The Supertramp Dissilusionment (13 February 2010)

“Wipe him down with gasoline, ‘til his arms are hard and mean.”  -Tom Waits

I would like to be seen as stoic, unwavering and strong.  I can’t help but admire Hemmingway’s doomed, heroic Santiago when he shrugs off his suffering and tells himself, “Pain is nothing to a man.”  Doesn’t everyone feel that way?  No matter how adapted I have become to the idea that it’s natural and good to express feelings (and I acknowledge that perhaps I have not yet adapted that much), I want to be seen, at the very least, as “taking it well”.  Whether the pain is physical or, the embarrassing other option, emotional,  I catch myself telling an acquaintance my problems or discomforts, detect a note of self-pity in my own voice, and hasten to finish up with some variation of “but I’m not complaining…” when of course I am.  And although I’ve found myself compelled to complain less often since the uncomfortable fact of the developing world’s abject poverty began staring me in the face day after day, those realities weren’t able to dislodge the self-image that I secretly cherished:  Highway Child, Ramblin’ Man, Alexander Supertramp, alone but not lonely, strong, resourceful, bearing poverty with grace and discomfort with indifference.  It took a week in Samibhanjang to dispel that ridiculous delusion.  As far as delusions go, it was a pleasant one while it lasted.      

My Buwa is 60 years old and spends his days hauling firewood over mountains, slaughtering goats and splitting bamboo with a scythe in order to weave the strands into rope.  He is lean, muscular, leather skinned, and has the proverbial thousand-yard-stare of a man who has taken the best beating the world can give and is still standing.  If it came to it, in a scrap, I am certain that I would not want to tangle with him.   My Meng is around the same age but looks older, although her build is also slim and hard.  Her jaw has a curious deformity that makes it look like she is chewing tobacco while trying to kiss someone.  She roars with laughter constantly when she is not shouting with stern authority at her husband or neighbors. Although I’m pretty sure I could take her in a fight, I’m not sure I’d relish the chance to prove it.  The Veteran still carries fifty pounds of rice over the rocks at age 91.  He wears army fatigues, walks with his back bent at an eighty degree angle, his head tipped back awkwardly to see forward, his face bearing the ugly scar - his badge of courage - from a Japanese bullet.  The list is endless.  My 14 year old companion races ahead of me with five gallons of water on his shoulder while I struggle to keep up empty handed.  I pass a woman who appears to be 110 years old shuffling along at about 3 inches per step, barefoot, in the icy rain, determined to get wherever it is she’s going, and then I find out a few days later that she’s mostly blind.  All of these people seem endowed with a hardness of body and mind, an ability to casually dismiss suffering that I assume can only be forged in the fire of unforgiving necessity.  I would envy them if I had the balls to do what was required to emulate them.  

It's a humbling thing to realize that I'm not as much of a badass as I imagined, but it's useful.   It’s definitely a worthy goal to try to develop in myself just a little of the toughness that comes so naturally to my hosts and neighbors.  And although I may never reach the level of iron-jawed stoicism innately present in these men and women, I can still content myself with the reality, even if the delusion is dead.  The reality is that I’m getting better - more at ease with myself and the world, more ready to walk over a mountain in the dark, struggle through a conversation in Nepali, or wash my clothes in a bucket – every day, a little bit at a time.  It’s not the goal, it’s just a place on the way, and it’s enough for now.