A holy city, a stranger, and a peculiar shower

THE SUN LOWERS, presenting a rainbow of hues from orange to blue along the horizon.  The cotton-ball clouds nestle themselves among snow-covered peaks.  By now, we’re probably flying over the south of France.  The fresh, cold appearance of those clouds below is such an extreme contrast to the days of dry, warm Tunisia. 

Without any contact, without using the Internet, having lived solely among Arabic-French speaking Tunisians for six days, it seems I’m reentering the modern world.  I don’t know if I want to, but that’s the way life goes. 

From the seat pocket in front of me, I remove the airline magazine and peruse the articles on the small gem of North Africa that is Tunisia.  I read about the fourth most holy city (behind Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem), the new capitol of the world of Islam, Kairouan.  After having spent the last four nights under the great care of one of her families, it was so strange to read a formal article, from a tourist perspective.  I intended on wandering the streets of that old holy city, visiting her great mosque, and staying there for just one night.  It is easy to say that the meetings and events that took place there changed my life, but it’s important to remember that with each moment, we can be changing ourselves.  ... ... ...   

So there I was in Kairoaun, Tunisia.  After a divine season of learning as much as I could about Islam, here was the perfect opportunity for me to connect with others, to know Allah, through prayer in a mosque.  The ride in the shared taxi (louage) lasted just under an hour.  I arrived to the hotel, recommended by a fellow traveler, before ten in the morning.  Just as Eugene described, the rooms were set around a gorgeous courtyard.  The man at reception gave a warm welcome, offering the choice between two rooms.  After settling in, I headed back down to settle up.  I inquired about prayer time at the mosque, and we talked about Islam.  The man at the desk congratulated me for having accepted this religion of truth, this beautiful way of life, and advised me on the appropriate time to get to the mosque.  It was still mid-morning, and I felt like stepping out to see the city and grab a bite to eat. 

 

I passed by a few small restaurants, not having any idea of where I was going or what foods would be found.  Across the street, a young stranger greeted me in French.  I greeted him in Arabic and continued down the road.  Turning around a corner, we met again and he accompanied me as I glanced at a restaurant’s sidewalk counter.  He asked me what I wanted.  This food was unfamiliar, so I told him I’d eat anything without animals.  Seconds later, an egg and vegetable chapati sandwich was made for me, though I forgot to emphasize “no tuna”.  As Nadhim sat across the table from me, I happily ate.  I wanted so badly to share with him, but he refused.

After lunch Nadhim suggested we pass by the house, and then he’d show me around.   I met his cousin, Sana, a trained English teacher who is currently employed at a factory.  She and an aunt welcomed me to the kitchen where we chatted about Kairouaun and the Great Mosque.  As I was too full to eat it, Sana insisted I take a packet of yogurt with me as Nadhim and I were leaving to stroll around town.  We walked north to see the huge, round Aghlabid Pools and made our way through the narrow streets of the city.  

 

Among the many interesting sights of Kairouan, we stopped by to see a camel who walks a circle around a well to provide spring water for the drinking.  Rounding back to the hotel, Nadhim dropped me off and promised to return to take me to the Friday Prayer. 

I had thirty minutes to get ready, and the shower in my room was abnormal.  The water wouldn’t come out, so I tried the adjacent sink.  It took a minute, but water finally began to flow.   I rushed to turn on the shower and it worked… for mere seconds.  I left it on and further loosened the sink’s knob.  I went back and forth from the showerhead to the sink, trying to suds up, trying to rinse off, as the water dripped, stopped, and flowed alternately and simultaneously from the showerhead and the sink’s faucet.  Where was my camel to get the water flowing?  This was a most ridiculous bathing experience, and it was cracking me up. 

Finally, I was rinsed and ready to dress.  My clothes from the backpack weren’t exactly the finest, but they would do.  Pink pants, flowing floral purple long sleeves, and sandals.  Time to try the hijab.  It was my first time wearing one, and I wrapped it the best I could.  I dashed outside to find Nadhim waiting for me.  As we walked toward the house for Sana, I tried to explain the feeling of having happy butterflies in my stomach.  First day in hijab, first time to pray in the mosque.  Off we went… 

The Echoes of Islam

(dessert: the best for last in my religious buffet)

It’s a little after nine, and I’m sitting on a too-soft hotel bed in the coastal town of Sousse.  After a two-hour train ride, followed by long walks of continuously losing my bearings in the labyrinth of the medina, it’s good to be in this run-down hotel room.  The further the sun goes down in Tunisia, the more Tunisian males decide to walk beside me asking me the same scripted questions that lead me to lie and tell them, “Yes, I do have a boyfriend here in Tunisia”. 

Mishary Al-Afasy’s recitation of the Qur’an soothes my tired soul, and the nightfall call to prayer echoes powerfully through the opened, screen-less window.  I was gently awoken around 4:00 this morning by the call to prayer, and it was nice.  Though it proclaims, “prayer is better than sleep”, I chose to resume my slumber.  Despite this morning’s lack of prayer, for the past few months I have allowed Islam to enter my heart.  It began with a bizarre moment of realization.  It was something like a renewal of the wonder and awe that I’ve felt for the life force behind everything, that great energy that keeps the world spinning around.  Since that moment, some divinity has guided me to learn more about Islam, to further contemplate the concept of God, and to learn proper methods of ablution and prayer.  This hasn’t made me any weirder than I already am.  It’s made me more grateful for every moment and more acknowledging of the uncertainties of anything beyond the present. 

So I purchased a hijab and have no idea how to pin this thing.  The scarf wraps around the head, for the purpose of covering the neck and hair.  I’ve almost figured it out, needing only to perfect the strategic placement of a pin or two.  It’s not that I’ll wear it regularly, but I need to enter the holiest site in the country, the Great Mosque in Kairouan.  I need to pray there, and it’s open to Muslims only.  The city ranks among the holiest in the world, after Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem. 

Besides the never-ending hunger for new experiences, I’ve had a thing for religion.  Growing up Catholic gave me the appreciation of rituals.  Perhaps more importantly came the appreciation of fantastically divine art and ornate stained glass windows.  Frankly, the religious aspect of Catholicism didn’t compel me to continue my practice beyond the age of about fourteen.  Since then, I’ve visited other churches, including Presbyterian, Lutheran, and Episcopalian.  I’ve participated in a Buddhist temple stay, which included the completion of 108 proper bows before most people wake up.  I’ve chanted in worship to the Hindu Lord Shiva while gazing at the flames of burning ghee and cow dung.  I have, on the inside, at times ridiculed others who seemed to take religion too seriously.  Now, here I am, the eve of a journey to a very holy city for my first experience of prayer in a mosque.  God willing. 

Out in the hallway, there are about six light switches.  Not one of them turns on the light in the shared, smelly toilet room.  Good thing the sun comes up so early these days.  Pardon me, but if I were a man, I might be tempted to piss out the window.  The adventures of solo travel end up being tests of the self.  Rather than allowing things to become bothersome, one ideally learns to be appreciative of the little things we mostly take for granted.

First morning in Tunisia

IS THAT REALLY a packet of fig jam on the breakfast tray?  I may be seated calmly in post-yoga bliss, about to enjoy my first breakfast in Tunis, but my inner being has been jumping up and down, shouting HELL YES, as the first 19 hours spent in this sunny North African country have been outstanding.  As I savor the hard roll, Arabic music videos play on the TV.  The mustached man behind the modest counter steams milk and serves out trays of rolls and cafés au lait to the steady trickle of morning diners.  In this hotel dining room, watercolor and oil paintings adorn the upper part of the walls, the lower half being tiled with geometric patterns of yellow, green, black, and white.  After 19 hours of travel from Korea to Tunisia, last night’s slumber on the yoga mat on the tiled floor was deep and refreshing… …

The seats of the Turkish Airliner were a shade of turquoise that reminded me of the freshness I had just left in Jeju.  The snack of hazelnuts and sour cherry nectar gave me the false impression that the upcoming meals might be slightly pleasing.  As I settled into my place, an aisle seat with two vacancies to the left, the air’s heavy fragrance of jasmine perfume was a prelude to the symphony of sweet, musky, floral, smoky scents that would continue to seduce my being for the hours to come.  Thankfully, the meal on the connecting flight from Istanbul passed as flavorful spicy tofu and curried potatoes.  On that flight, I was stuck in the middle.   The man to my right, who had been studying what appeared to be the script of a play in French and Arabic, fell into a deep sleep after his second cup of wine.  The Tunisian to my left enthusiastically suggested an itinerary for the next week, to include a delve into the South. 

Upon arriving, I found the airport to be clean, humble, and elegant with cool tiled floors, and quick yet non-smiling security inspectors.  I attempted to use a pay phone to call a hotel, but was unable to hear or understand anything beyond the surrounding bustle.  Of course, the reservation office only booked mid to high-range hotels, but the man kindly showed me to the bus stop, as the area was under construction.  Because of luggage, I opted for a taxi.  I checked out a driver-recommended hotel, but it was too expensive for me and too far from the center of town.  Though initially pushy, the driver appreciated my attempt at Arabic and even began speaking to me in a ridiculously proper form that I once knew so well.  There was no more English between us, and it was good.  I had him drop me in the center of town.  He asked if I knew what I was doing and pointed to the area of cheap hotels.  As I confirmed my inner compass was working, I assured him I’d be fine.  Pulling my over-stuffed suitcase, backpack in tow past the lunch peak of outdoor cafés, up and down sidewalk curbs, I was so very happy to be warmed by the Tunisian sun.

Thanks to the already useful guidebook (The Rough Guide to Tunisia), I easily found my first choice of hotels, De France.  Before the very friendly reception, the beautiful blue, white and burnt sienna patterns of the lobby’s floor tiles impressed me.  Upon opening the shutters, breezy rays of sunlight filled the room.  Perfect.  Venturing out, I walk past the square, dominated by the old Bab al Bahr (Gate of the Sea) and into the medina where the streets narrow into the meandering mazes of markets.  After making a short loop, I return to the square to sit at an outdoor café table for people watching over a cool citronade.  Eventually, I get to chatting with a Tunisian, who takes me through the winding medina to the Zaytouna Mosque where we sit on the steps. 

I head back to the hotel to meet an English Eugene who happens to be writing a book about everything, to include his experiences across the Middle East, the “ideal” form of the hermaphrodite, and surely plenty of scholarly info across the subjects of history and economics.  We go out to meet a friend of his friend, Sofeen, who turns out to be a well-spoken man who has taught Arabic in the States.  Over mint tea in a cafe, the two discuss economics, discrimination, and French colonization.  I’m open to learning, so I try to listen.  The oil painting mounted above Sofeen’s head, depicting a woman who eerily looks like Kate Moss, serves as a nice distraction.  We head for dinner and Sofeen gives me directions to a school in town that runs an English education program.  The cheese and mushroom omelet leaves me pleasantly full and I’m back to the hotel and sleeping before 11.  Alhamdulillah.

… Breakfast was simple, yet satisfying, and I’ll soon be off for a lovely walk around the capitol city…

Every moment is new

I’VE MET HIM a handful of times, but for him, each encounter is the first…

There are places I love to walk.  Even knowing an area pretty well, there is always newness that strikes me.  There are peculiarities of buildings I’ve not before noticed.  There are gardens and yards whose beauty I’d previously overlooked.  Nowadays, I’ve been winding and wandering the neighborhood with the added enjoyment of roses that are blooming everywhere in pink, red, & yellow.  They even climb the fences that line the highways that traverse this gorgeous island of farms.  

[roses in the neighborhood]

Since living in Jeju City, a particular nearby hill, Sara-bong, has been a favorite.  At least twice, and sometimes five times a week, I ascend her west side stairs, take in the summit view of Jeju City’s north coast, and descend the switchback path on the east side.  Being a regular, there are other regulars that I recognize.  There’s a man I’ve seen about a half dozen times, always walking the opposite direction.  Once, at the base of the hill, he was riding a bike.  Every time we meet, it’s the same conversation.  I’ve met him a handful of times, but for him, each encounter is the first.  As we approach each other, he slows down with a smile.  We greet each other with Good Morning or Good Afternoon.   Standing quite close now, he always says, “Can I ask you a question?”  Knowing what the question will be, I smile with, “Of course.”  It’s always, “Where are you from?”  After I tell him, he enquires about my stay in Jeju:  how long I’ve been here, and what I’m doing for work.  I’ve learned that he’s a retired elementary school teacher.   He seems to be quite healthy, possibly in his sixties, but probably in his seventies with nice aging. 

 

[flowers @ Sara-bong] 

My 84 years-young grandmother’s mind isn’t the sharpest.  She remembers who we are, and sometimes where we are, but couldn’t tell you what she just ate for lunch.  If she’s continuously asking what I’ve been up to, it’s a nice time to jog my own memory.  She might not notice me repeating myself, but I try to fish for something different, some experience I’ve not yet shared with her.

 

[looking West from Sunrise Peak, Jeju-do]

For Grandma and the retired schoolteacher, every moment is new.  Keeping that in mind, we can rid ourselves of unnecessary emotional baggage.  We can move on from people, places, and experiences.  We all have our stories, but they don’t have to dictate the present.  We can choose to listen to our hearts, to live here now, and to do anything we dream.  To stop comparing the present to the past, to take each moment as a new experience… is to live more fully, to be more aware of the beauty of this present life.  It never tires me to run into the retired schoolteacher, who greets the new moment with a new, genuine smile.  

Listening to the Heart

I could feel it contracting as it was closing in on itself.  The wide, open feeling of lightness was narrowing with each consecutive breath.  I actually felt the seed of anxiety rooting within me.  Physically, my spine must have moved from an elongated upright posture to a shorter, hunched position.  That’s when I finally realized what I must do.  How grateful I am to have had such an extreme physical reaction to the tone of someone’s voice.  It is not wise to allow the fear of hurting others cause us to falter.  Rather, it is wisdom’s voice that allows us to free our hearts from succumbing to those who fail to recognize the source of happiness.

When we realize we’re going in a direction that’s not maintaining the integrity of our authentic being, may we be grateful.  And when we have the drive (and sense) to keep following the true path ingrained in the heart, may we rejoice.

I often find myself advising others to do what makes them happy, to follow their dreams.  Just as often, I have allowed self-discipline to weaken.  When there is knowledge of self, truth, and the source of happiness, love, and light... the weakening of self-discipline leads one to lazily take the downhill offshoots of paths that aren’t the most appropriate.  The laziness conceals awareness, covering it up, veil by veil.   To kick that laziness is to re-open the eyes, heart, and breath.  To kick that laziness is to allow my body to, once again, be that beautiful channel of pure love and light.  To kick that laziness is to acknowledge and remember the Voice of the Heart.  Welcome home.    Thank you, Mearm the catalyst.  

The Gayatri Mantra

Om Bhur Bhuvah Swaha

Tat Savitur Varenyam

Bhargo Devasya Dhimahi

Dhiyo Yonaha Pracho Dayat Om.

May we meditate on the effulgent Light (or Power) 

of the Worshipful One Who Has given birth to all worlds.

May this One direct our Mind-rays towards the path of Good.

Solo night out

Ten minutes down the road, by foot, there lies the Jeju Culture and Art Center.  Dozens of times, on the way to the park or while out wandering, I’ve passed by without entering.  For the past seven months, I’ve noticed fliers for shows and exhibitions posted on boards throughout the city.  Finally, this past Tuesday, I had the chance to attend a performance that struck my fancy.  After work, I strolled down to see the Jeju Chamber Orchestra play Mozart.  The theater is quite nice and the seats are comfortable.  The cost of 10,000 won (less than 10 USD) was well worth it.  To anyone in Jeju for a little while, I highly recommend catching a show or performance at the center.  

I didn’t realize how long it’d been since I’d had the pleasure of hearing such quality musicians until the tears starting welling during the opening Overture “Die Zauberflte”.  I thought it was pretty cool that all three soloists (one horn, two pianos) were females decked out in fancy, sparkly gowns.  The icing on the cake was getting to see a French Horn solo for the first time.  Initially it sounded odd, but once I got over the strangeness of beauty in a petite Korean girl blowing into a super-shiny horn, I sat back and melted with the grandiose melodies.  

Rest & Digest

Returning to the Land of the Morning Calm, I knew what I was getting into with regards to food.  My favorite Korean staple is the Bi-Bim-Bap, a big bowl of rice, veggies, a barely fried egg, and a dollop of spicy red pepper sauce.  Mix it all together and it's a decent, filling meal.  The very spicy Soon-Do-Boo (tofu soup with egg) was another favorite during the chillier winter season.  Commonly, the food is based around either rice or noodles, much of it being peppery-spicy.  During my time here I've gotten out to taste a nice variety of foods, and have also enjoyed cooking for myself.  


Being vegetarian with an adventurous need to try new things, I'll start with the least expected.  It was early November when my Korean Aunt AeSim stopped by for a visit.  After a nice walk overlooking the sea, she and her sisters took me out for some fresh, raw, Jeju fish.  Some of it was awesome, some I didn't care for.  I'm on an island, I had to try it.  Before I leave here, I'm hoping to be in the mood for a taste of another local specialty, sea urchin soup.  The fish in the photo is, according to translation, either snapper or bream. 



Next, this salad is the first thing I threw together after our kitchen was finally in working order.  Raw tofu with little green leaves, walnuts, almonds, carrot, seaweed, olive oil, and a dash of soy sauce.



I'd never cooked pumpkin before coming to Jeju, but I've always liked everything made with it.  Discovering my deep love of this vegetable would have been reason enough for the trip out here.  Excuse the blurriness, this is steamed pumpkin with tofu, brown rice, raisins, cinnamon, and a drizzle of maple syrup. 



Just a sandwich:  tofu with garlic, spinach, and strawberries on grainy toast. 



Overall, my experiences with restaurants here have been great.  Though many restaurants specialize in meat dishes, I've had some delicious vegetarian food.  I've been to a few pure vegetarian restaurants that were outstanding.  Here's a photo of a typical Korean table spread... including the pork being cooked in the center of the table.  The variety and quantity of side dishes (including egg, vegetables, soup, & tofu stew) was enough to keep me satisfied. 



This past fall, I had the opportunity to do an overnight temple stay.  The food is pure, non-spicy vegetarian.  The three meals we ate included seaweed soup, rice, and various vegetables and tofu.  Nothing too fancy.  Here, we learned proper eating etiquette.  Take only what you will finish, wasting nothing.  Lift the bowl, take a bite, set the bowl down.  Repeat.  After eating, we had to clean out the dishes.  Not everyone tried it, but I did it the "proper way":  wipe out the dish with a sliced radish (stabbed with a chopstick), eat the radish.  Lastly, rinse out the food bowls with a bit of water, then drink the water.  Yum.  



One of the cultural activities included in the temple stay was making rice cakes.  Not the sweet/salty crunchy puffed kind you can buy at Publix.  Glutinous, chewy rice cakes coated with crushed peanut (I think that's what it was) are a traditional Korean snack/dessert.  I'm not a big fan.  They're really bland and too chewy for my taste.  Here are some monks smashing up the rice.  



For special occasions, people buy cakes.  Two common flavors here are green tea and sweet potato.  The cakes are light and airy, and usually not too sweet.  Not nearly as delicious as the cakes back home, but they always look awesome on the outside.  Here's a typical bakery cake.  At least there aren't any cherry tomatoes on this one.  


Many things around here may be flavored with green tea.  Cakes, cookies, candy, ice cream, lattes.  In Japan, we found green tea Kit Kats.  



There's also a lot of Hello Kitty.  Thanks to Jen, we can even make Kitty-head waffles.  Delicious with peanut butter & Canadian maple syrup.  



Last, but not least, Jeju's famous Hallabong (named after Jeju's Mount Halla, which the nippily-tip of the orange resembles) .   Developed in Japan, it's a sweet seedless hybrid.  They're harvested in January/February and sold through May. Hallabongs are really expensive, overhyped oranges.      



Bon appetit!