blazing out of latin america

after cuba, i swung back through mexico for a sweet bit of this and a strange bit of that, and am now heading back to thailand.

where the journey started, there shall it end.

okay, i was wrong. no one is happy.

idealism has its place. i apply it liberally, seeing no better alternative than finding the beauty in something, or believing in the potential of what anything could be.

when i arrived to cuba, idealism came easily. there was color, music, dancing, and a spirit i mistook for celebratory.

but i was wrong. no one is really happy.

color and personality aside, the combination of poverty with the lack of almost any sort of freedom has a stranglehold on the lives of possibly the entire cuban population.

we tourists are able to romanticize it only because of the captivating nature of the cuban spirit, expressed through their culture of street life, music and dance.

one can easily choose to see the smiling faces and shining eyes, the seductive charm, the sexy, empowered way cubans carry themsleves. and one would be right. but these qualities have survived despite the daily reality of the cuban experience; a reality of extremely difficult and opressed lives, struggling to make it work every single day.

poverty is endemic. all official jobs are nationalized, and the wages are not enough to live off.most can afford food. but clothes, transport and the most basic appliances or equipment, they cannot.

everything is old and broken, and when a TV, or a stereo, or a fan breaks, people have to save up in order to fix it. i met many people who had never taken a two hour ride to a neighbouring town, because they could not afford the bus fare.

there are limits on energy usage, and there are often outages. one curious requirement is that cubans do not watch overseas tv channels, just in order to save electricity, of course.

i had lunch with one cuban family, who fed me abundantly and deliciously, and then apologized that i couldn't wash my hands because they wouldn't have running water until the next day, probably.

another small girl loved my boots, and asked where they were from. when i told her, she nodded politely, and proudly told me that she too would be getting new shoes, in february.

many waiters make less in a month than we spend on a meal. and there is a mini-fast food industry consisting of dripping pizzas and hotdogs being sold from street windows for $0.20 cents a pop, to provide quick affordable meals for cubans on the street.

and while it is true that the cuban education system is exemplary, and that doctors from russia still come to cuba for their training, after years of excellent education, cubans can't use it to find a good job or earn a decent living.

as one cuban told me, “we must find jobs within our jobs”, which means that whatever they do officially, they have to find ways to make more on the side.

i can't post pictures here of my spanish or dance teachers, because by giving me private classes, they risked losing their official jobs, getting fined, or arrested.

i met one journalism student who ran a radio show and gave guided tours of his town on the side. i asked him where i could buy vitamins, and he said he didn't know much about tourist shops because cubans have their own separate shops they have to go to, so tourists don't see how little is actually available to them.

"cuba is not for cubans any more," he said.

some said that while under the USSR's wing, life was better. they could afford milk and fuel, there was more electricity, and stores had shelves with some stock on them. but dependence was the opposite of what Socialism had promised them, so when the USSR collapsed and took cuban social progress with it, people had a very rude awakening.

since then, propaganda has replaced progress. and there is something almost juvenile about the way cubans have to pretend to believe in a system that is so obviously not working.

dissent is so illegal that the entire surface layer of cuban culture has become a blanket disguise for how people really feel.

cubans live in pretence that they believe what they're being told. and i was shocked to see the extent to which they are trapped, without any outlets, within a web of enforced reality.

it is not only freedom of expression that is dangerous, but even freedom of opinion.

neighbors help each other to survive in every way, but are simultaneously paranoid of each other, hiding aspects of their lives that could get them into trouble. this paranoia, it seems, is warranted. after a while, there really is the sensation of everything being watched, everything being known.

security guards at hotels where i only use the internet, knew where i lived, and where i liked to eat. the owner of my casa would know everything i said to the owner of another casa blocks away, and so on.

a couple times in swarming salsa clubs, under cover of darkness, i quietly borrowed a single chair from an empty table (there are never enough chairs or tables in clubs). without fail, 15 or 20 minutes later, whenever the chair is needed, security walks directly over to me, wherever i am, however far away, and asks for the chair returned.

i met some people shooting a secret documentary about african culture in cuba. twice people whom they were about to interview, or were working with, suddenly got arrested. the crew were sure they were being followed.

most shocking to me, however, were the limits on movement and self-determination.

cubans are not permitted to leave cuba. even if they had the money, which most don't, they can not travel. exceptions are made for government approved work, or approved vacations, which are both very difficult to get.

cubans cannot move houses. if they do want to relocate, they must swap houses with another person who also wants to move, and pay offs must be made. moving house is a very rare, and complex, thing.

while the spirit on the street is in many ways upbeat, cubans have almost no human right to self determination. they don't decide where they live, what they experience, how much to work, where they want to go, what they want to say, or even which feelings they are allowed to express.

the things they do have a right to, such as travel within cuba, or enjoy basic appliances and comforts, they often can't afford.

checkers with plastic bottle tops

the u.s. embargo has given fidel's government something to blame for all this, but the people i spoke to feel that while this is partly true, it is also largely an excuse.

(excuse or not, the embargo continues to cause immense suffering amongst the population, while politically achieving nothing i can identify. surely, if the u.s. really wants to isolate someone, there are more dangerous countries than cuba to do it to? to me, the embargo is a farce and a crime.)

i asked one man whether cubans want democracy. “we don't know”, he answered. “we don't know what it means. maybe it is good, maybe it is bad. we don't know.”

“okay, so what do the cuban people want?” i asked. again he answered the same thing: “many people don't know. they are neutral. they don't have any information to trust.”

cubans have never known anything but occupation. first the spanish, then the english, then the americans, then dependence on russians, and now on the venezuelans. they have been made many promises, but none have been kept, or not for long. self-determination has never been, in reality, part of the deal.

and yet, my idealized initial posts were also somehow true true. cuban culture is vibrant, and the cubans themselves have a deeply joyous attitude towards life.

having lost their revolutinary idealism, having lost faith in the promises of patrons, and having rejected negativity as not joyful enough to contain their vibrant spirit... the cuban continue do as they have always, throughout all their hardships, done...

get together, eat, play music, and dance. that's the part most tourists like to see. and by

focusing as much as they can on this as well, cubans keep their lives rich, their hearts open, their blood hot, and their dancing shoes sweaty.

idealism may not come as easily to cubans as it does to me. but in the spirit of cuba, it has its place. and applied liberally, cuban life still is, very very much, worth celebrating.

insomnia and chickens: bad combination

insomnia is a horrible, evil kind of torture. from where does it come, why?

i arrived in havana 14 days ago. one night, somewhere in the middle, i slept well. for the rest, every day, i wake up in the morning a little more tired than the morning before.


for the first week, i don't pay much attention. everything is new and interesting, and i have major salsa fever. i am happy to spend as many hours as my body can on the streets.


but then i got tired, and wanted to sleep, and couldn't. and things started to change.

in the morning, i am dragging. the sound of drilling starts sometimes at 7 a.m. if not that, it's people pouring out of their cramped apartments into the streets, and yelling things at each other from hundreds of balconies. children going to school. dogs screaming about their hard lives. cars honk in a 1960s kind of way. i'm in maze of sound. and for the insomniac, a maze of aggravation.


i didn't realize until 3 hours ago that i had insomnia.

the last three nights, i have been out until 3 a.m. dancing to truly incredible salsa bands. in addition to the good hearted local encounters, this has been my main respite: my dance classes, and the salsa clubs.

when i dance, i get my energy back for a while. i feel joyful and focused. nothing bothers me. and when i step back out onto the streets later, i feel wonderful. happy to be in the middle of this madness.

and i am fully aware that while i am just a visitor here, the people around me can never leave. my mornings of feeling trapped are just feelings. for the cuban people, being trapped is an absolute reality.


so, back to the last three nights. i get home late, beyond exhausted. no more morning spanish classes, so I am sure that i will sleep through the noise now, just sink into relaxation.

instead, i wake up before the noise starts. exactly five hours after falling asleep.

and that's it. by the time the noise kicks in an hour later, i am disbelieving. no technique i know has worked to put me back into R.E.M. i've lost the battle for another night.

the noise mixes with the tiredness, it's making me crazy. ironically, the only way to make it stop is to get up and walk into those streets, surround myself totally with the noise. from the heart of it, i desensitize myself.

the next night, the same thing happens. i have a morning to sleep in, and i can't.

the next day, yesterday, i can't take it anymore. an opportunity arises, and i jump into a cab to the country side. pinar del rio. a beautiful province in western cuba.

i will sleep there, and walk. and reconnect with where i am. Cuba. an amazing place i have become too tired to appreciate.


45 minutes into the cab ride i am absorbing nature, listening to silence. i feel relief. and happiness at being where i am. i can almost forget everything else.


i believ i will sleep well in the rural silence waiting for me. so last night, i have my usual high energy, and don't get to bed until midnight.

... cut to now.

3 hours ago, at 5 a.m., i wake up.

5 minutes later, i am still awake. 10 minutes, more awake than before.

15 minutes. shit. i don't believe it.

then, just before 6 a.m., the roosters start. it's now almost 8, and they haven't stopped. at one point, i felt every animal for miles was yelling in my ear. for HOURS they haven't stopped. they don't fucking stop. just yelling and yelling and yelling.


in the distance across the valley, hundreds call. on my street tens answer. the dogs join in, maybe telling them to shut up as well. it doesn't work. it's endless.
now the cars have started, even out here. the birds are awake. the sun is up. this night, too, is a lost cause.

the toilet paper in my ears had done nothing for me. i feel like an unhappy zombie.

i am here for one more night, looking for rest.

maybe tonight. i will get into bed early.

tomorrow morning i will buy a ticket to mexico, for the day after. i have to go somewhere where there are no chickens.

please please please, they have to have tickets.

and i am no longer a vegetarian. i've decided that from now on, i will ONLY eat chicken. starting with breakfast. fuck'em.

i'm getting dressed, and going out into the loud, loud world.

Hot Salsa Teacher: Check

Mayte, my a.m. dance technician, is bringing me to meet Eugenio, my p.m. dance stylist.

As I push open the half-jammed door of the Casa de la Tango on a totally Cuban block off the tourist beat, the first thing i notice is a human skull with one plastic eyeball.

The next is a wall, yellow with age, displaying Tango dance greats frame to frame, ceiling to waste, along the length of the room.

All that in two blinks.

The third blink reveals Eujenio.

Deep Lindt brown eye-puddles smile at me from midway up a linoleum staircase, where the shining the brown orbs that are his shoulders lean casually on faded jeans, adorning legs carved by god and salsa.

His lack of obvious ego, and my seriousness about learning salsa, quickly creates an easy connection without motives. Our bodies, for their part, are learning to communicate with each other in dance, nurtured also by patience, and a sense of humor.

Eugenio is fantastic instructor, capable of joy in the small things. I love the direction he's taking me in.

That most basic of rooms, those two crackling speakers – one of which died today – and Eujenio's total presence. I am really doing it now, dancing salsa in Havana.

I am also aware that for the small group of cubans who have adopted me, I am somewhat of a project. They've simply decided, without saying a word, to help me stop being a white girl and get Cuban.

This most abstract of dreams, is quite physical now.

I leave the Casa de la Tango beaming with music and heart, and high, totally high, on nothing at all.

The Happiness Delusion

So i asked you guys if there is anything you want me to blog about. Got this right away... (This is fun. Send more!)

I would like to know about how to hold on to the feeling of happiness/contentedness, and not get used to it, and then expect more to keep feeling that way.

Funny that i would receive that one, as despite my continuous efforts to put teachings on this into practice, it remains mainly an intellectual exercize – my heart still wants, and wants.

But of course, I understand that the question isn't really to me, but to the universe. So on behalf of the universe, i'll give it a go...

Maybe it's best to break out the question into three parts:

1. Happiness vs. Contentendess

Personally I feel that happiness and contentedness are two totally separate things. And while contedness leads to happiness, happiness does not return the favor.

Happiness on its own is a hungry thing. It needs to be fed. Usually it comes from a high of some sort... an injection of something desired.

Happiness is a celebration of the heart. An experience of life as we want it to be; or of ourselves as we want to feel. It is also, in its hidden layers, a form a relief.

Unlike happiness, Contentedness, in its nature, is not reactionary. It comes through learning to be at peace with the way things already are. Contentedness doesn't contain the hunger happiness does. It is a calm thing, because it has less expectations.

Contentedness gives us space to appreciate all the things around us. By not depending on any one thing, it removes anxiety and fear. This gives way to a feeling of general happiness, in which we get to marinate.

Happiness, meanwhile, is attached. It usually has a focus, a reason. And we don't want to lose that feeling, because without it, we would no longer feel happy.

That's why the vast majority of us live our lives surfing the ups and downs, with varying degress of skill. We work on feeling happy, instead of learning how to be content.

2. How do we avoid getting attached to happy feelings?

The spiritual schools i've come across all observe that the pursuit of happiness in the western sense is a doomed struggle. The reason for this, is that it denies the truth of what they call Impermanence, or Transience.

Impermanence is the understanding that nothing stays the same, ever. Everything that exists, also ceases to exist. All feelings change. All thoughts are subject to revision. All physical objects age, and eventually disappear (except, apparently, plastic).

The greatest obstacle to a lasting happiness, a.k.a contentedness, is that we irrationally believe that anything can be permanent. There is not, nor ever has been, any evidence for this.

We feel something good, and grow attached to the conditions that created that feeling. Then one of two things happens: the conditions change, or our feelings change even if the conditions don't. This is simply an energetic law of the universe. There are no exceptions.

But before we get despondent, we can chillax knowing that Impermanence doesn't have to be a major event. It can be subtle, causing no harm, changing nothing. A feeling can come, and go, and come again.

Impermanence doesn't mean we don't get to enjoy something for the length of our lives. It just means we don't enjoy it in the same way we did on the best day; and likewise, bad days are guaranteed a respite as well.

3. Why do our expectations make us miserable?

Because they are totally irrational, and have no basis in reality.

We want to feel happy. So logically, we seek out experiences that make us happy. Eventually that happy feeling comes, and we're thrilled. So far, so good.

One morning we wake up, and the feeling is not there any more. The mind starts to search for reasons. We end up blaming something – ourselves, someone else, an event, whatever.

We then immediately need to apply a balm... something needs to change in order for us to feel happy again. Again, the mind searches for what that could be.

In the specificity of our disappointments, we lose track of the greater reality. In the flow of things since the beginning of time, everything has constantly changed. Whatever caused your current flux can also be viewed as irrelevant, because if that didn't create change, something else eventually would have. It's the nature of Everything.

Expectations are a demand that something stays the same; or has a particular outcome. But in reality, nothing stays the same, and the outcome of anything is unknowable. If we were wise, we could just relish the mystery.

When a feeling changes, it doesn't necessarily mean something that was right has become wrong. It's just a reminder that we're not really in control, and the path of least resitance is, always, just to flow.

The path to acceptance is remembering Impermanence. Gratitude is then greatly magnified for the gifts that we do get. And that 'attitude of gratitude' later carries us more gracefully through the shadows of change.

Disclaimer
I suck at all of this. But it is nice to know.

Sssst, Sssst, St... Ssssssst

“Sssst” is Havanian for 'let's talk'. Usually projected from the sidewalk, either from a group of young men, a shadow, and occassionally the toilet attendant to let you know that the baňo no longer “occupado”.

It's not quite the equivalent of a wolf whistle, which usually feels invasive and condescending. “Sssst" is a call to connect, ideally perhaps leading to some other end, but also quite content to end at an exchange of a few words.

It can be ignored with no harm done. You may have to endure one last, long, loud, "sssssssst”. That overcome, you're free.

A Havana man's version of street harassment is overall pretty friendly, driven more by curiosity than by lechery, and also by a healthy degree of optimism - which i admire them for maintaining, all things considered.

the first morning i opened my balcony doors, this was meters from my nose

minutes later, it was sssst, sssst to the next babe walking by

The Answer is... Dance

I arrived in Havana the night of its 490th anniversary. That's 490 years of occupation and revolution. No breaks.


I think of how Australians would feel after a week like that – and how drunk they'd get. Or how bloodthirsty the Americans. The Cubans have a different answer to poverty, injustice and hardship.

The answer is... dance.


No one here hides, if asked, that life is hard. But you've really got to ask. Because just by looking at their faces, their interactions, or even in passing conversation, you'd think everyone had something to celebrate. In salsa clubs, people look like they've won the lottery.

Havana Vieja is pulsing with an upbeat energy. And last night, as my dance teacher and i wiped the sweat from our faces by the dancefloor, i asked her whether maybe Cuban psychology had triumphed over stuggle because of its cultural obsession with music and dance.

“Si...”, her teeth beamed back at me.

one of the cafe's where i write these posts

If music is Cuban prozac, dance might be a triple dose.

Every night of the week, any minute of the day, Cubans burst into dance. Four year olds playing on the side walk move better than i ever will, and women have a subtle dance in their walk. There isn't a street in old havana where music can't be heard, either wafting in, or direct from, a two-, three-, seven-piece band. No matter where you look, someone seems to be moving to a salsa beat.

And when you're moving beautifully, sexily, totally... is it possible to be unhappy? Try it... you can't. You feel too good.

“No One Puts Baby in the Corner”
(patrick swayze, r.i.p.)

The misery was therefore all mine in an outdoor club called Chevere last night. There i watched miracles of sexiness and celebration performed, while i blundered and stalled my frustrated dance partners. One patted me on the head when we were done. Another would have thrown me over the railing (and looked like he could), if he hadn't also found me charming.

Just as i was sinking into a near tearful determination, Tito found me.

“Let's go...” he said.
“I'm terrible...” i answered.
“You're not” he said, seriously.

He started to move me around the dance floor, and my feet followed. I completed his turns, i followed his sequences. I got us tangled a couple times, but he just unravelled himself and repeated the move, until i got it right. Later i learned he is an instructor, and knows well how to lead beginners. The others were expecting me to writhe and jiggle about a year too early.

Later that evening, after another demoralizing effort with a sweaty german man, my teacher pointed out that with the moves we've practiced, i'm doing okay. It's just the 300 other combinations i'm getting lost on.

(She likes to simplify things, like saying that all a woman has to do is remember to step diagonally backwards on beats one and five... the rest is just following the man. How does one say “bullshit” in spanish?)

But truly, last night i feel i received my misson. I don't remember when i last wanted something in this deep gut kind of way. My heart flutters when i watch these women move, and my eyes must fill with an inspired hunger. I absorb the rich graceful joy of these dancefloors, and my body wants, and wants, and wants, to feel like that, so free.

And so my cuba story has found its plot. I am here to do just one thing... learn cuban slasa. Ideas i had yesterday about peru or india evaporated last night. I am not leaving Cuba, or even moving from Havana, until i can dance one song through without thinking about it; until my body begins to understand what this music wants.


I might be years away from contending with a Cubana. But at best, in a few weeks, i'll throw in a couple shoulder jiggles and a body roll. Failing that, at worst, my dance partner will actually feel like he's dancing, not baby sitting.

Starting tomorrow, i'll have two dance teachers every day. Maite, who is my technical director until my heart takes over. And now also a male instuctor each afternoon, who will give me a good whirl. In the evenings, when i have the energy, i'll get my ass kicked at dancefloors around town.

And if i ever feel despondent, lonely or whistful, i will remember how the bouyant Cubans with whom i now live have overcome their life's obstacles and disappointments.

The answer is... dance.

on the wall outside my casa.
in the bubble: "tequiero" (i love you)

Coooba, Cooooba, Coooooooba

Wasn't I in mexico yesterday? Is that a salsa band outside my widow? Is there rum in this tea? Is that someone dancing rumba on stilts outside? Did that car door just fall off turning a corner?

Am i seriously in Havana?


Just three days ago i stared at Emiliano in Mexico city and said, "I think I am going Cuba."

The next day, “I think i am going to Peru.”

He was patient, supportive. He has also traveled for years and knows that once divine timing starts whispering, it can be confusing to decipher its messages. We both know this subtle guidance (sometimes not subtle at all), and have learned to trust it more than any lonely planet, or pre-set itinerary, or even an indulgent love affair with delectable loose ends.


Something silent simply says “go”, meaning turn left now, or, turn right, or eat here, the room you're looking for is this way, speak to her, buy this book... leave tomorrow for Havana and learn to dance.

maite, my technical director, giving me lessons in the living room of my casa

So that's what I did. And this morning, 15 hours after arriving i Cuba, i had my first salsa lesson... in the living room of my crumbling casa. Merci made a call, and Maite, my new teacher, was there in 15 minutes.

This is how everything works here... ask anyone, anything, and they will know the person who
can provide what you need. My spanish coversation classes start tomorrow, also the result of a single casual phone call.

I've organized a tour of the fortresses tomorrow afternoon. And have already bought my second hand copy of Fidel's “The Right to Digity” from a sweet smoking lady who, without intending to rush me, didn't cease to look over my shoulder the entire 20 minutes i was in her shop.

second hand book stalls are a common sight

As i write this, I am sitting in a palacial colonial restaurant, peach walls, dark wood detailing, marble floors. My seat is half in the restaurant, half in the street, in a tall wooden window on a street corner in Havana Vieja. Two men play gentle cuban standards, one on the congas, the other on a variety of shakers.

All i can understand is... “coooba, coooba, cooba-cooba...”

That's approximately how i feel as well.

the view from the fortress shooting windows is more chilled these days

Havana Vieja: Dilapidated Beauty

I have reached Havana. This dilapidated beauty took just seconds to win my heart.

Crumbling, buzzing, joyful and deprived, she pulses with the essence of a vibrant life determined to be lived.

She is peaceful, she is unrestrained, she is all color, all movement, all declaration of heart, and endurance through celebration.


All this extroverted joy and celebration must hide some frustrated hope. Although so far, i have not sensed this shadow myself. Kindess, community, music & dance, and an entirely palpable sense of union, of a need and desire to share the pleasures and burdens of life, pervade the streets... which is where life happens in Havana.

this is my casa, and my room on the right.
door's open. come in...

I found a room in the home of a woman called Merci, who is helping me with my spanish. These private homes, or 'casa particulares', are a flavorful local alternative to hotel stays throughout Cuba.

My vibe train seems to still be on track. This was my first night:

Arriving at the airport, and unable to withdraw money from an ATM or cash converter, i was helped by an easy going Bermudan gay called Imar, who moved to Cuba four years ago in support of the revolution, and to study physiotherapy.


We later shared a cab, and a walk through Havana Vieja (Old Havana). From a street window, we bought a lunch-box size pineapple juice each, and cuban rum in the same packaging. Tearing open the cardboard, we mixed our own drinks and went looking for food.

Plaza Vieja was all barocades for a private event. A wink and a few coins later, security slipped us in and we took a seat on a gorgeous restaurant terrace overlooking the celebration of Havana's 490 year anniversary.


One thousand people poured into the square, and sipping fresh pina we awed for hours... opera, poetry, rumba, salsa, african dance, acting out of historical colonial scenes... Havana came out in force for my first night, and Imar said he hadn't seen anything like it in four years (he lives in a small town an hour's flight away).

Late in the night, I walked down still thriving steets to my new home just two blocks away, and collapsed into bed. Knowing, for certain, i had arrived somewhere very, very special.

but look closely, it's all ruins

Mexico (a.k.a. so what do i really need?)

At 5 a.m. the sun is spreading gold through the air like margerine.

Something stirs Emiliano and I in our tent. Perhaps it's sound of pelicans, or just a call to beauty. I unzip our door, and move my feet out onto the sand. Through half-open eyes i see the blue water lapping the shore, hear its liquid melody, and feel my way out across the pacific ocean. Emiliano stretches out behind me, he purs. I lean back to feel the warmth of his skin.

view from the tent

We are sharing this rough perfection with Daniel and Santin, whose empty tent sits a couple hammocks away. They haven't spent a night in it yet. Daniel's sandy head protrudes from his blue sleeping bag on the beach. I wiggle out of my tent and walk over, squatting silently by his side. We watch the colors of sunrise.

daniel's bed

Santin has risen from his hammock, and sleepily walks over with his camera. Every day he tries to catch the pelicans surfing the waves. They catch the crest just before it rises, then glide precisely along its edge, rising and sinking with the wave, before arching their wings and taking off right as the wave breaks. A few minutes later I feel a light touch. Emiliano is up too, to worship the dawn.

Santin

In silence, the four of us gather. In whispers, we hint at our dreams, the only the things that have passed since we last gathered to share the dusk and the rising moon. Last night there was talk and laughter. Now, we are more still. We will return to our beds soon. But first, we will just breathe a while.

We are on Playa Paraiso, Mexico. The season is so low, we are the only people on this sandbank besides the locals. Nevertheless, the weather is perfect. In the shade of palms, we pass our days. Daniel carves pieces of wood he finds along the beach into gifts for the locals. Emiliano leads yoga in the mornings, and reconnects with his local friends; it is he who has brought us here. I also do what i do best: talk, and listen. Santin is much the same.

Daniel carving a chair

Santin has flown from Brazil to see Daniel. We have never met before, so we share our stories. Daniel, a roaming Argentian, I know from Toronto, but haven't him seen in five years, and before that another five. I came to know Emiliano, our Mexican ambassador, through letters over the past two months. We met in heart before we ever heard a voice.

We've all come together here in leap of faith, a YES to life. Each for our own reasons, and each because we believe in the healing powers of friendship.

We have little, and we want nothing more. We eat what the makeshift kitchen has found in the market, we sleep in the sand, we shower in cold water, we pull water from the well to flush the toilet. We're bitten by fleas from the local dogs. We share music from our ipods played on battery speakers. There is no electricity anywhere.

I feel happy and calm all day. We are all unwinding from the unresolved questions of our lives. We are all experiencing life without the expectations of others. For five days, we live in this way.

And as we drive back to Mexico city, carrying with us still the spirit of our utopia, i feel myself pregnant again with a sincere question:

What else do you really need?

This question is like a season for me; it comes around.

It was born first in a monastery in Nepal, where i found a never-before-felt peace in not wanting anything at all. It was soon reborn on an island in Thailand, where living in indulgent simplicity unlocked the beauty in people; and if not the beauty, the truth.

Again, i felt with total clarity, that there was no reason to live differently than this.

Now I am in living for a while in the colorful poverty of Havana, remembering Mexico, and thinking about the life I'm about to build in Melbourne; the life it will give me, and the life i will give away in order to live in it.

In the west, my needs will suddenly be many, and those needs will beget yet others.

And when my mind explores this question, i get this familiar haunting feeling, this haunting sensation... this sense of a deep loss, of a turning away from a life that's truly according my own heart.

In Mexico, i felt like there was nothing else i really needed. In Thailand, i felt the same.

In Melbourne, i feel like there are constantly things i need, and to have them, i have to give over large pieces of whatever time i have left; and with that time, do things that do not bring me joy.

Does that really make sense?

And then there is love. There is always the problem of love. Where will i find someone else who is living this double life? There aren't that many. Most people tend to choose, and later don't like to be reminded.

If i think of those I have felt love for over the past years, all of them have chosen the purer path, the path of a simpler life. It's not easy, they struggle; they have to make unconventional things work in a conventional world. But perhaps it is better for them than for me. I have to make my unconventional spirit fit into a conventional space. And i have to wonder what other life i could be living.

I cannot take a man like that with me into my western lair, however comfortable it is. I cannot ask him to give up his hard-won truth, so he can share my conflicted but comfortable hypocricy.

What is wrong with living a simple but beautiful life, not needing much, just sharing your days with those around you, and nature? Contributing to your community, doing good. Is there really something wrong with that?

In Mexico, Emiliano brought us to meet a man he knows, who lives under the open sky. We spent an evening with him. Let's call him Shilo. No one could tell me how long he's been living like that, or what happened to his legs, or eye. He moves around mainly on his arms, smiling widely, organizing cushions and mosquito nets for everyone.

Around us, people briefly hammer wooden pillars into the sand. Over that, goes a tarp. And there, he lives. With his drum, with his books, with the elements, with himself.

Despite his hardship, he seems at peace with his choices. Many would say he was happy, but i won't make that assumption. How could i possibly know; and what does that mean anyway?

What struck me about Shilo isn't what he projected, because we all do that, but simply that he is living the life he himself has chosen.

The morning of that golden sunrise, when i unzipped my tent, I knew I had chosen the life I was living. My joys, I recognize as my own. What I lack, is entirely my story as well.

That morning, I felt everything i really needed to be at peace was right there, already in place.

And it is only a testament to how free i'm really not, that after i return to western reality on Feb 1, it may be a long time until like i feel like that again.

Many moments over the past years have awoken in me a call for an authentic existence, away from social expectations, closer to nature, true to my own spirit.

I do not want Shilo's life. That's not what I am saying. I do not want anyone else's life.

I just really want the courage to live my own.