Adam's Big Mistake

How silly of me. Here I am a citizen of planet earth for multiple decades always believing that the fable of Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden were just that – a fable. An endearing story to be certain, but not one grounded in reality if you ask me. Written more to educate, you might say, than to have any grounding in fact. Mythical but clearly delusional. And, just then, we landed in French Polynesia and I had to rethink everything.

Like so many exotic, far away places, French Polynesia sits near nothing. It resides in the belly of the huge Pacific Ocean. Draw a line southeast from Hawaii, west from Peru, and East from Borneo and you will find it, an aggregation of 118 islands and atolls among four archipelagos. When viewed island by island, they appear on the map to amount to essentially nothing. But, if you were to draw a line around them connecting the archipelagos, they would constitute an area akin to the main part of Europe. But, the hugeness of the Pacific swallows up everything making any visible land mass seem inconsequential, even presumptuous. What it gives us is an array of islands that offer a lushness of multi-hued greens, and soaring razor-topped mountains that loom over volcanically created jungle island after island after island. It has that primeval look to it, as if you might expect to see a dinosaur pop out at you at any moment. And, the water! Imagine a blue rainbow, each segment projecting a luminescent shade of the lightest turquoise to the fiercest sapphire blue. And, a clarity so great that from fifty yards you can still clearly see the ocean bottom and the explosive colors of the coral formations below. You may call this place French Polynesia, but, if you don't mind, I will call it the Garden of Eden. Adam, you just had to go ahead and bite that apple, didn't you, and then face expulsion from this place? Huge mistake, my friend, huge.

Our travels would take us to three islands: Moorea, Bora Bora, and Vahine. In Bora Bora, we would stay at the Continental, one of those resorts that offers over-the-water bungalows. Part of the magic is that part of your living area is floored in glass allowing you a constant view of the coral beneath and the ever-present sea life that is drawn to the coral as we are drawn to chocolate. Want to go for a swim? Well...just climb down the ladder and immerse yourself in the warm, translucent waters and explore the shallow depths below in your snorkeling gear and exchange greetings with the multiple sea creatures there. In Moorea, we would go on a tour of the interior on ATVs, lurching ourselves forward up the one-time volcano's heights. We would pass dense forests of towering bamboo, arching palms, and greenery so lush it is almost an insult to refer to it as merely lush. Who knew that the color green could take on so many assorted, so richly diverse, spectrum of personalities? Up on the surrounding mountains, clouds would invariably snake around the peaks in thin tendrils almost as if to embrace them.

We would devote a significant amount of time exploring the snorkeling possibilities here in the Garden of Eden. Whether it was drift snorkeling (where our boat would drop us off and then anchor down the current allowing us to literally drift to the awaiting boat after our exploration of the coral reefs below), or an excursion where we would sample an array of different sea-life environments, the result was always the same: magic! First, the water is so spectacularly clear that you believe what you're watching is in high def. The coral reefs were often alive with color: purple, red, white, pale green. And, joining us down there would be a vastness of sea creatures. It might be the 12 foot wide manta rays who would swim at us with their mouths open revealing an impressive inner chamber that would (they hoped) soon contain an array of plankton or other micro-sea organisms. Or, perhaps the groups of black-tipped sharks who hopefully had received the memo that their diets did not include humans. Or, barracudas, moray eels, eagle rays, majestic lion fish, or box fish. At one point, I was offered a small octopus to hold in my hand and found that he stuck to me like velcro! The explosion of black ink that followed led me to believe he wasn't nearly as interested in us as we were in him. And, then there was the “aquarium.” Our guide referred to a place that was named that way although it wasn't clear to me what he meant exactly until we jumped in off the boat. As we dropped below the water's surface, we were literally surrounded by hundreds of bright, multi-colored fish who were barely inches from our face masks, and who were apparently as curious about us as we were about them. Ahh, the aquarium! I get it! Seeing this seemingly endless menagerie of fish so close to us made me instinctively giddy. Laughing actually. (By the way, have you ever tried to communicate with someone with your mouth mostly occupied by a snorkel? The emanating sounds really are quite humorous as you carry on a “conversation” with your snorkeling neighbor in a series of screeches and grunts. Tone of voice conveys quite nicely what the articulation does not.)

Then, there was Vahine Island, not just an easily overlooked atoll off the nearby coast of Tahaa, but a destination that we almost overlooked ourselves as we prepared for this trip. What we discovered as we arrived there by water shuttle was that Vahine is a private island. There is literally nothing there but a hotel with nine bungalows that hug the shoreline. There are no stores, no cars, no roads. Nothing. Well, almost nothing. There is a two hole golf course that one plays barefoot and only after consuming a suitable amount of the local Tahitian brew, Hinano beer. The bungalows offer you a deck overlooking the water, walls decorated with shells and they don't even come with keys. A sliding glass door is all the security you might want or need. Our host? A fellow named Terrence, an amiable Frenchman who, not coincidentally, is a gourmet chef. Terrence plied us with meal after meal that begged not to be eaten lest you undo the amazing visuals provided in his presentation. Whether it was his foie gras, grilled octopus, sushi, roasted duck breast with polenta, eggplant caviar and goat cheese in a tomato and basil coulis, or his crème brulee flambe or lemon tart with meringue, our taste buds and eyes swam in ecstasy. This was simply too good to be true. Our traveling friends, Randy and Cathy (but especially Randy), would start a daily chorus of “mmmmm” followed moments later with the same commentary. Lily and I would soon find ourselves lapsing into the same language. I have to admit, the “mmmmm's” pretty much dominated the breakfast, lunch and dinner conversations. But, after all, as they say, words do not do it justice. It is no wonder that this resort was voted by Conde Nast Magazine as one of the best retreats on the planet. While I suspect this resort was not around when Adam and Eve roamed these parts, Adam must nevertheless surely be shaking his head somewhere at his misfortune of not being able to stick around long enough to enjoy it.

There was an overwhelming serenity about this place. And, this atmosphere was underscored by the temperament of the local Polynesians. Almost to a man or woman, the local populace exhibited a gentleness and sweetness that was too common, too noteworthy, to be merely a coincidence. Whether it was hotel staff, or snorkeling tour guides, or shop owners, or just people you'd pass in the streets, people were soft-spoken, and quick to smile. Even one of our snorkeling guides, Roy, when whistling softly from our boat would cause, magically, a flock of terns to swoop out of nowhere to hover over us in the hopes of a feeding. And, all this with a willingness to help whether it was to teach us something about the local physical environment, find us something we needed, or just chat about life here. Terrence told me at one point that Polynesians, as a general rule, always speak softly. Except when they laugh.

Adam, baby, you gave all this up for a bite of the apple. You know you're a fool, don't you?

Floating Away. Far, Far, Far Away.

I left the planet today. No, not for long. Only an hour or so, actually. And, no, no, I was not rocket assisted. It was so much easier than that. I went to a float spa. And, right there, at a place called Glowspa, in the heart of Mt. Pleasant, I found other worlds. Or, perhaps they found me.

Up until recently, my knowledge of float spas was formed by the most misplaced of impressions, thanks to Hollywood. Back more than three decades ago, there was a film called “Altered States” in which a Harvard scientist, played by a young William Hurt, experimented with what was not so invitingly described as a “sensory deprivation chamber.” In this chamber, all sensory perception was removed: nothing could be seen, heard, or felt other than what your brain felt like composing. With Hurt's character, Eddie Jessup, fortified by LSD, his experience in the tank took on frightening, if not outright terrifying, dimensions such as his mutating into other, never before seen, life forms. Lily and I, with a group of friends, went to see this film in something of an altered state ourselves. We were so utterly fixated, indeed hypnotized, by what was happening on the screen that none of us noticed that Lily was so completely freaked out by what she was watching that she desperately sought an exit from the theater and blacked out – not once, but twice – in the aisle as she attempted her escape. Only when the theater lights later reappeared, did we turn to one another and inquire what had become of her. She still sternly reminds me of our complete oblivion to her absence until the film was over.

With that said, when our friend, Cathy, recently told us about modern day float spas where one could experience complete sensory deprivation, I was intrigued. (Lily less so.) What I learned was that the concept of the float spa has been in development for more than a half century. A fellow named John Lilly experimented with these back in the 1950's to explore the workings of the mind when it was deprived of all sensory information. And, interestingly, this experience has become popularized not just as a casual outlet for one's meditative endeavors, but also as a course of treatment for those with PTSD as well as those suffering from depression and a range of anxiety disorders.

In my case, I first stopped by Glowspa and conversed with the owner, Steve, to better understand what it was that might be in store for me. Steve told me that the tank was the size of an oversized bath tub completely enclosed to shut out the sounds of life coming from anywhere outside the flotation tank. The water in the tub would be about 10 inches in depth and would be infused with about 1,100 pounds of epsom salts, providing about double the buoyancy of the Dead Sea. You would lie in the tub which would be pitch black dark, be wearing earplugs, and have water temperature at 93 degrees so that your skin and body would have no sensory perception whatsoever other than the sound of your breath and, perhaps, the vaguest sensation of your heart beating, pushing blood around your organic self.

The day arrived for me, and I stepped somewhat gingerly into the tub. I was 90% excited and curious but about 10% apprehensive based totally on the decades old, but indelible, impressions left on me by “Altered States.” Hollywood, could not have been more wrong.

I leaned back and immediately realized that, no matter how hard I tried, I could not sink. Impossible. I was weightless. The dark was so complete that I had no sense of whether my eyes were open or shut. I heard nothing but the sound of my breathing. As the minutes wore on, I became aware that the intervals between my exhales and inhales became longer and longer.  That is the sound of relaxation.  I also realized later that the relaxation I was experiencing was no doubt the greatest I had ever felt short of sleep which, after all, we do not really consciously experience.  And, to add to the Twilight Zone element of it all, I felt nothing as the water temperature was so parallel to my body temperature that it precluded any sense of place. I might as well have been in outer space weightless as an astronaut would be. I settled back, realized that I was not going to freak out, and let my mind wander.

And the places it would take me! We sometimes refer to those situations in our lives where we are “alone with our thoughts.” Sometimes, it's when we are swimming laps in a pool. Other times, we feel this is the case when we are sitting alone on a secluded beach perhaps at sunset. Very meditative. But, even in those scenes, we have at least a subliminal sense of the world around us. Maybe it's the breeze we feel touching our skin. Maybe it's the sound of waves breaking or a seagull screeching. And, of course, there is the ever present daylight.  In the pool, maybe it's just the end of the lap or the coolness of the water that always keeps us centered with the notion that we are on planet earth; that there is an environmental context to what we are doing. But, in the flotation tank, we have none of those stimuli. We have nothing but our inner thoughts.

In my case, I took a journey into my past. I did not intend for that to happen, but that's where my brain wanted to take me. I saw myself sitting around the dinner table a half century ago looking at my grandmother, an image that has not occurred to me in decades. I saw myself toting around a 2 year old Jesse in our beach house in Rehoboth, Delaware introducing him to the artwork on the walls. I saw Lily and me on the beach in Phuket, Thailand almost 40 years ago. I saw Lily, Alex and me on safari in South Africa a few years ago watching an elephant spray dirt on our jeep while protecting her baby. I saw my father in his dressing area in our home in White Plains, New York as I looked up as a youngster in adulation. I have no idea - none - why these images came to the forefront of my consciousness. But there they were. And, while I could not be sure of this, I believe I smiled. It was too dark to tell.

I realized at some point that I had absolutely no idea how much time had elapsed. 7 minutes? 27 minutes? 47 minutes? No idea. But, at some point, as promised, soft music started infusing into the water. I knew my time was up.

And, I knew I would be back.

Con Cuidado, Senor. Con Cuidado.

Do you ever get caught up in the moment, decide to do something, and then almost immediately question your logic, or, more likely, your sanity? We all have, right? This is a bit overly melodramatic way of describing an outing we had recently in the Andean hills outside of Otavalo, Ecuador. Otavalo is a lovely town maybe two hours by car north of Quito and sits just above the equator at about 8500 feet. It is known for its markets and was a destination of our intrepid group, Jesse, Laura, Alex, Lily and myself. In anticipation of our visit, we agreed that we would indulge in a horse back riding outing at the hacienda where we were staying. Seemed innocent enough. After all, Lily is an experienced rider, and wouldn't it be nice to accompany her and share with her an impassioned pursuit she has and make this a family-filled, fun-filled activity. But, mind you, I am not an equestrian. I am about as close to having the requisite skills for such an undertaking as I do for performing brain surgery. Maybe less. The last time I was on a horse was nineteen years ago in New Zealand. Let's just say it was a bumpy ride which did not encourage me to pursue anything smacking of equestrianism bar the occasional carousel ride. (Interestingly, despite the passage of time, both Jesse and Alex remembered the names of their horses from that time long ago – Fat Boy and Tank – which should suggest to you that they were not exactly astride former Derby entrants.)

With helmets now giving us the illusion that we were well protected, we headed off with our guide. At first, the experience was actually rather bucolic. We slowly roamed through neighborhood streets, at first the cobblestoned variety with our horses clip clopping past small residences. The locals waved, the dogs barked. Cobblestones soon gave way to rocky roads and then rutted dirt roads as we headed further up into the highlands. Gazing at the humble, time worn communities and now dust-filled roadways, you almost expected Butch Cassidy or Wyatt Earp to appear, smilingly tipping their hats to us. The Andes were often shrouded in clouds; the sun was intense. Occasionally, when the clouds thinned, we could spot a volcano.

As we headed further uphill, the scenery became more wooded, more mysterious. The air felt cooler. My horse was named Ganador, which Jesse advised me meant “winner.” But, given the clouds we seemed to be entering and the steep rise of the mountains around us, I kept thinking Ganador sounded more like a name you might find in Lord of the Rings. You know, something Gandalf or Bilbo Baggins might have named their steeds. Anyway, let's just say that Ganador and I had some issues. He had his own notions of how and where he wanted to travel, and, perhaps sensing my utter lack of equine understanding, concluded he needed to be in control. He was right, of course, but that didn't prevent me from erratic stabs at “showing him who's boss” if you know what I mean. For example, Ganador would often turn 180 degrees from our intended path, apparently deciding he had a better idea of how to navigate our route. He'd wrench his head left or right and head in some odd direction or in the direction of a near-by field no doubt lured by the green “salad bar” that awaited him there. I would grab the reins and pull left or right trying to lurch him in the right direction. Sometimes we went in circles. Calls from the group would yell out, “you're holding the reins too tight,” or “you're not holding the reins tight enough.” While I would have been more than happy to get a tutorial in reins management, spinning in circles is not always the best time for that. Or, I'd hear helpful admonitions like “lean back” or “heels down” which I'm certain were the right things to say, but are hard to put into practice when one's head is spinning.

The coup de grace, however, were the body blows I endured when Ganador started feeling a little peppy. Sometimes, he decided he didn't want anyone passing him. Sometimes, when his road-side munchings would leave him behind, he would take off in spirited fashion to catch up with his buddies. In both cases, the toll one takes on one's lower torso makes waterboarding seem like a Disney funfest. Hurtling downhill in the last segment of our ride, one could hear the screeching voices and wails of the male members of our group as each endless set of bumps made us desperately wish there were several layers of tempurpedic mattresses beneath us. I was, in one spastic movement, trying to keep my sunglasses from stabbing me up my nose, trying to keep my helmet from dropping over my eyes, and trying to keep the lens cap from flying off my camera. As Alex would describe it at one point late in the ride, everything below his waist was dead. I would put it slightly differently. The only sensations emanating from any region below my belt were intense pain, numbness or paralysis. Why the folks at the hacienda did not issue steel jockstraps along with helmets is a mystery to me. I'm pretty sure I was speaking in a soprano voice as we arrived once again at the hacienda.

Despite the bumps and bruises and my brief experience as a soprano, seeing the Andean highlands through less than well traveled paths was worth every minute. It presented to us a world vastly different than the one we had left behind, one beautiful in its differences to ours. As Dorothy once alluded, we knew we weren't in Kansas anymore.

Adios Ganador!

The Mean Streets of Hanoi

We Americans are so spoiled, aren't we, when it comes to navigating our streets? Yes, yes, we endure our traffic snarls, the occasional erratic or rude driver, the road construction. But, we have a certain expectation, almost always validated, that certain norms of behavior will be honored. We have rules about lane usage, right of ways, spacing, and what we blandly refer to as common courtesies. The same can be said for life on the sidewalks. There are rules here too: pass on the right, don't obstruct passage, restrict the walking lanes to pedestrian traffic. I think you know what I mean.

Well folks.....welcome to Hanoi, or at least the Old District of Hanoi where, fairly said, it is a world gone mad. Here, chaos reigns. The only rule here is that there are no rules. None that I could discern anyway. All I can say is that Charles Darwin would be chortling with glee were he to witness this.

Imagine you are in a video game. The object of the game is to avoid bumping into anything that moves on the street or sidewalk: cars, buses, trucks, scooters, bikes, other people. To get bonus points you have to cross the street. Safely. Sounds simple, right? But, what you face? Oi zhay oi, the Vietnamese would say: Oh my God! Imagine an unending, relentless wave of motor vehicles carpeting the streets. Kind of like a lava flow of motorized traffic. The traffic moves in all directions. And, here, I'm not talking about left to right traffic all going in one lane and the reverse in the other. No, no – that would make it far too easy a game. No, here, the traffic streams in both directions regardless of lane assignment. There are painted lines in the streets, although for the life of me I'm not sure why. For decoration, some locals suggest. Scooters merge into this maelstrom without hesitation (and without so much as a casual glance) from alleys, side streets and sidewalks. Factor in the occasional truck or bus backing into the street at random intervals and you can only watch the ensuing melodrama in slack jawed awe.

The sidewalks pose less of a mortal threat, but a most challenging one nevertheless. Here, you learn quickly that sidewalks are really not designed for flowing foot traffic, but are instead areas designated for functions of daily living that apparently cannot be contained any longer in the buildings they front. It is the sidewalks where scooters and bikes are parked. It is here that merchandise of all sorts is displayed and sold. Haircuts are given here; women's hair is styled. Laundry gets done here as does the cooking of family meals. Kids play, adults sit on dwarf-like stools and play board games or just chat. Essentially, life plays out here. Which means there is barely, if any, room left for the individual who is merely trying to get from here to there without daring to step into the already chaotic streets. This “situation” leaves the average pedestrian between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

 

But, back to crossing the streets – the epicenter of our game. Given our Western mindset, we presumed at first that the safe bet to avoid a run-in with the “lava flow” would be to find a crosswalk at a traffic light, and wait for the light to turn green. Sadly, our naivete was grandly on display. To our befuddled consternation, we soon learned that traffic lights are, apparently, mere suggestions, not the moral and legal imperatives we observe at home. At first, given the almost insurmountable obstacles we faced, we relied on our guide, Young, to lead the way. We would watch him with unadorned adulation as he would step off the curb in what at least he thought was an appropriate moment, and calmly hold up his arm to signal our intentions, and just as calmly lead us across the teeming streets in a manner that was oddly reminiscent of Moses parting the Red Sea. It was magical. The cars, scooters, trucks – they all worked their way around us almost as if a collision would hurt them more than it would us. Amazing!

But, the question remained: how would we fare when Young was not with us, when we had free time to roam the city? At first, we would tiptoe ourselves off the curb and made sure our bodies were as tensed up as we could muster. Then, we would take a couple of steps forward and freeze, certain some guy on a scooter with a mountain of bags, boxes, children, and God knows what else aboard would smash into us. We would ultimately make it to the other side muttering that we should have taken greater care in making sure our life insurance policies had been updated.

After many attempts at this suicidal folly, we began to understand that the secret was to “let go.” The sooner we could achieve a zen-like state, the better. You'll be fine, I said to myself. Just take a deep breath and refuse to let any thoughts of impending doom enter your psyche. We'd wait for what we thought was an auspicious moment, and calmly step into traffic like we owned it. Unlike before, there were no backward steps; our muscles relaxed. Just a forward glide. Arm extended high, eyes fixed on the oncoming stampede, confidence the controlling emotion.... and then go. Well....it worked. Pretty soon it was as if we were almost daring scooters, cars and buses to hit us.

Of course, in hindsight, the confidence – indeed, the cockiness – we developed was downright scary. When we look back on the experience we will know we temporarily lost our minds.

But, brother, were we piling up the bonus points!