A Walker in the Suburbs

Yesterday I couldn’t stop taking pictures. Today I have at least 25 photos of the same vista. It was the photographic equivalent of drinking it in. I couldn’t sit and absorb the beauty then and there so I snapped shot after shot to do it later.

Today, I’m in the midst of great scenery but with the chance to hike into it. But before taking off I had to download the photographs, look at them and conjure up the sights we saw yesterday. The Grand Tetons, some of the youngest mountains on the continent; jagged, snow-topped peaks. Alpine meadows for contrast, easy on the eye. A cold, clear lake.

What to say? Only that sometimes it’s enough just to know such splendor exists.

Yesterday I was in three time zones, two airplanes, two cars, one bus and the tail end of a tropical storm. I landed in God’s country.

Tall firs reaching to heaven. A mountain pass that made my ears pop. Blue, blue skies. Motorists that allow safe following distances. And, at the end of the road, the town of Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

The air was delicious, the scenery divine.  We thought we’d walk to town to stay awake. How long, I asked the desk clerk. Twenty minutes, she chirped.

You know how this story goes. It was double that. But with the good luck that can sometimes befall the hapless traveler, we found a free shuttle bus that brought us home.

We had ice cream for dinner. We haven’t eaten a real meal in 40 hours. But we are here, on the road to Montana. Next stop, Big Sky!

Starting today I’ll be trading tree canopy for big sky, hot and humid for crisp and cool, Eastern Daylight for Mountain Time.

It’s been a while since I’ve been out west, and sitting in my living room now, with still some packing left to do, it hardly seems possible I’ll be there this time tomorrow.

But I’m already seeing the vast expanses, buttes in the distance, red rocks and sage. I’m already tasting the air out there, and feeling the altitude in my lungs and head.

The walking may be slower but the views go on forever.

The motions of weeding are simple: Reach, grab, pull and throw to the side. The question is whether you perform this operation standing up, kneeling or sitting down. Given the buggy nature of the territory, given the topography of my garden (the weeds are scattered across a wide area rather than concentrated in one patch), I decided the other day to weed while standing.

This entailed not just standing, of course, but bending and straightening. And bending and straightening. And bending and straightening. And … you get the picture: Now I can barely bend or straighten at all!

Which brings to mind not just the weakness of my flesh but also the posture of Africa. My visit last winter was brief but long enough to see that the average Beninese spends much of his or her time bending over to wash clothes, sweep or tend a fire.

The Africans I met have no need of exercise classes or Fitbits. No “Absession” or “Buns, Hips and Thighs” for them. They walk to the pump, tote the water, pound the yams. They bend and crouch and stoop all day long. And when they wake up the next day, they have no trouble getting out of bed — if they have a bed to get out of, that is.

In Benin, West Africa, more than four and a half million people were expected to cast votes in the parliamentary elections held last Sunday.

Land borders were closed during the election, and Suzanne has been on “steadfast,” which is another way of saying “lock down.” She can’t leave her post, which in her case this year is the capital but which for many Peace Corps volunteers is a tiny village.

I read that yesterday an observer from the African Union declared Benin’s elections to be “transparent” though with some “organizational challenges.” I can only imagine. Benin has been independent only since 1960, and there are coups and one-party elections in its not-so-recent past.

A reminder of what fair elections mean to all free people — and a reminder of the marvelous and somehow workable chaos of that beautiful country.

We have family visiting from Portland, and they’ve brought with them the energy of the tourist. Up before dawn to wait in line for the Supreme Court. Out in the evening to sample a hot new restaurant.

Days crammed with sights and monuments — the Magna Carta and the Constitution; the Washington Monument and the Vietnam War Memorial; Ford’s Theater and the Holocaust Museum.

What a gift they are to weary residents!  We who too often see tourists as annoying people who dally at street corners and stand on the left hand side of the escalators. Move it people. We’re important. We must rush to the office where we’ll — hmmm — let’s see …  What will we do at the office that’s more important than ambling the streets of this stately city, letting its wonders unfold before us?

Travelers may think they’re only lugging laptops and suitcases. But they also bring with them the gift of perspective. They help us see our place as a new place.

(The view outside my office, seen from a new perspective.)

Too cold for me here. I’m going back to Africa. Not just for the hot sun and the balmy breezes, but for the colorful, always-summery cotton fabrics.

No more wool sweaters, high turtlenecks, thick socks. No more layers. I’ll live in the land of eternal heat with a pagne to cover me. Before I visited Benin, I never knew how versatile two meters of cloth could be, how from them you can fashion a headscarf, a skirt, a towel or a baby sling.

Because I visited during the dry season, the African landscape was mostly brown. The color came from the clothes. Not just the women’s but the men’s too. Bold patterns, bright hues, unusual combinations — I was filled with joy just looking at a street corner or a market, seeing the swirl of colors gathered there. And remembering them now warms me up completely.

Metro delays this morning, temperature in the teens.  Time for a virtual vacation. Today’s trip is to  Tanougou Falls, which the locals (and all French-speaking, I believe) call chutes.

We pulled up tired, dusty, minds still reeling from Parc Pendjari and the close-up view of baboons, elephants and what turns out to have been a young cheetah. Our van was almost snagged on the rutted, rocky road to the small restaurant and souvenir stand that guards the entrance to the falls.

We were immediately surrounded by a staff of willing guides. It was a short walk to the first falls, picturesque but small. Many eager hands to lead the way. But no, said the guides, this was just the beginning. There’s another chute ahead, up and over those boulders.

One of our party said no go, her knees were sore. I waited a bit, sized up the endeavor. There was a scramble over rocks that were under water, but the more I looked the more I thought I could do it. “Tres facile,” said one guide. “Be careful,” said another.

When I nodded yes, Mr. “Tres Facile” took one hand and Mr. “Be Careful” took another. It was perfect. The push toward adventure, cautiously approached. Each step was carefully chosen and pointed out: “Ici … ici … tres facile … be careful.”

And before long we were there, Tanougou Falls. A perfect bowl of a setting, water deep enough to swim in. Gorgeous chute, angling, spilling, gleaming. Idyllic, except for one problem — I had to get back.

But I did, of course, thanks to Mr. Tres Facile and Mr. Be Careful, who were rightly rewarded for their toil.