Sticking With It

I have a problem getting anxious when I travel (and perhaps in life). I often look ahead, am planning things weeks out, and have a hard time living for the here and now. One symptom of this when I travel is that I often come home a week or so early, because my head is already finished with the trip, and I’m ready to go home. Sometimes I make excuses to make myself feel better about not finishing up what I started, but the fact is that I’m almost always disappointed and feel like I quit on myself. So that’s why I’m most proud that I’ve extended my stay in Oecussi fivefold, and instead of having left today, will stay until Tuesday. It actually scares me more than a bit since this is a sleepy place, only has electricity at night, and I didn’t bring a reading book. That means that it will be a test of whether I can put up with myself with limited outside distractions, whether I can take this time to relax and reflect, and whether I can be in a lovely place and not get bored. I did almost bolt today, and I thought about it lots. You see, there’s a ferry that leaves here for the capital twice a week. When I arrived yesterday, I thought I’d spend one night and then catch the Friday ferry, but I just liked this place a bit too much to leave. And that meant that I’m “stuck” here until Tuesday, or blessed to be here, depending on how I look at it.

Today I went back up to the border with West Timor, as I wanted to retrace the beautiful path that we took yesterday afternoon. So I got dropped off right near a massive sandstone rock that juts out of the jungle and walked along a goat trail towards it. My thinking was that I wanted to find a spot where I might come to meditate each day, and even if that involved an hour-long motorcycle ride each way, it would be a good way to slow down. And I did find a very peaceful spot—a small cemetery actually—but before I had been there for even ten minutes, I was joined by a half dozen teens who wanted to watch what this foreigner was doing. Since meditation is hard enough for me—perhaps impossible, and I dread the thought of doing it by choice—the idea of doing it with twelve eyes on me was a bit too much, so I started to walk down the hill. I might have logged 6-8 miles in all—made easier by the steady downward slope that kept me moving forward at a good pace even in the blistering sun—and the whole time was just playing it by ear. I’d say “hello” to people, stop to have really basic conversations (most people here only know a few words of Portuguese, even though it’s the official language, so my dream of finally being able to effectively communicate on this trip will have to wait still a few more days). 500 pictures and a sunburn later, followed by a band of 15-20 kids, I made it to the river that I targeted as my stopping point, and spent the last hour cooling my feet as kids played, women washed, and the 5PM ferry left the dock far from where I sat.

It felt good. And while I don’t know how I’ll feel about it tomorrow or the next day, it’s a bit of proud moment for me. Even as recently as 3-4 days ago, when I knew that my paid photographic work was finishing up, when I didn’t know what I’d be doing afterwards and none of the options really spoke to me, I thought about coming home. And that was only two weeks into the trip. That would have been a failure of mass proportions, and I would have missed out on all the things that have come since, the things that come with slowing down, the things that I might see this weekend, if I only allow myself to…