Repeatedly, The Heart of a Traveler reminds readers that mystery and intrigue awaits those who probe the world's magical margins, as indicated by the following excerpt:
India continues to stretch my ideas of reality. I've had tea and shared meals with Buddhist monks curious about this Western visitor. We've had engaging conversations about the world, spirituality, and the affairs of nations. I visited the stunning Gyuto Monastery and Tantric University in the nearby mountains, home to the 17th Karmapa. There, I shared rice with senior monks and attended their afternoon puja (fire) ceremony. I also hiked to the base of a huge waterfall outside a small mountain village called Bhagsu Nag and baptized myself in the pure, high altitude waters. . .
On the way back from the falls, I came upon a very old, semi-dilapidated Hindu Shiva temple frequented by a small group of local, rural Hindu villagers. Three sadhus (Indian holy men) with long dreadlocks run the place and live in an adjacent brick cave. I sat and meditated with these guys on the dirt floor of their house-cave for a while. Suddenly, somebody began ringing the temple bell and the sadhus joined in with gongs and drums. I grabbed a pair of large hand cymbals and we were off on a twenty-minute, instrumental, musical jam session followed by chanting. Again, this wasn't a neat, cozy temple with shiny instruments, but a dark cave with incense burning, a small fire cooking an old pot of rice, piles of ragged blankets lying around, and occasional scurrying mice! Yes, these saddhus live in a cave in virtual silence with very little food and almost no possessions. Date and time dissolve amidst this stuff. . . .
Admittedly, Marsh confronts more than mysticism on the travel trail. Returning home, he remains sensitive to the feelings of alienation faced by those whose passion for travel means adopting an unconventional lifestyle. Reflecting on the social values of his American homeland, he recognizes that a culture which links identity to material success will inevitably subject him to suit-and-tie stereotypes judgemental of his wanderlust:
For far too many years, I have followed a different path, responded to a different calling, and sought rhythm and harmony with the sea. but there is a price for a life such as mine. . .the price may be loneliness, on occasion. . .or a lack of stability, or security. . .for mine is a simplicity that many would deem inadequate. We all have choices to make. . .
What have I to show from riding countless thousands of waves. . .for immersing myself in the ocean for literally years of my life. . .for pursuing a dream. . .an intangible connection to nature, to ocean to Source. . .
Like the Tibetan Buddhists who, with great patience and peacefulness, create elaborate mandalas out of colored gains of sand, only to scatter them into nothingness upon completion--an act of symbolizing the impermanent and ever changing nature of our lives--so have I created my own temporary , sacred mandalas upon the smooth blue ocean through dozens of years of riding waves amidst the gleaming Southern California sunlight. Each movement upon the water is a prayer from my heart, a celebration of joy, or a soft cry of suffering amidst this life struggle. . .
Where abides a non-conformist's life, such as mine, upon the spectrum of success, happiness, and achievement?
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| Success, happiness, and achievement. . .in some parts of the world, all that really matters is one's ability to climb for coconuts! Sumatra 2014. . .Photo: S. Jacques Stratton |
Ultimately, however, Marsh finds that behind the judgement of his peers lies an element of envy:
Several years back, a neighbor was having a party for his son's tenth birthday. I was informed, in advance, that those attending would consist primarily of his son's friends and their parents. "You may not want to come," he had told me, since I was, at the time, both single and childless. It was an interesting period in my life. I had just resigned from a tenured position teaching elementary school and was soon to turn forty. I had recently sold a house that I had once owned with my now ex-wife, and had made a personal vow to "buy my life back." At the party, I began conversing with a guy nearly my age. He told me that he was there with his wife and two children, both of whom were friends with the birthday boy.
A series of questions followed, and thus I, somewhat hesitantly, began to explain my situation. I shared with him that I was not only divorced, but I had just sold my house, quit my job, broken up with a recent girlfriend, and was about to depart on a six-week journey all over California, surfing, hiking, writing, and camping in my truck.
"Wait, let me get this straight," he said in bewilderment, "you don't have any kids, you're not married, and you don't even have a job?. . .Damn, you're so lucky!"
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| A Postcard from the Edge. . .untrammeled coastlines and meditative reflections await those who embrace the transitional psychology of travel. Pavones, Costa Rica, 1994. Photo: S. Jacques Stratton |
