Back to Siberia (Das Boot)

As hard as I try to protect myself by ignoring the news, every so often, a story or sound-bite sneaks in under the radar. This morning, in the car on my way to an appointment with Anna, I scan the airwaves, searching for a peaceful bit of classical music. Before I even have a chance to switch channels, the phrase survivors from the derailment south of St. Petersburg hits my cerebellum like a train-wreck. My body is shaken, my synapses are on full throttle, and my brain conjures up a scrapbook’s worth of train rides through Russia. Then, as the first flakes of winter gently touch the windshield, one place especially comes to mind: Siberia.

Strange, I thought, I wasn’t even there in winter. Nonetheless, with short summers and the bleakness of winter always on the horizon, Russians – or, perhaps Siberians more particularly – are always thinking about cold, stocking up on foodstuffs, clothing, logs and barrels of vodka.

Though I’ve been wishing away winter for most of my adult life, the pragmatic part of me finally came to terms with it. In reverence to the weather gods, I went shopping for winter boots. Exactly the kind of gear I haven’t had to use in two years, the layers I’d hoped to have left behind for good.

Not having resided in this city for many years, my first thought was, where do I buy winter boots? No idea. And that’s when my mind drifted to Siberia. Yes, Siberia. Land of exile, alpine and endless tundra. I’d surely know where to buy boots in Siberia. And not just any boots. I’d have the luxury (yes, luxury!) of choosing from a dizzying array of rainbow-coloured, cold-weather boots, a selection much more extensive than you will have seen anywhere this side of the Ural mountain range. I kid you not.

Surprised? Small wonder, now that the (once) all-mighty dollar has trumped the ruble, and capitalism has supplanted Communism – in a BIG way. With millions trudging through the annual sub-arctic gloom of notoriously long Siberian winters, is it any wonder that they defy the gulag-grey uniform of yore, garbing themselves nowadays in the most outlandish, sometimes raunchy getups? Or that, even in the depth of winter, they parade around in shiny red or purple high-heeled boots, apparently oblivious to icy patches?

One shopping center in particular comes to mind, in Krasnoyarsk, along the Trans-Siberian rail-line, and just a stone’s throw from the ubiquitous Lenin statue. What a smorgasbord of footwear! Stocked floor to ceiling with thousands of shoes and boots, in styles I could never imagine, colours I’d never dare to wear. Tacky, gaudy, chic and glitzy; without a doubt, something for everyone.

My mind rewinds to the day I visited that mega-boot-complex. And to the statue erected only a couple of blocks away. A starker contrast one could not find: A bronzed Lenin stands beaming, pointing straight ahead into a large city park…in the opposite direction from the mall. Naturally.

Labyrinth

One of the first thoughts that entered my head as I awoke this morning was to walk a labyrinth. And so I went. In the chilly air of this late-November, pre-first snowfall day, I took a slow journey on an outdoor labyrinth.

It’s been a few years since I walked a labyrinth. The last one was tucked into a lovely tree-lined courtyard downtown encircled by office towers, a church and a large shopping mall. I remember sitting and eating lunch one day at the perimeter of the maze, when I noticed a woman step onto the entrance stones.  She went through the motions, following the twists and turns of the circuit – but her heart was clearly not into it: Continuously checking her watch, this power-walker repeatedly harrumphed while rushing to the finish. Was it her first time and she couldn’t believe how LONG it was taking? Or had she not paced herself to benefit from the journey? Either way, almost leaping over the stones, her sense of urgency was so palpable and such a sharp contrast to the purpose and intention of the activity that I couldn’t help but feel sorrow. What sense of peace could she have possibly gained in those harried minutes?

Based on the medieval design etched into the floor at Chartres Cathedral in France, the labyrinth is meant to be a sacred space, intended for slow walkers seeking an experience of meditation and introspection. Tied up with notions of peace and harmony, the Chartres Labyrinth has seen thousands of pilgrims passing through its doors along their spiritual journey.

Today, the labyrinth I meandered along is a small replica of the Chartres Labyrinth. It was erected six years ago on the front lawn of a church and the public is welcome to use it at all times. Other than a sign and plaque on the outside wall, it is an unremarkable site. Rain, snow and wear-and-tear have left their decaying mark on the inlaid bricks. Dried weeds, grass, moss and dried helicopter leaves (aka Norway maple tree seeds) jostle for space with tiny coloured glass beads. A couple of dried honeycombs lay abandoned nearby.

With every step, I try to erase from my mind the throbbing pain in my left foot. I concentrate on turns that cannot be anticipated, and from which I take care not to deviate. Like my life now, without too many firm plans, I just follow the path, trusting that it will lead me to the inner circle and right back out again.

Upon entering the center circle, I pay attention to each of the stones that have travelled from afar: Kosovo, Jerusalem, Northern Ireland and Kahnawake (an Indian reservation). All bastions of current and past conflict; all (then or now) in dire need of peace. According to the plaque mounted on the church wall, a stone from South Africa was last added in 2004, brought from the quarry where Nelson Mandela had laboured during his incarceration at Robben Island.

It is a relatively peaceful neighbourhood this Sunday morning. Every so often, I stop for a deep breath or a look around. And once in awhile, the silence is broken by the rumbling of a car, the thunderous boom of a plane overhead or the piercing sounds of a circular saw down the street. At one turn, I stop and look up at the street, just in time to make eye contact with a lone runner. Part of me so badly yearns to don my sneakers once more and find that zen-zone so familiar to longtime runners. I feel that momentary rush subside, and I move on to feeling blessed that my legs can still take me from here to there… until I can run again.

And then, in the midst of this somber grey morning, my focus shifts yet again as a fleet of cars arrives noisily to drop off a large contingent of church-goers. They are hard to miss, wearing some of the most brilliantly coloured dresses – native to their respective African countries, I presume – I have seen: Orange and purple wrap-around skirts, fiery red and brown head-wraps. Some wear sleeveless outfits and slip-on sandals, others are decked out in the full-length fur coats and stilettos. One woman jazzes up her native outfit with a fake designer bag and scarf. The spectacle of this unfolding scene is too hilarious to ignore, so I pause mid-step and smile as a boisterous driver, unloading bags from the trunk, waves to me with a smile and sings out a baritone hello. As the families head into church, I resume my walk.

Co-existence is the message that I carry into the rest of my spiraling journey on stones. It may be impossible to feel the anguish of people who live through ongoing civil war and conflict, but it is possible to feel solidarity and to pray for peace – inside and out.

Haiku

A few months ago, I joined a chronic pain management group. At this week’s session, discussions about anxiety and panic attacks were mercifully followed by an activity with a more creative bent.

The psychologist / facilitator introduced group members to the traditional Japanese form of poetry called Haiku. This short-form, three-line literary genre restricts the author to the following structure: 5 syllables in the first line, 7 syllables in the next, completed in the last line by 5 syllables.  Some reference is usually made to a season or to nature generally.

A number of haiku examples were written on a whiteboard for all to see. Unsurprisingly, pain was a common theme. The one that resonated with me most, perhaps because of its vivid imagery and reference to my own personal experience, was this gem:

Duragesic patch
In a bleak pain-filled meadow
Where is my garden?

We were then invited to compose our own poems, limiting ourselves, if possible, to the rules of haiku. I wrote the following ditty:

Will the waves recede
leaving sea shells on the sand?
Grill me an eel, please!

Amen to the distractions and transcendent effects of the written word.

Through his eyes

There is something distinctly unsettling, albeit fascinating, about reliving the day of my accident through another person’s eyes. Michael’s eyes, I knew, had experienced the episode from a different perspective. He might shed some more light. After searching fruitlessly for the card on which he’d jotted down his email, and suddenly finding it among piles of paper last week, we connected via Skype this afternoon.

The slow ride to Battambang

Michael and I met on a bus. An Israeli youth trip organizer and schoolteacher, he was traveling solo through western Cambodia and Thailand. We compared notes during the long and dusty ride from Siem Reap to Battambang.

Upon arriving in Cambodia’s second-largest city, we lugged our backpacks around for over an hour before finally settling on a guesthouse not far from the market. We headed out to explore parts of the city, after a bite of local fare.

How well they match

We took a leisurely stroll by the river, stopping to watch and play with a group of street kids. There was widespread commotion, people setting up kiosks for the fair marking the start of the Chinese New Year.

Smiling street boys

The next morning, I rose early and headed out to rent a bike. A few hours later, I landed in hospital and a few hours after that, Michael appeared at my bedside. I remembered very little from his visit, my memory tainted by pain and shock.

And so we spoke, I asked many questions and he shared…

Hearing a knock on his door, Michael opened it and someone handed him a message. It was delivered by Mauro (the Emergency Hospital logistician) and briefly stated that I was hospitalized due to an accident. With directions in hand, Michael rented a scooter and came out to see me. Where was the hospital in relation to our guesthouse, I wanted to know. About 10 minutes away, once you crossed the river.

Michael said that what he remembered the most, when he first saw me, was how much pain I was in.

What about the bicycle, I asked. “I showed you pictures of the bike, don’t you remember?” he asked. No, do you still have them? “They got erased…” I wanted to know what it looked like when he found it. The police had picked it up and by the time Michael and Mauro arrived to cart it away, it was mangled up beyond use, the whole front rim and tire utterly crushed. Michael went to Moto Gecko, paid for the bike, picked up my passport and then, together with Mauro, found a second-hand bike shop where he unloaded it for half the price he paid for it. It’s true I suppose, there’s always some use for damaged goods.

Bicycle built for two?

The following day, Mauro lent Michael a truck, which he used to transport my bags from the guesthouse to the hospital. Michael said he was surprised and impressed at the care and attention that the other patients and I received at this hospital. He said he’d heard about the Khmer woman who lived near the bridge, that she had been summoned and ensured that I was transported to Emergency Hospital, where she worked. Yes, I knew about and remember Keo Vich. One of my guardian angels.

And that was that. A few more pieces of the puzzle, but not yet the whole story. Perhaps this is as much as I will ever know. Or just maybe, not.

The Medical Circus, Part I

By yesterday morning, the bed of my thumbnail had morphed into a hideously bulbous thing, and in its nearly infectious state, caused me much consternation. An embedded thorn that I’d removed had apparently traumatized the nailbed. So my dilemma was this: do I stay home, suck it up and hope that, with time and care, the healing will happen on its own; or do I brave the inevitable crowds and head to the nearest walk-in clinic or (lord help us all) emergency room?

I chose the latter. Big mistake.

By ten o’clock in the morning, I’d paid a visit to a clinic with which I was familiar. Mindful that school being in session and people not yet on lunch break, I hoped the wait would be short. HA. As I walked in, a quick glance around not only hinted at the impending waiting time, brought on added dread: every single seat was taken. “About three hours,” said the receptionist.

Ok, so H1N1 madness has swept the nation and swine flu vaccinations are in full swing. On my way out I see kids coughing, babies crying and others suffering from varying levels of pain, despair or boredom.

Next stop: A clinic run out of a physician’s home basement. I call first, asking about the wait, because I am recovering from an accident, I have alot of pain and I can’t sit for long. “No problem,” she bellows over the phone in a Russian or Bulgarian accent, “no long wait today. Doctor will see you soon when you come over. You come now.”  So there I am in the car again, whizzing off through an enclave of homes, into which is tucked this nondescript home and hidden office.

I knock on the door, and hearing silence, I walk in, half-expecting to see an empty room, smiling secretary and doctor waiting for me. HA. Meeting my shocked gaze as  I entered the darkened room were no less than a dozen weary-looking people of all ages, stuffed into heavy couches, among them a smart-ass who, noticing the pillow I carry around as a ’sitting assistive device’ exclaimed all too jovially, “so you brought your bed with you too?”

Quickly informed by the chorus that I had to add my name onto the list, I took a look around and asked who had been waiting the longest. A timid, wigged-out, mousey-looking woman eventually piped up: “Almost three hours.” Another one dead in the water. Off I went.

Then, off to a government-subsidized (oh-oh!) clinic housed in an office tower. Much recommended. On the phone, I was convinced to come in right away because there was no wait. Not possible, thought I. Sure enough, when I arrived, only one other person was in the reception area. Once I got to see the nurse I understood why: the doctor is not in today. Excuse me?? Which basically meant that the nurse could do absolutely nothing but ship me off to yet another clinic. Ah, the wonders of our healthcare system.

That was it. My body couldn’t take it any more. Three strikes, Hippocrates, and you’re out.

Or so I thought.

I momentarily forgot that I had an evening appointment with my newest addition to the practitioner-bunch, Claudia (more on her later). Arriving earlier than my scheduled time, I entered a ground-floor walk-in clinic in her building, a large sign outside advertising that  emergency cases without appointment were accepted. Great, I thought, this is it.

Not a chance. The minute I walked into an empty waiting room, my heart sank. Immediately I knew it was a bad sign. Sure enough, the receptionist, at the end of her rope at the end of a long day, quickly brushed me off, assuring me that walk-ins were no longer welcome.

As if 8:30 PM, post-treatment, wasn’t late enough to call it a day, a decision was made to drop in at an ER to check on the situation. I promised that if told the wait would be longer than 1/2 an hour, I’d return the next day. Almost verbatim, here is the conversation that transpired:

AJ: Hi, can you please give me an idea of how long the wait will be?

Nurse: Not too long, take a seat.

AJ: Well, that’s just the problem, I can’t sit for long because it’s painful. You see, I’m recovering from an accident, and if you tell me that it will be longer tonight than, perhaps, tomorrow morning, then I’d rather not have to wait.

Nurse (looking out at the filled-to-near-capacity waiting room): No, the line is moving along pretty well. A triage nurse will see you very soon and then a doctor a short while after.

AJ: OK.

Famous last words. A triage nurse did indeed see me within minutes. As for a doctor… I finally heard my name called three and a half hours later.

In retrospect, I should have known better. As a trained lawyer, I ought to have insisted that the nurse sign a contract stipulating that, due to my pre-existing condition,  I would be seen within the half-hour (or hour, let’s be lenient here); otherwise, the responsibility would be with the triage staff to find me and suggest that I return another time. Or, they might have offered me a stretcher to lie on…

Voila, welcome to the Medical Circus, aka our medical system and its phalanx of acrobats. Overtaxed.  Magic tricks. Sleights of hand. Juggling too many balls. Throwing us to the lions. Forcing patients to walk sky-high tightropes or wait interminably in the wings. When or how will this madness stop?

The Zen Room

About a week after being released from hospital, my friend S. urged me to stay with her and her husband P.  Although our friendship had been kindled a few years before, I could not have imagined just how much healing would take place while I stayed at S and P’s home.

I met S. a few years ago when she joined the same women’s choir I was in. We had loads of fun and laughs at choir, occasionally heading out for coffee afterwards. We hit it off almost immediately and, intuitively, I knew we’d be friends. But what I did not know back then was how much closer we would grow during the many trying times we’d endure over the coming years.

The upstairs room I stayed in (aka the Zen Room) was an oasis of calm. Sunlight streamed in for much of the day, infusing the room with steady warmth. The shelves were lined with books related to healing, mindfulness and guidance. A small zen garden, candles, a gurgling waterfall and a small Buddha contributed to the sense of peace I felt in that space. Some mornings I would awake to the scent and overwhelming sight of a vase full of brilliant tulips. Oh, how grateful I was…

Like Goldilocks, I had a choice of 3 beds: a futon, a bit soft for my taste; a couch-bed, stiff like new; and the third, a rented hospital bed sunk in from overuse. Most nights I played musical beds, falling asleep in one, moving to another in the middle of the night and napping in the third midday. Most times, I could be found lying on my side, my legs wrapped around a lime-green fleece body pillow. It was the sidelong view of the wall across that most captured my mind and instilled in me a sense of grace and possibility: an ink painting of a nude woman, lying on her side, her back to me and exuding an aura of total relaxation.

The Zen Room

And the food, glorious food. The aroma from S. and P.’s cooking would saturate the house, tempting my taste buds and luring me out of bed. They whipped up dishes with kale, sweet potato, squash and broccoli. I dined on grilled fish, chicken paella, curries and stew. I’d come downstairs in the mornings, long after S. and P. had left to work, to find a place setting with fruit, granola bar, a bowl for oatmeal or yogurt, and a thermos filled with hot water for tea. Just like soldiers, my vitamins were all lined up next to the plates. Those meals didn’t just fill my stomach and nourish me throughout the day; they helped to bring my body back to life.

Some days S. would leap up the stairs bearing heated or frozen gels, stories from her hectic day and a snack. She changed my sheets and brought more blankets when I was chilled. In those early days and nights of endless pain and despair, S. was always there to share her wisdom, sustain me with loving encouragement and a long hug.

S. ran errands for me, filled my drug prescriptions, and loaded me up with vitamins. She set up an appointment with her chiropractor and ferried me to his office many times. Convincing me that it was not too early to get in the pool, she drove me to one that had a hydraulic seat that gently lowered me into the water. And one day, she walked in loaded up with boxes of new sneakers – so I could try them on and compare styles and sizes.

Until I came to stay with S, I’d become somewhat accustomed to showering by placing a bench in the bath, and just barely perching on it. But it was awkward and terribly uncomfortable, and I longed for a bath. One day, S. announced that we were going to get a bath going. With equal measures trepidation and excitement, we started to plan for the big event. Out from the basement came the goodies, S. lugging all types of camping gear up two floors; a regular sleeping mat, an inflatable mat, fleece blankets, etc. She padded the bottom of the bathtub, unperturbed that all would get soaked. Before turning on the tap, she carefully helped me climb into the bath and covered me up partly with blankets. Then the waters came and I was filled with such gratitude and joy that I’m sure I cried – till we both laughed silly when the water threatened to lift me together with the nearly-floating mats.

To this day, I don’t quite know how they so graciously coped with me living in their midst for a month. I was blessed that I could call their home mine. I felt more love and compassion there than I could have hoped for. And still, every time I take a bath, I think of S.

Thank you S.  Thank you P. Angels both.

A country plagued

When visiting a country such as Cambodia, an abundance of lists, articles and websites have been written describing “avoidance measures” that should be followed. What I mean by avoidance measures are the places, people and foods to avoid if you want to stay healthy – and alive.

Travel websites issue warnings about pickpockets and avian flu, child beggars and crumbling staircases at temple sites (indeed, a Chinese tourist was rendered unconscious when he tumbled at Beng Mealea moments before I arrived). Foreign embassy guidelines advise their citizens to avoid traveling “along the Cambodia-Thai border in the area of the Preah Vihear temple because of a border dispute between the two countries.” (Read: live gunfire has been exchanged). Consular offices release warnings about the Aranyaprathet-Poipet border (when crossing over from or to Thailand) because of the rampant gambling, prostitution and corruption of the immigration police. Traveler postings remind you – ye, fellow traveler – not to walk around the cities alone at night, and to avoid drinking water with ice – since the ice may have been made from Mekong River water.

Chief among the well-publicized warnings, however, are those about dangers unique to this corner of South East Asia: Millions of active landmines and UXOs (unexploded ordnance) are still buried underground, thanks to the Khmer Rouge regime.  MAG (Mines Advisory Group), a neutral and impartial humanitarian organisation clearing the remnants of conflict for the benefit of communities worldwide, claims that Cambodia is one of the most heavily mine and unexploded ordnance contaminated countries in the world. Bomb-dropping sorties, primarily directed into the northwestern part of Cambodia, were conducted incessantly during the 1970s. Mines, grenades, shells and rockets continue to be discovered near temple sites, schools, farmers’ fields and alongside major thoroughfares, maiming (if not murdering) hundreds of unwitting citizens. A little girl, probably not more than six years old, and hospitalized in the same ward as I, became one of those victims when she mistakenly stepped on a landmine.

As if landmines and UXOs weren’t enough, the spectre of malaria hangs over this region as well; a virulent disease that claims untold lives every year.

I heard and read and heeded the warnings. Going against the very grain of my curious ways, in this instance I knew well enough to stay on roads and follow well-worn tracks. To get a better view, I clambered up crumbling temple structures only if a guard nearby kept watch. And though I carried anti-malarial medication, I figured my chances of contracting the disease were low since I’d adopted the ‘long-sleeve’ approach. So I opted to keep the pills sealed up in my medical kit.

Pickpockets, beggars, scam artists and sleazy tuk-tuk drivers, I figured I could deal with those potential demons. Landmines, UXOs, malaria – of these too I knew and kept my wits about me. But not a single source – no guidebooks, guest house, no bus drivers or fellow travelers – ever gave me the one piece of information that would have made all the difference: to beware of the bridges.

Would you dare?

Artful Chiropractic

It was my very first appointment with a chiropractor ever. After greeting me at reception, and leading me to a massage table in back, Barry asked about my injuries and started off with a general assessment. As I lay on my back, he turned me this way and that, knocked on my bones and somehow loosened my spine out of its torqued state.

Then he checked my legs, and deemed that the difference in their lengths was not permanent, but rather a temporary situation which would be corrected over time.  I was  compensating, he explained, by leaning heavily on the crutches to alleviate the pain in my left leg.

Then out came the tools – with a distinctly nefarious, machine-shop (or torture chamber) quality to them. He kept knocking and poking, twisting and turning. All the while, I kept glancing over my shoulder half-expecting to find an anvil nestled among the tables and chairs. And as if that wasn’t enough…

I started to notice that Barry used words like traction, manipulation and adjustment. This was standard terminology in the chiropractic industry, but hard-core metallica music to my ears. The jargon wasn’t only foreign, it must have triggered a serious dollop of anxiety inside my mind – although I didn’t fully realize it at the time. Upon leaving Barry’s office, I recall that images of medieval gallows and solitary confinement cells weighed heavily on me.

And then, the piece de resistance; the dream I had that very night. I was entering Barry’s office for yet another treatment. He took one look at me and gasped, exclaiming: “What happened to you? You look completely out of balance. It’s time to get you on the Brancusi machine!” At which point, he hoisted me up on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carted me off to the back of the office, and promptly unloaded me onto the machine.

You might be wondering, what is a Brancusi machine? I have absolutely no idea. And, to the best of my knowledge, none exists. The best explanation I have is this: Constantin Brancusi, a renowned Romanian sculptor (I am a fan of his work) once erected a sculpture entitled Endless Column. At the time of my Barry-visits, I happened to be staying in a friend’s home where, right outside my bedroom, there were two pewter coffee tables that were almost exact replicas of the Endless Column – but in miniature.

The Endless Column Traction Machine. A newfangled therapeutic device. Why not; it kind of has a nice ring to it…

Tribe in our midst

There’s a mad mad world seething through this frenetic, fast-paced and cellphone-addled city. But, wending their way among the city’s warren of highways, boulevards and traffic-clogged streets, and largely unbeknownst to most residents, are a motley team of drivers-cum-caregivers. Most of them were originally immigrants, now proud citizens. I consider them a microcosm of this multi-ethnic city, a charitable crew unto themselves – the Wheel-Trans Tribe.

Comprised mainly of men (though I’ve seen a few women), they are the public transit drivers who ferry the disabled from their homes to appointments, to families, to churches and shopping malls all across the metropolitan region. They are trained to deal with special needs, to haul wheelchairs and other “assistive devices” and to assist those with physically challenges ranging from limited mobility to quadraplegia.

Most tribespeople I’ve met do an outstanding job. I have seen their patience tested, their kindness doubted and their doors damaged. As a client but also an observer, I feel grateful that I’ve been given the opportunity to meet some who exemplify the best of these transit-guardians. To experience the city through their eyes, and to hear about their encounters, is to see into the soul of some of the city’s most beleaguered denizens.

How else would I have met Terre from Taiwan, who pronounced his name ‘Terry’ and wasn’t aware that, translated from the French it meant “earth.” Pleased as he was to learn this fact, he seemed even more eager to share a story about a Qi Gong practitioner who had helped his wife regain her health. He drove a taxi all day long, through traffic jams and bad weather; and yet, he radiated an impossibly peaceful sense of calm.

What other predicament would have afforded me the chance to meet Daniel from Ghana, who was gracious and charming, with a smile and glimmer of recognition as he picked me up for the second time. “Oh, hello! I remember you from a couple of weeks ago, right?” he bellowed, helping me into the car.

And then, Ozi from Zimbabwe, who taught me, over the course of one ride, about the rampant corruption, currency fluctuations, violence and what it was like to live in a country overrun by despotic generals.

There were many others who drove me to my treatments, the hospital, friends’ homes or the pool. They were Pakistani, Persian, African and Croatian. They all had a story to tell. But above all, Ben’s reflections are the ones that struck a note.

Ben, from Ethiopia, reveled in sharing stories from his native country. Riddled with civil  w ar, he was forced flee at a young age. As a student activist, he was persona non grata in his own country, escaping without so much as a word goodbye to his family. Ben heard so many stories from the infirm and the elderly, that he soon came to realize how much he had to be thankful for. He would come home from work and share those stories with his wife. And then, one day, he simply stopped complaining about his own problems. Meeting all these people somehow transformed him. He was certainly one of the more upbeat drivers I’d met.

A tribe apart, yet in our midst. Thank you Ben, Terre, Daniel and Ozi.

The Eyes Know

“God bless you,” says the Indian man, gracious and smiling, as he and his wife make way for me to pass on the sidewalk. He is one of the few people I’ve encountered who does not hesitate for a moment to make eye-contact, and is nonplussed at seeing me carry a cane. “Thank you,” I reply, not at all surprised at this kind gesture, now that I’m more familiar with his culture.

Another day, hobbling along the sidewalk with my cane, I see an elderly woman approaching. She is hunched over her cane, slowly inching her way towards me. Our eyes meet and she suddenly exclaims, in a scratchy but sweet voice, “Temporary, I hope?” “Of course,” I reply and, without skipping a beat, I add “and temporary for you too, I hope?” Her face eases into a broad smile, and we shuffle past each other.

Alas, the city is populated with too many (other) people who are either hurried, endeavour to remain ‘invisible’ or unaffected by seeing people who, temporarily disabled like me, are ‘in their way.’ They may don sunglasses and be plugged into iPods or Blackberries – the standard ‘assistive devices’ of the able-bodied who choose to ignore or hide from what life puts in their way. They avert their eyes, checking their watches, glancing down at my crutches or cane. “I am not like you,” they seem to be communicating telepathically, “and you are not like me, so I don’t really have to see you.”

No, you don’t have to look at me. Maybe there is something about my predicament that scares you. Perhaps you feel pity, sympathy, surprise or confusion. Or maybe it just doesn’t make sense; why am I, a relatively young woman, limping along with a cane.

But, in the end, the eyes know. Yours and mine. You know that I have seen you sneak a peek. And I wonder, what would it take to lower your glasses, turn down the music, smile or hold the door…