But as I adapted to life in a village that was three mountains and two landslides away from the nearest electric light, true culture shock came on like the succession of seasons, some mild and quite comfortable, others turbulent and intensely distorting. I passed through season after season, making friends, learning the language, becoming a Buddhist, falling in love. By the time I married my Bhutanese husband in the Thimphu District Court, Bhutan was home (and more than home, it was a dream and a kind of love). It was only when I visited Canada that I experienced the jarring, sickening, bottoming-out that comes from being lost in a foreign place.
But as I leave Bhutan this time, I know I am returning not to Canada-for-a-six-week-visit but to Canada-for-good. And this time, I will be ready for the phenomenon experts call reverse culture shock: the despair at the material excess and crying-shame wastefulness of North American society, the noise and unrelenting rush, the complete inability of family and friends to understand where you’ve been and what you’ve seen and how wonderful it all was, blah blah blah. Bring it on, I will say. Let’s go to the mall and get this over with.
I expect it to last a while, and so in the beginning, I am patient with my disorientation. But months and months later, I still cannot bear to think of the place I have lost, which was home and more than home (it was a kind of home in a dream of love). All the brightness and depth are gone from my days, as well as the raggedy, unregulated edges of life in Bhutan—unexpected stops, haphazard journeys, the kindness of strangers, the thousands of things still to be discovered and learned, and wordless connection in the most unfamiliar places. Now there are only flat, dull, polished surfaces, reflecting nothing. I take myself off to see a therapist. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say. I explain that it’s taking too long, it should have been over months ago. “It feels like grief,” I say.
She says, “It is grief.”
I meet a friend who has just returned to New York after eight years in Africa. She moves slowly and stiffly, like a victim of trauma. “Every view out of every window at home and at work is of one brick wall or another,” she says. “How did you get through this?” I realize then that coming home is a long and very slow journey, and in my mind’s eye, I see where I’ve been the last year and a half, since I returned. I would describe it like this: you get off the plane in your home country and get in your car and start driving. The view is dismal. All you can see are industrial estates and smokestacks and car parks. That’s not all there is, but it’s all you can see: grey sky, grey earth. Piles of smoking garbage, rusted metal. It’s apocalyptic. Then, after months of driving through this wasteland, you hit a brick wall. A drab brick wall a thousand feet high in the middle of nowhere, and at eye level there is a sign. At last! A message! You get out of your car to read it. It says YOU ARE HERE.
You stand at the wall, waiting. Maybe the sign will say something else? Maybe it will scroll down and the next message will say YOU ARE HERE BUT NOT FOR LONG. Maybe it will turn into a door, and you will open it and walk through and be standing on the verge of blue mountains under a darkening sky. But it does not scroll down or change into a door. You give up and get back into the car. And now what?
You’ve come all this way to hit a brick wall, read a sign, and now you have to drive through the whole thing again. Because the first time you passed through it, you were thinking, “I do not belong here. I don’t know where I am, but I am not home.” The first time you passed through it, you thought you were on your way out. Now you know where you are (YOU ARE HERE) but this doesn’t mean you are home yet.
After hitting the brick wall, I decide I need a more scenic route on this return journey back into my own country. I start with northern Ontario, which I claim to be from and yet know little about. Pema and I visit family and friends from Sault Ste. Marie to Temagami, but it is somehow not scenic enough. In fact, I have forgotten that I am supposed to be finding a way back in and have begun once again to look for a way out. With a child and a tiny budget, though, the options are limited. On the train north, my son asks me to tell him again why we are going to Moosonee. Because it is part of our province, I say, and it will be interesting and we should see it. But the real reason is I am hoping that I will find a beauty equal to the lost beauty of Bhutan, and the wildness and wilderness that all travellers seek when they leave home. Really, I am seeking the secret passageway out.
The train barrels through the night. Cramped in my seat, I search for a dark seam of sleep, waking frequently to see street lights shining into an empty parking lot. No wildness yet, but toward dawn, I open my eyes and see, very briefly, an orange moon sinking into an inky lake.
Of course, Moosonee is nothing at all like Bhutan. It is all long, low land and dark lines, water mixed into sky, and land mixed into water, black spruce and bush. We walk around Moose Factory Island, visit a church that once floated away, pick up fossils on the shore, and motor up the Moose River to the mouth of James Bay, where I listen, astounded (although surely this cannot be the first time I am hearing it), to the story of Henry Hudson’s tragic end: After surviving the winter trapped in the ice of James Bay, he refused to turn the ship toward England and forced his starving crew to sail around and around the bay, looking for a way out. Not a way home but a way out. A non-existent secret passageway. Finally the crew mutinied. They put Hudson, his young son and a few loyal followers onto a boat and cut them loose. The crew sailed back to England, and Henry Hudson, his son and his friends were never heard from again. It is a terrible, haunting story in a wild and beautiful landscape, and I wonder why we always think there is nothing left to be discovered or told or learned at home.
My son is not sure what to make of the place. Outside the church that now has holes in the floor to allow it to fill with water instead of rising up and drifting off, someone asks him where he’s from. He says the Himalayas. Then he looks around and shakes his head. “Well,” he says. “I never thought I’d end up here.” Neither did I, I have to admit, but that’s the beauty of it, right there.
Jamie Zeppa’s memoir, Beyond the Sky and the Earth: A Journey into Bhutan, won the Banff Mountain Book Festival Award for Adventure Travel Writing. She won a Canadian Literary Award in 1996, and her letters from Bhutan were featured on CBC’s Morningside. She lives in Toronto with her son.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Working on AWOL has been a dream project come true. Thanks especially to the wonderful writers. We were incredibly lucky to work with you. To Amy: working with you has been an inspiration in itself. Thanks for being as clever and full of life as you are, and for making this so much fun.
Warmest personal thanks to Gav, great travel comrade, partner and friend; your love, support and brilliant ideas have meant so much. Deep thanks to Mum and Dad for giving me a love of travel and of books, for interest and encouragement, and for everything else; and to Duncan, adventurous and super-smart brother, for the good times in London. Thanks to Nana for coming to Canada and going snowshoeing.
For advice and ideas and help, many thanks also to Bryn Garrison, Cleo Paskal, Marq de Villiers, Greg Ioannou, Sam Hiyate, Patrick Hinchey, Gord Laird, Peter Padley, Meg Taylor and Bruce Westwood. Thanks to John Langford and Voyageur Quest for helping me stay sane and solvent during the editing. Thanks also to the amazing writers whose stories we couldn’t use—we hope to have another chance in the future.
Finally, a huge thank you to Rox, Anne, Paul t., Pamela, Stacey and all the other brilliant people at Vintage Canada/Random House Canada for going AWOL with us, giving wise and stimulating feedback, invaluable promotion and generous support.
Jennifer Barclay
Co-editing this book has been one of the most fulfilling and gorgeous experiences of my life thus far. For this reason, I need to thank the following people: The ever-remarkable Jennifer Barclay for the absolute joy of sharing the giddiness, hard work and growing wisdom of this project with her. The brilliant writers involved with AWOL in all or some of its various stages; it has been an honour
to work with each of them. Susan Roxborough and Anne Collins for that first AWOL meeting that made me hyper for days, and for their unwavering commitment and guidance from there on in. Paul t. brooks, Pamela Murray and all the wise, wonderful people at Vintage Canada/Random House Canada who have had or will have a hand in this book’s growth. Bill Douglas for his dedication and his mind-blowing sense of design and style—I actually danced when I saw his plans for AWOL. Gavin Mills, who was there from the very first AWOL porch conversation.
Sacha Gatien for instinctively knowing when I needed a break from my triple schedule. Nikki Pearson, our “big picture” talks have been invaluable, keeping all possibilities open. The WW women, Maurice and Cynthia Gatien, and Sam Hiyate for extra-special enthusiasm. Christine and Harry Brown and Edward Milton for Scotland-based hurrahs. Michael Holmes for love, insight and partnership throughout madcap times. Faye Logan for magical sisterly understanding that centres me. Finally, for the unconditional love and support of Robert and Ellen Logan throughout both my work on this book and all my life adventures, I have deeper gratitude than I have the words to properly express.
Amy Logan
Barrett, Nikki, “The Growing Season.” Copyright © 2003 Nikki Barrett
Basu, Arjun, “How I Learned to Love Scotch.” Copyright © 2003 Arjun Basu
Bennett, Jonathan, “Headlands.” Copyright © 2003 Jonathan Bennett
Buday, Grant, “Exit Permit.” Copyright © 2003 Grant Buday
Burgess, Tony, “With My Little Eye.” Copyright © 2003 Tony Burgess
Chiose, Simona, “Chickens, Girls and Ruins.” Copyright © 2003 Simona Chiose
Connelly, Karen, “Broken Heaven, Broken Earth.” Copyright © 2003 Karen Connelly
Dunford, Warren, “Off-Season in Puerto Vallarta.” Copyright © 2003 Warren Dunford
Gardiner, Scott, “My First Brothel.” Copyright © 2003 Scott Gardiner
Gibb, Camilla, “Her Eyes Follow.” Copyright © 2003 Camilla Gibb
Gough, Laurie, “Monks on Mopeds.” Copyright © 2003 Laurie Gough
Govier, Katherine, “Where the Birds Are.” Copyright © 2003 Katherine Govier
Grainger, James, “The Last Hippie.” Copyright 2003 James Grainger
Heighton, Steven, “The Drunken Boat.” (Text and illustration) Copyright © 2003 Steven Heighton
Jarman, Mark Anthony, “Penetrating Europe-Land.” Copyright © 2003 Mark Anthony Jarman
Kelly, Deirdre, “Close Encounters of the Euro-Trash Kind.” Copyright © 2003 Deirdre Kelly
Kostash, Myrna, “Looking for Demetrius.” Copyright © 2003 Myrna Kostash
Lawless, Jill, “Aftershock.” Copyright © 2003 Jill Lawless
Maddocks, Rick, “Bus Ride to Big Jesus.” Copyright © 2003 Rick Maddocks
Maharaj, Rabindranath, “The Tea House on the Mountain.” Copyright © 2003 Rabindranath Maharaj
Manicom, David, “Up the Holy Mountain (and Down by Cable Car).” Copyright © 2003 David Manicom
Massey-Garrison, Nick, “We Turned Some Sharp Corners: A Marriage Proposal in Durango.” Copyright ©
2003 Nick Massey-Garrison. This story has appeared, in different form, in Cycle Canada.
Meiklem, Gillian, “A Lesson in Dance.” Copyright © 2003 Gillian Meiklem
Pyper, Andrew, “A Brazilian Notebook.” Copyright © 2003 Andrew Pyper Enterprises Inc.
Redhill, Michael, “On the Road to San Rocco a Pilli.” Copyright © 2003 Michael Redhil
Shields, Sandra, “Station Road.” Copyright © 2003 Sandra Shields
Smith, Brad, “Local Rules.” Copyright © 2003 Brad Smith
Umezawa, Rui, “Photographs.” Copyright © 2003 Rui Umezawa
Unwin, Peter, “Incident at Rankin Inlet.” Copyright © 2003 Peter Unwin
Wearing, Alison, “The Motherhood Roadshow.” Copyright © 2003 Alison Wearing
Wilkins, Charles, “Two Days in Dallas.” Copyright © 2003 Charles Wilkins
Winter, Michael, “Two Drawings.” (Text and illustrations) Copyright © 2003 Michael Winter
Woodcock, Patrick, “The Ballet of Patrick Blue-Ass.” Copyright © 2003 Patrick Woodcock
Zeppa, Jamie, “Coming Home.” Copyright © 2003 Jamie Zeppa
And gone …
VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2003
Collection and Introduction Copyright © 2003 Jennifer Barclay and Amy Logan
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, in 2003. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Vintage Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House of Canada Limited.
Eveery reasonable effort has been made to trace ownership of copyright materials. Information enabling the Publisher to rectify any reference or credit in future editions will be welcomed.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
AWOL: tales for travel-inspired minds / edited by Jennifer Barclay and Amy Logan.
eISBN: 978-0-307-36841-6
1. Voyages and travels. I. Barclay, Jennifer II. Logan, Amy
G465.A86 2003 910.4 C2002-904567-3
www.randomhouse.ca
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