Rage

No overland would be complete until you threw in some posttraumatic stress along with utter despair.  After all, what adventure doesn’t have it’s alcoholic(s) who eventually must explode and hurl abuse at those who are kindest of all?

It was a long drive (again) to the Turkmenistan port where we needed to catch a cargo ferry over to Azerbaijan.  There is no ferry schedule and no guarantee even if a boat is there it will agree to take you or the truck on it.  This means you prepare to wait.  It could be an hour.  It could be 2 or 3 days.  You could board at 8 am or be told at 3 am its time to load.  What do you do?  You load up with enough supplies to feed and water yourself for 3 days minimum and you wait in a dirty, run down port for your ship to come in.  I hate being on the truck.  It literally sucks the life out of me.  There is no soul on this truck and by the time we pulled into port I had had enough of being on a soulless journey.

I got out and wandered the wreckage for a place to pee.  Then I just broke down and sobbed…

Eventually I pulled myself together enough make my way back.  Ken (who had been helping cook) met me half way.  The moment we had hoped would never come had arrived – the full on admission that this was not the trip we had hoped for and the awareness that we had nothing left to give.  I wept unabashedly “I can’t do this anymore.  I just can’t. “  Being different was exacting a heavy toll on our psyche.  We were tender souls on a trip where tenderness was not a virtue.  Neither was humility, grace or compassion.  We foolishly believed that anyone wanting to do a journey such as this would want to do it with soft eyes and a kind heart.  We thought we were doing this with nomads and gypsies – people like us.  We weren’t on this trip to prove how tough we were.   We were on it to experience the world and enjoy it and all we asked in return was that the joy be shared and honored. As we made our way back to the truck, we had no idea that in a few short moments, we would find out exactly the kinds of travelers we were with.

Dinner was tense.  The group was tired and no one had any idea when we would leave.  There was a ship in port that might take us but it hat yet to be unloaded.  Word was we might be able to board around 6 am.  It was now 9 pm and no camp was set up.  Somewhere in all of this it was decided that we would fry up the left over lentils into patties to be eaten on board the ship.  This meant another hour or more before we could all even begin to unwind.  In the midst of all this Ken said, “Let’s quickly throw up our tent.  Even if we only get 4 or 5 hours rest its better than nothing.”  It was a calculated decision based on our exhaustion and the fact that with “so many cooks” already in the “kitchen” we knew the 10 minutes to put up our tent would affect no one.  Or so we thought…

As we began to set up one of the group members already well fueled with alcohol decided that right here right now would be a good time to let us know exactly what she thought of us.  For the next hour she hurled abuse at us in what can only be described as a drunken rage.  Ken in particular was her target as he was technically part of the “cook group” that evening and she – not being a member of it – had made up her mind that he was not doing his share.  I was just an object of her wrath for being me and apparently doing “sweet bugger all the entire trip.”  And so it went.  As we stood at the table making lentil patties we endured slam after slam about why don’t we put up 4 more tents while we are at (we offered.  No one said yes) how we had no right to eat any food prepared by the group and in no uncertain terms how “unhelpful” we were. 

No one said a word the entire time.  No one.  Not one person in our group came to our defense.  Not one person seemed to find what was happening inappropriate.  We had made the decision a long time ago that we were alone but had valiantly tried to be helpful when necessary.  Ken in particular took this burden on.  Out of love for me he often offered to take my share of work just to spare me from the incessant need for control manifesting within the group.  It broke my heart knowing that with him also at his breaking point, this was how “support”  (or lack thereof) really looked. 

Eventually the decision was made that no more patties need be made and we silently cleaned up.  The wind by now was fierce as if nature was trying to out do the tirade in our camp.  We climbed into our tent and held each other tightly.  “I am glad you’re with me on this trip,” Ken whispers, “we can get through this.”  He reminds me of all the beautiful things – and people – and cats! – we had seen so far.  I reminded myself that no journey worth doing is ever easy.   As the wind pounds our tent we fall asleep well aware we too are drunk.  Drunk in Love.

The morning after the "Storm."  We shall overcome! xoxo