No Car, Just Karma

"Here, near, black water/

Divine is/ dangling from every branch, black water/

Swallow up our hollow fears/

Steer us on, unphased"

-MaMuse

I gazed up at the dark, rainy heavens, stars barely peaking out from coastal mist, and sobbed "thank you" to the Universe.  

As I pedaled back to my base camp, a warehouse/jewelry studio on N Street, I sang Chico duo MaMuse's "Red Bird", a song that continuously becomes more and more meaningful to me.  It is a song I played during my first pre-trip breakdown a month before my departure, as I sit on the windowsill and hyperventilated, surrounded by the overgrown plants that hugged the walls of the house I called home.  

Still, I sing it.  Without any music to listen to for the first week and a half of my trip (for no obvious reason, my mp3 player became dysfunctional 2 days before I left) I sang to myself as my primary on-bike entertainment, and often "Red Bud" left my heart through my lips.

"Faith, faith we come from miles around/

Just to hear that precious sound/

Of harmony, from the mouth of the fool"

Tonight, I sang that song again, for new and deeper reasons.

"Fool, fool who is the innocent/

Courageous words are heaven-sent, to remind/

Strike the chord while it's hot/

Lead us to that sacred spot/

Where believe it or not, we are found"

I came to Arcata less than a week ago.

I wanted to spend a little time here so that I could get to know the place so many have called 'progressive'.  I thought I would get to know its progressiveness by touring its wastewater treatment marsh, visiting the Campus Center for Appropriate Technology (CCAT), and by observing its famous plaza.

And while I did all of those things, the phone call I made on my first day here changed the shape of my week exponentially.

When I visited Humboldt County with my room mates a month ago, I came across the Northcoast Environmental Center's (NEC) office near the plaza, and saw that an event called the All Species Ball would be taking place during my stay.  

This Monday, I called NEC's volunteer coordinator, Lisa, about getting involved with NEC during my stay. She told me, "Your timing could not be better" with a mixture of surprise and glee in her voice.

I told her that I didn't intend to spend my week lazing around on the beach.  I'm not that kind of person, and I didn't decide to take a year off of school to become that person, either.  I left school because I didn't believe I was helping anyone by poring over books or regurgitating information.  I left school to learn, to grow, and to contribute wherever help is needed. (Read about a hero of mine I have yet to meet: http://www.lostvalley.org/talkingleaves/node/114)

This turned out to include participating in CCAT's Volunteer Friday for a a few hours, and helping the NEC prepare for last night's All Species Ball, in total some 20 hours of service.

For the event, a fundraiser and celebration for the environmental coalition established back in 1971, I made 2 wooden signs that ideally will be used for years with minor touch-ups, tabled at the NEC's booth at the County Fair, and because the girl originally signed up to paint kids' faces at the booth had canceled for the morning/afternoon shift, I was able to try my hand at face painting on fidgety children. Enjoying that experience, and wanting to help out at the Ball anyway, I ended up painting even more faces for several more hours, and then cleaning up and organizing from the end of the Ball til midnight when it looked like there was little left to do and I was falling asleep.

I don't know how many hours I spent painting this...

...or this one!

This was my first "customer", a girl who wanted to look like a cat.  It felt really good to see a direct relationship between my efforts and the NEC donation jar.

Cheetah.

As the evening ended, I was introduced to a member of the NEC's board I had not met before, a man with sincere eyes and it seems a good judge of character. He was interested in the person who had shown up out of the blue on a bicycle, and who had been so enthusiastically painting signs and faces.  

As I started to leave into the rainy darkness, he stopped me to ask if I had received compensation for my hard work.

I nodded towards my panniers and said I got a free loaf of leftover bread.

A slightly overwhelming conversation followed, in which I was told that my energy was noticed and appreciated.  I left with cash in my pocket that I had not asked for, had not hoped for, and felt a little guilty for accepting.  Much more importantly- exceedingly more important- I learned that the man from whom I had just received a great deal of praise (and several bills) is the president of the NEC.

Every day this week, I have come accross more reasons, arguments, and people to [almost] convince me to move to Arcata and go to Humboldt State for a degree in Art and minor in Appropriate Technology.  

Many times last night, I had to physically leave the building and run into the warm rain, sit silently alone on the gymnasium floor of the Ball and process my thoughts, or break out in a furious, ecstatic jig on the dance floor to the live music.  My emotions were simply too much to contain.

"Geez! I could just move here!"  I would suddenly half-shout, half-announce to my new friends.

"Yes, you should." I would hear in response.

But last night, I came away feeling sure.  Sure that if I came back here in April-- after WWOOFing, riding to San Francisco for Critical Mass and Halloween, speaking at a panel on the spiritual journey of bike touring at Chico State's This Way to Sustainability conference, Maya Pedal in Guatemala, and Common Vision's fruit tree tour, all as planned-- I could settle here.  By the time I left the Ball, I felt confident that I could integrate myself quickly into this community through the Kinetic Sculpture race I will likely have the honor of participating in, the cycling community, CCAT and Humboldt State, the NEC, and the best connections I could have dreamed of.

This trip- my so-called Great Escape- is not an extended vacation.  My actions have been deliberate and calculated, but also out of love.

I don't carry hand-made prayer flags and thank you cards to give to people who help me because I want to make sure I can count on those people to help me again, I give my time, my energy and my gifts to others because I feel an urgency to give back as much as I can because I have been given so much. 

"I give thanks for what is given/

All for one, to the next/

Downstream, row, row/

Row your boat, gently down/

May the circle, be unbroken/

Merry-go-round/

Again."

I feel carried by karma.  Again and again, I give and receive, so I must give back again.  It is a lot of work to try and keep ahead, but I don't believe I could be happy any other way.

"Red bird who weaves the elders' song/

Into a message nest/

We are not alone/

We are the wellspring of those who came before us/

Of theirs our voices born, their song so ancient/

Older than we can imagine/

The gift of fearless love-givers"

I am reminded once more of something I was told by a woman in Trinidad, Carol, who was offering strangers hospitality through both http://www.warmshowers.org/ (a network of bike enthusiasts on tour, and those able to host cyclists who are) and http://www.couchsurfing.org/.

I had emailed her about a place to stay on my way to and from a friend's wedding in Crescent City.  She got back to me quickly, and hers was one of many similar messages in my inbox that week, mostly from people I had never met, but who were eager to help me however they could.  Carol had even taken to sending me relevant information about Appropriate Technology and Humboldt, and went as far as trying to track down a person I had heard built elaborate solar-oven adult tricycles and the likes in Arcata.

I felt compelled to tell Carol how grateful I felt after receiving the latest batch of useful emails, including several from her.

"I have a feeling I'm going to be 'paying it forward' for years to come for all the generous offers of hospitality I've already received from [you and Sid (another Trinidad resident and my future host)]  and others.  It's great to be reminded that most people are really nice." I said.

"Realize that WE are paying it forward for generosity shown to us by others, too." she replied. 

And so the circle continues, unbroken.

_________________

I met the right people here.  I accomplished exactly what I needed to.  I made an impression on people who collectively make up a place that made an impression on me.

So this is magic...

______________

All song lyrics from "Red Bud" by MaMuse of Chico, CA.  Please visit http://www.mamuse.org/ for more on my favorite singing duo.

Correia

I hate Arcata.

It's a nearly-Utopian society nestled between some of the tallest trees on the planet and the watery edge of the world, the Pacific Ocean. People smile at you as you pass on bicycles on the road, brightly-painted hippie vans can be seen parked near curbs throughout town, people with huge backpacks and foot-long dreadlocks can be found saying their 'thank yous' and farewells at the Plaza to heavily pierced-and-tattooed lesbian couples who picked them off from whichever highway they hitched from, and I haven't seen a McDonald's or Walmart for days.

I really hate Arcata.  That's why part of me wants to move here for college.

________________________________________________________

Yesterday, as I was pedalling past the Co-op, I heard an older woman behind me squeal, "Oh, what sweet little prayer flags!" from her bike.

She was referring to the string of hand-stamped, recycled fabric scraps I had tied to the back of my panniers.  I made about 20 of them before I left home, knowing very well that I was going to receive many favors from strangers, and would want to give them something meaningful in return.

The woman, Correia, is a married mother of three girls, a former Menonite, a long-time Arcata resident, and a newly-established bicycle-commuter.  Having recently lost 50 pounds since choosing to ride instead of drive, Correia was more than a little enthusiastic about her new wheels, and was even more interested in mine.

Within five minutes of having met me, this near-stranger was inviting me to dinner, offering a place to stay, and asking if she could pay me to babysit her youngest children.

I really, really hate Arcata.

_______________________________________

I assured her that if she was serious, I would love to talk bike touring, answer her travel questions as best I could, and eat Potato Broccoli Cheddar Soup.

By the end of the evening, we had made plans to go on a bike ride and picnic at the Arcata Marsh, and were already discussing my coming to stay for the Kinetic Sculpture Race (a human-powered race of huge, ingenius, psychodelic  contraptions in the design of animals, eggplants, etc. that must be able to move over land and water) in May.

Just before I left for the night, I gave them a prayer flag for their home.  In Nepal, these flags represent compassion and peace, and fly from homes and rocks in the mountains.  I know that this is a home that represents those ideals, too.

You're killing me, Arcata.  It's hard to feel so blessed.

Give, Receive, Give, Receive...

Aware of the location of both machete and pepper spray, I looked at the three middle-aged men whom I had just met, and who had just agreed to drive me the 150 miles from Redding to Eureka.

"I told my mother I wouldn't get in the car with a bunch of guys, but you seem nice enough... Mind if I text message a friend your license plate number?" I asked with forced confidence.  Seconds later, we were heaving Salsa's heavy rear end into the RV, the vehicle still dusty with the traces of Burning Man desert.

This is how adventures start.

__________________________

I had been trying to hitch a ride all day, starting at one gas station, moving to another, then back to the first when the phrase "no loitering" was uttered.  I found a homeless man digging through the trash behind one of the food marts, and asked if he had found any cardboard I could use for my sign.  We decided that the plastic-wrapped piece he pulled out immediately was perfect: no traces of rotting meat or diaper anywhere. Excellent.

I paid him with a squished bagel.

Determined to figure it out myself, but not become the headline of the local news ("21-Year-Old Female Bicycle Tourist Does Not Notice Bloody Pick-Axe on Front Seat; 25 Other Reasons Not To Hitchhike") my goal was to find a ride with a couple of women, a family, or a van full of hippies.

I was really counting on those hippies.

But the hippies did not come, and it got later and later.  I didn't want to appear (or become) desperate, so I barely asked anyone, and instead sat in the shade observing potential rides and drawing and painting a redwood tree to pass the time, which a sweet older lady bought off me.  

I rejected the 20-something-aged guys in a tiny car who seemed a little too interested in helping me out.  I even rejected the lady with a kid and a truck who would have taken me somewhere near Weaverville, and the single man who had space for my bike, a pleasant smile, and only good vibes.

And still I waited.

Finally, I rode further up the 299 and came across the three men with dusty bikes and a flat tire on their RV. 
Going by their Burning Man alter-ego names Kava-Mar, Flaco and Choco, brothers and friends heading to McKinleyville, took to calling me "Bluebird", and wouldn't accept my offer to help with gas.  I asked if they would accept a painting to commemorate their trip instead.

So I made them this, drawn and painted almost entirely in a moving vehicle between snacks, conversation, and long dreamy glances out the window at the passing scenery.

While I kept an eye on the guys, I knew they were trustworthy somewhere between when I overheard a discussion in the front seats about the biological makeup of antelope horns, and the one about the pros and cons of medical marijuana cooperatives.

And, because giving me a safe ride across the mountains wasn't helpful enough, they got me as far down the dirt road to my destination that night as they physically could.

Give, receive, give receive...

And there at the end of my ride, as if waiting to pick me up from my drop-off point, was a large and friendly black dog.  He seemed to have an old soul, and reminded me immediately of the dog I saw with my room mate, Meagan, 2 nights before I left.  We likened that dog in Chico to Sirius Black in the Harry Potter series; a protective godfather in disguise.

I heard someone whistling for the dog in the distance, but that dog didn't budge.  As I frantically packed my things back onto my bike by the dim light of my headlamp, I was more than thankful for that furry, panting guardian by my side.

I know there are more angels of sorts following me as I go. People at home, people where I go, animals that sense our needs, and trees that provide shade. I feel protected.  I feel grateful.

Give, receive, give, receive...