I’m humming Peter Cetera melodies in the kitchen these days. Doing dishes to the ’80’s croon
…if you leave me now, you take away the biggest part of me…
The Bohemian gets a last-minute request to be the best man at his friend’s wedding. Quite a distance to travel from here to Kalamazoo (yes, really, the wedding is in Kalamazoo). I thought it most practical for him to go without me. I’d stay behind and care for Jeb and Moodah the dog. Make sure the plants get watered.
But then there was Peter, singing love songs between every rinsed plate.
…ooo-ooo-ooo-oh, baby please don’t go…I just want you to stay…
Well, I didn’t want the Bohemian to stay. I wanted him to go and lovingly support his friend on a very special day, who was marrying a professional dancer. Yet I knew the wedding would be filled with two-step celebration. If I stayed behind to hold down the home front, would the Bohemian be left solo on the dance floor?
For days we mulled over our responsibilities while Peter Cetera serenaded me. Why Peter? Well, the bride and groom are from Chicago (as is the Bohemian, who had a life there before he came to this island to climb coconut trees, surprisingly meeting me, and subsequently gaining a family). So, the trip is rooted in the Windy City, with a road trip to Kalamazoo for wedding nuptials with a rousing mix of dancing Americans and Czechs.
And so there is Peter, and that most well-known band, my closest connection to the city from an era of my past (think many junior high school bus rides listening to Top 40 through metal speakers).
And then there is my husband – the best man (which, he most certainly is, in my eyes).
In the end it was decided. We will be two-stepping together, all 20+ hours of flight time to Chicago. Yes, the practicals seemed to fall into place, and the powers that be, allowing us to take a short, but sweet, excursion together in the month that marks our one year anniversary since our very own wedding.
We’ve both traveled plenty. We weren’t even that far out of our element. But the Bohemian and I had reached that point in our trek.
We weren’t lost in the wilderness, but we were in unfamiliar territory on our neighbor island, in the city of Honolulu. We’d been walking a couple mile stretch of asphalt streets, heading in the direction of the bus line that would take us to the airport and connect us with our flight home.
Our packs were each filled with five pounds of immigration paper work (the purpose of our Oahu day trip and the topic of another post) and even our most comfortable slippers were beginning blisters on our feet. The sun was in that pre-sunset blaze, roasting down on the us and the endless sidewalks.
We knew we were walking in the right direction, we just didn’t know how much longer the streets would meander and curve toward our #19 bus line. It was the Bohemian that spotted the 7-11 store and suggested that we just ask someone how close we were.
Still slightly dressed up from our appointment with Homeland Security, we didn’t quite seem island-style, as we entered the convenient store full of locals lined up buying cold drinks and spam musubi. Once the Bohemian began asking the question, his accent full and foreign, we looked like a couple of well-dressed backpackers that wandered too far from the hostel.
In response, several patrons pipe up about how we aren’t far from the main highway and our bus stop. And in typical Hawaiian style, they proceed to offer directions without street references (because it seems no one in Hawaii pays attention to street names unless it’s the one on which they live).
Instructions offered don’t get more specific than something like, “just go straight down this road and then turn left at the end. You’ll see it.” This was the strategy that had us walking the past two miles and I was seeking something a bit more specific.
One large man in a blue aloha shirt pays for his drink at the register and heads toward us and the door. “I’m walking in that direction, you can walk with me if you like and I’ll show you.”
We pause for a moment but agree to walk with him. As we move through the parking lot he tells us, “I knew I came to the store for more than an Arizona Ice Tea. This is just my way to show you a little aloha.”
When I tell him we live on Kauai, he lights up, surprised and happy. He offers the names of family members that live on the West side and recounts some of his favorite spots on our island.
In less than five minutes we’re in front of his restaurant destination and he’s pointing us in the direction of our bus line. “After you turn left there, you’ll soon come to the highway. Be careful. That’s a dangerous spot and people are driving crazy.”
We give our sincere thanks and it’s obvious our aloha-shirted friend feels happy to be our good Samaritan.
“Ok, you two. Have a good trip. God bless you. And tag, you’re it.”
Just as he indicated, we are soon on the highway at the bus stop for #19. It looks like we’ve got plenty of time to catch the plane. Our little directional challenge did not devolve into an argument between the Bohemian and I. All is well, as we ready to bid adieu to Oahu.
Cars pass as we wait for the bus. One minivan drives by with a huge sticker on the back window, outlining a boy with a stream of pee projecting from his body. I’ve seen smaller versions of this before but never one so large. I wonder at its meaning and puzzle for just a moment at what inspires its display.
Moments later, we hear a whistle and we peek around the branches of a tree to see the minivan stopped and the driver, door open, walking towards us.
“Hey, I saw you guys at the store!” He’s smiling.
“I’m heading to the airport, c’mon, I’ll take you there.”
The Bohemian and I look at each other. Merging traffic is pulling on to the highway and beginning to back up behind his stopped van.
The driver looks at the cars behind him and waves us forward. “C’mon!”
We walk up to the passenger side where I see the urinating boy sticker. Hmmm. He has swung the door open for us. We peer in and see the driver behind the wheel, the cab empty. He glances in his rear view mirror and I see the line of cars stuck behind his van.
“C’mon. Hop in, I’ll take you to the airport.”
We don’t need to say a word to one another. The Bohemian and I are both hesitant. We know the bus will be arriving any moment and though this man seems friendly enough, we have no idea who he is or where he’s really going.
“We’re alright. Thanks so much. We’re just going to wait for the bus.”
He sees our hesitation. “What, you scared?”
The cars behind him on the highway are getting impatient.
“Thanks for the offer…we’re good.”
He shakes his head in a bit of disappointment. “Okay.”
And we shut the passenger door and he drives off.
Within minutes our bus arrives, we board and head for the airport.
The Bohemian and I talked about it then and I ponder it still.
Going on my intuition alone, it seemed like the guy got inspired in the store by our good Samaritan and he wanted to be a part of the do-gooders club, too. I think he really did want to take us to the airport. And it seemed like when we denied him, he was both disappointed and annoyed. As though the state of the world had created a mistrust between humans that would not even allow us to let each other offer a helping hand.
So, that’s my gut feeling.
But I wasn’t going to gamble on it. And neither was the Bohemian.
The skeptical perspective says that guy could have been an evil-doer, seeing two fish-out-of-water asking for directions in the big city, with plans to drive us to who-knows-where and do who-knows-what to us.
Not for a minute do I regret declining his invitation. But I’ll forever wonder the true motivation of his gesture.
In the meantime, we’re on the look out for our turn to do a good deed, because after all, we’ve been tagged.
He keeps coming to my mind. That man with the washing machine on his back. An image in my memory back from my travels in India over twelve years ago.
I’d seen lots of small men carrying big loads through the inclining streets of the hill station where I was staying in Northern India. But this one man, maybe 110 pounds, rubber slippers on his feet, was bearing a full-size washing machine tied to a strap that stretched across his forehead.
Indian streets are a-bustle with everything. Dogs, pigs, cows, mopeds, cars, and people moving in all directions. These streets were paved upon steady slopes, up and down, stretching through miles of chaotic thoroughfare.
I watched this man, his posture slightly bent forward, the huge, white square resting upon his back, just take it, one step at a time. A meditation in motion. Dogs crossing his path, mopeds swerving around him. His pace never faltered. He never seemed labored. Just a steady haul of a heavy appliance, the crux of which, seemed to rest on his head.
I was a witness to this scene over a decade ago. Why it has now been flashing in my mind at random moments, like when I’m washing dishes at the sink, I don’t know.
Prompted to seek a little further, my research has taught me that this forehead strap has a name. A “tump line,” also known as a “burden strap,” is ancient in its origins, dating back to the time of the Maya, who used it to carry loads equalling their own body weight.
The strap was designed to rest on the top of the head, where the weight would be directed into the spinal column, somehow offering greater support for heavy cargo. This also streamlined the transporting process, freeing the traveller from a cumbersome cart, and offering the ability to traverse more narrow and rocky terrain.
That man in the hill station town in India probably spent the entire day stepping one foot in front of the other with that heavy appliance on his back. What I saw was a walk of grace. He was defying gravity through use of efficiency. He was using what he had, taking it slow and steady.
We all have our burdens to bear. Some greater than others. But the tump line proves that we all can carry loads greater than we thought possible, and with more ease, if we only shoulder it properly.
Here’s to lightening the load, or at least repositioning it. Using our resources at full capacity. Adding endurance. Bringing more grace to our trek.
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