I’ve been meaning to write down a few things about the tour before they slip my mind, and as the tour gets farther and farther away it gets harder and harder to recall the details and get into the mindset. So, while this won’t be the last time I tell these stories in as much detail as I’d like to (book?), there are two in particular I’d like to share before they disappear into relative obscurity.
It's taken me a long time to process them, so when I wrote the blog post for the few days around their occurences, I wasn’t ready to talk about them, and then… they never really fit anywhere. But they happened. If you read this blog for the smiles, you might want to skip this post.
The first story takes place in France. And it was scary. In retrospect, it wasn’t any scarier than some of the other times I was afraid of “getting caught” stealth camping, except this time it was someone else getting caught somewhere they shouldn’t be. But as with all of the times I was scared shitless on tour, after it was over, I realized it wasn’t that big of a deal… I wasn’t so much scared as startled. I laugh about it now.
You might
recall that I was lucky enough to find a host in England who offered to let me stay not only with them in England, but also in their summer home in France – both stays of which I was very grateful for. This story takes place in the cottage in France. I was staying there alone.
I was asleep in the servants’ quarters, a small room in the back of the house next to the kitchen. The room was unfinished, with a cement floor, an old cot for a bed, and no light (not that I wasn’t grateful! It was indoors, warm, and the only payment required was gratitude… just setting the scene). Staying there alone was such a gift! I spent three days getting up on my own schedule, making coffee, biking to the next town for groceries and pizza, watching movies, catching up on my blog, and just generally relaxing and having a good time not having anywhere to be. It was wonderful. Until…
On the second night (of three), after finishing a movie, I shut off all the lights, checked to make sure the door was locked, and used my phone to light my way to the bed (remember, no light in the servants' quarters). I dozed off quickly to the sounds of crickets chirping outside and moonlight coming through the small window in the back door, barely illuminating the fireplace and the old lounge chair occupying the cramped, but charming room.
At 2 AM I woke up for no perceivable reason. I was about to shut my eyes again when I noticed a light coming from underneath the door to the kitchen -- but I could have sworn I had turned that off before I went to bed. “Ah, well,” I said to myself, “must have forgotten.” I was about to get up to turn it off when a shadow passed across the light. I froze, and for what felt like hours, but was, in reality, probably no more than 30 seconds, all I could hear was my heart beating in my ears. “I must have imagined it,” I thought, and tried closing my eyes. But beneath my eyelids, I saw the light dim and brighten again… and then I opened my eyes, and waited, frozen and scared.
Was there someone in the house? My mind was racing with all the possibilities. Was it a thief who would leave soon, of their own accord? Would they burn the house down to hide all the evidence? Come into my room thirsty for blood?
I waited.
What should I do? Confront them? Call the police and risk the intruder hearing me? I couldn’t fathom describing the situation
in French, nor did I have the address memorized… come to think of it, I didn’t even know the French emergency number. 111? 112?
I waited.
I mentally reviewed the self defense I knew. I tried to remember where the knives were in the kitchen, if it was likely this so-and-so would be able to reach for them in surprise or shock. Or maybe they’d just hit me in the face with the coffee pot. What was the right thing to do? Be polite? Scream and try and scare them away? Or just play it safe and get out?
I had waited now, so long, I decided it must be my imagination.
I tried to calm my heart, slow the adrenaline, try and sleep again… and then, unmistakably, I saw the shadow again.
I decided to run.
As slowly and carefully as I could, I got up and put on my pants in the relative darkness. I couldn’t find my shoes or my phone or my wallet -- I didn’t care. I crept towards the door and unlocked it -- CLICK!!! it went, and with that I rushed out and closed the door. I snuck alongside the house in my bare feet, peeking in the kitchen window as much as I dared.
Nobody was there. Was I crazy?
I didn’t want to risk it. I walked a quarter mile down the road in my bare feet to the caretaker’s house and, at 3 AM, knocked on their door. Nothing. I threw rocks at all the windows. Nothing. I tried shouting as loud as I dared. Nothing. So I curled up, jacketless, behind a potted plant, and shivered and closed my eyes and passed the time wondering what I was doing. Periodically I tried knocking or throwing rocks again, but for the most part I passed the time trying to stay warm and comfortable in the cool French morning air, behind potted plants, on the porch furniture, wherever I could.
Around 7 AM I saw one of my hosts -- let’s call him Ian -- in the kitchen making coffee. I knocked again, and he came to the door.
“Kyle?” he said. “Are you okay?”
I thought for a minute.
“You don’t look okay.” I was probably pale. And tired.
“I’m not.”
“Come in. Please, come in.”
Ian got me a blanket and coffee and led me to their living room, where wimbledon was on. I explained to him what had happened just as his wife entered, then explained it again to her. Ian left to check out the cottage, and I stared blankly at the TV – tennis was on -- and tried to remember to drink coffee.
Ian returned about 30 minutes later and reported there was nobody there, but the bathroom window was open and the bed in the master bedroom had been slept in. He posited someone had come in the bathroom after dark, taken a nap, got up to find something to eat, then heard me leave and left themselves. We thought about calling the police, but what could they do?
It was easy at the time to freak myself out, but in reality, it was just someone who wanted a place to sleep. It wasn’t my cottage, but what if I had opened the door and offered them coffee, or said it was okay for them to stay one night? I could have startled them, and probably scared them. Even if I made the offer in earnest, would they have believed I wasn’t going to call the police as soon as they were asleep? Could I have had that conversation in French?
The experience was more startling than scary. I’ve no doubt there are people who would have locked themselves in their rooms and called the police, or gone out with a shotgun they kept locked under their bed. I am in no way ashamed of having run -- having played it safe -- but I’m always going to wonder if it would have been a better story if I’d just gone out and said “hi.” Someone who just needed a place to sleep for the night probably needed a friend just as much.
- - -
The second story takes place in Africa, in Kenya, on the second or third day of biking through desert, over sand, wondering if I'd ever have internet or running water again. I'd like to preface it by saying that I regret what I did here, and if I could go back and apologize to the people involved, I would.
Jacob and I were just entering a village when we heard some music. It was clapping and singing. He looked at me and joked that I had to keep good on my ambitions for dancing – which is to say, if there is danceable music playing, I dance. If there is a dance with music I like, I'll generally join. And sometimes even when it's quiet outside, I just like to move my body to the beat of my own drum.
We pedaled slowly past the first few buildings and then caught it out of the corners of our eyes – there, just beside one of the larger buildings, behind a hut of some kind, was a circle of people dancing, chanting, and clapping. Jacob and I stopped and exchanged glances. I was uncertain – this didn't seem entirely like a public event. But isn't dancing about self-expression and sharing? After wavering for a few seconds, I finally dismounted my bike and began walking it between the large building and the hut. Jacob followed close behind.
I leaned my bike against the wall and got closer to the circle, about four feet away. A few people saw me but didn't really acknowledge me. In retrospect it should have been obvious at this point that I was intruding – most social dances aren't done in a circle. But I thought, maybe they are just mid-song, and after this song, I can ask what they're doing and if I can join. The song seemed to go on for a while – in my nervousness, what in actuality was more like 30 seconds seemed to be minutes – but I grew impatient, and started dancing a little. I looked over at Jacob, who sheepishly joined in.
Now we had the attention of a few more people. Still, they didn't acknowledge us beyond looking at us. They didn't smile, or wave. The circle seemed to shift a little to open towards us, but I didn't enter. Then I saw through the opening, on a table in the center of a circle: a book. I leaned in a little and could see it was face-down. On the back, I read the title of the book – "Brown" – and the summary, which was something like:
"Brown is the color of dirt, the earth, the things we are made of. [...] Brown is the color of your skin."
And in that instant I realized how acutely I was intruding. My stomach twisted. I immediately turned and walked for my bike, mumbling to Jacob, "let's go." We left.
I am a very priveleged person. I am white, I am male, I speak fluent English, and I am a US citizen. I have change in my pocket. Last year, I had enough change in my pocket to quit my job and live on my bicycle for nine months through the US, Europe, and Africa. So I can't say that I understand what my presence there must have meant to the people in that circle. I can't say I've ever known what it's like to be celebrating something unique about me, a uniqueness I had been oppressed over, disadvantaged because of, and during that celebration have had one of my oppressors intrude. I don't know what that's like, but there remains an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach whenever I recall this moment. That wasn't my space. I wasn't supposed to be there. Maybe,
maybe with an invitation, but least of all as a tourist – a rich white person just in town to see what there is to see. That was the opposite of where I was supposed to be. At least, that remains the thought at the forefront of my conscious.
- - -
My next post will likely draw this phase of Cycle Humanity to a close. I promise the ending will be happier.
cycle humanity