cartoon renderings through foreign eyes. These boys weren't seeing The Little Mermaid, Snow White, Jasmine and Cinderella; they were seeing beauties with long, flowing hair; sparkling, come-hither eyes; and perky boobs. These were the pin-up girls of Walt Disney!

Once the stickers were passed out, the teens started interviewing me. What's your name? Where from? (United States was well understood; Texas not so much. "Taxes?" the kids asked. "No, Texas. It's a state in the south," I explained.)

A chorus of voices would echo my every answer.

Me: "My name is Katie."

Teens: "Ahh...Kay-tee. Yes, Kay-tee."

One of the boys placed a piece of torn newspaper and a pen in my hands. "Please write your name."

I carefully wrote K-A-T-I-E as they watched me pen each letter. I smiled up at the boy when I finished, seeking his approval.

"No," he corrected. "Please write ... small letters."

So I wrote my name again, this time in cursive.

"Autograph!" The boy blurted with delight. He took the paper from my hand, examined my penmanship and then shoved the paper in his pocket. His friends were in stitches; he was obviously the class clown.

One of the girls asked if I'd take a photo with them. I agreed but said they had to take one with my camera too. We gathered for a makeshift "class photo" with me as the teacher, I suppose, because they insisted that I sit front and center. The class clown on my left put his arm around my shoulders, as if I were his girl. This created an eruption of squeals and giggles from his pals.

After we'd snapped enough photos to satisfy everyone, we all stood up from the grass to say our good-byes. One by one, I asked each of them their names and then stuck out my hand for a firm handshake and a "Nice to meet you." It was a very American gesture and I could tell the teenagers were getting a kick out of the foreign pleasantries. Once all hands were shaken, I put my hands in prayer position at my heart and wished them all "Namaste." This was a good thing, I believe, as they enthusiastically returned the blessing to me.

Walking away from the kids, I turned once more to look at the Taj Mahal, now bathed in the setting sun's purplish-orange glow. I snapped one last photo of this World Wonder, knowing full well that the most memorable image from that day would be of 16 smiling dark faces -- and one beaming white one.