Wandering Homeless

I'm finally back, back in Cali, Cali.

Or home, as it should be. But home is a funny thing when you're me. When someone asks where I'm from, my eyes glaze over while I decide how to launch into the list of places I call home and why I can't honor the question with a straight answer. By the time I reach the second or third, "And then I lived in," their eyes glaze over.

I don't mean to brag or bore but there isn't a way to simplify the answer. If home is where the heart is, maybe I'm confused about just where the damn pulsating organ has gone. When I am home in Syracuse where I live, I refer to LA as "home." When I am home in LA where my family lives, I talk of going "home" to Syracuse. When I am in neither place and answering from the heart instead of the brain, "home" is, without question, Trinidad & Tobago where my culture lives.

It is a dilemma I admit I'm glad to have, but at some point, as a traveler or wanderer or nomad, no place feels like home. This time, in LA, I'm like the puzzle piece that seems to be the right shape but doesn't quite fit. If you force it, it juts out, gets stuck and the big picture never makes sense.

I watch as suave drivers in designer shades shuffle on undeterred by the traffic that has quadrupled what should be their commute time. I, on the other hand, am quietly losing my mind. If traffic didn't make sense to me before, the taste of a traffic-less life has worn my patience thin; there's more to life than the 5 freeway! I've heard there's public transportation here, must look into that for next time.

Everyone is glamorous, the Hollywood sign is sparkling and the drinks are $10 and up. My flats and Syracuse cardigan don't seem to fit where I once had heels and handbags. I wonder if my fanciness has dimmed or if I just need to wipe the smudges off my designer shades to see more clearly. 

I step out of the car to a feeling of heat I had lost somewhere between August and the 18 degree cold the night before I left Syracuse. Could it be that I was really wearing a summer dress while friends at home were brushing snow off their cars after spending 10 minutes donning adequate clothing to brace the cold?

Sometimes, I really do love LA. Home or not.

Infographic Design

Bhutanese light up Syracuse for Dipawali

A deep is lit for Laxmi.

When the candles are lit, the marigolds are strung, and the money is out, Laxmi will come.

It doesn’t matter that the candles are standard tea lights from the Dollar Tree down the street and not the copper candle dishes, or deep, that would light homes in Nepal. Or that plastic garland hangs where floral wreaths would have been. Laxmi, the Hindu goddess of wealth and prosperity, cannot tell the difference.

The Siwakoti family of Bhutanese refugees left Nepal and resettled in Syracuse in 2008. Although some cultural practices don’t translate well to life in America, the family maintained most of their traditions as they began celebrating Dipawali, Wednesday. 

“It is not the same here, but we try to keep our culture,” said Ranga Siwakoti, the father in the family.

Dipawali, or Tihar in Nepali, is a three-day annual festival of lights and a time to worship Laxmi and ask for her blessings. It is also a time for brothers and sisters to treasure one another and exchange wishes for long lives and happiness.

“It’s a time for brothers to give sisters money,” said Jassoda Siwakoti, with a sly nod to her male cousin–in Nepali culture, cousins often consider one another as brother and sister.

“Sometimes we feel like we should have been born girls,” Kamal Siwakoti retorted.

A sister prepares her brothers
to receive tika.

On Friday, the final day of Tihar, sisters in the family placed tika, a vibrant powder colored orange, blue and green, on their brothers’ foreheads and a mala, or garland of marigolds, around their necks. The brothers returned the blessing by making neat marks with matchsticks on their sisters’ foreheads.

After the tika, the family watched YouTube videos of Tihar in Nepal, saying, “You see? That’s how it is in our country.” Even the 80-year-old matriarch perked up to the familiar scenes, watching from her bed as the computer speakers blared the music she remembered from home.

Ethnic Nepalis who were born in Bhutan, like the Siwakotis, were persecuted in the country for having a different culture and a different religion from the native Bhutanese. The family fled the country to be independent from a lifestyle that was being forced on them. They sought refuge at a camp in Nepal before being granted asylum in Syracuse.

“You love your culture and I love my culture,” Ranga said. “We want to be able to celebrate who we are.”

Dear T&T: What Happened to You?

So, generally this blog is about my love affair with travel and the lighter, more beautiful aspects of the pastime I hold so dear to my heart. 

But I cannot always live in a rose-colored travel world. 

Sometimes, the love wanes (only briefly) and the issues that affect the world and travel come to light. I suppose it is relevant to discuss the complete picture of a true love affair anyway, because the love wouldn't be real without a little heartache.

Except this is a big heartache. The source of my woes is my own sweet Trinidad & Tobago.

After 11 people were killed in just 3 days last month, the government declared a limited state of emergency, forcing residents in the targeted crime areas to abide by a 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. curfew and to be subject to searches at law enforcement's discretion. Which, in Trinidad means, the police will do as they please when they please, just because they feel like it (as is generally the case, only now, they won't suffer any backlash). On September 4th, the emergency decree was revised to have curfew between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. The curfew, which has already been in place for several weeks, will last another 3 months.

The government says the killings are drug related, confined to gangs and have little to do with the general public. But if the general public has altered their lifestyles to suit this madness, it has everything to do with the general public. Just as our national motto says, "Together we aspire, together we achieve," together we fail and together we suffer. The senseless crime has got to stop; they are spoiling my beloved country.

Some things, however, remain unchanged. In true Trini festive fashion, some venues have been hosting "curfew fêtes" lasting from 9 p.m. to 5 a.m., the exact hours of the required curfew, and serving promotional "AK47" shots at the bar. Only in Trinidad can we make light of a situation by throwing a party and also manage to last 8 hours doing it. 

But, back to a serious note, I worry about the people who will only know or remember this blemish on the face of my country. The ones who won't know that the water is delicious and warm and shockingly teal. That the sand feels like silky powder under your feet. That the mangoes have never been sweeter than when your neighbor brings some over, fresh from their tree. That every meal tastes like it's from a mother's kitchen (because it probably is) and the fusion of flavors and spices is like a performance for your taste buds.

They won't hear the faint sounds of steel pan playing somewhere in the distance while the warm night breeze lulls them to sleep. Or hear the soca music that will course through their veins and allow them no option but to dance. They won't know the heart and spirit of my country.

There is so much more to a country than just it's struggles. And while this is certainly an issue that needs to be resolved, I hope that one day soon, Trinidad & Tobago finds its way back to the sweet country I remember and once again leaves the world with memories of teal oceans and coconut trees rather than drugs and killing.

A Summer in Syracuse

Syracuse University

It is time to get serious.

No more wining the night away, fête after fête, for Carnival. No more all day beach sessions in California when only my hunger pangs could separate me from the sand. No more eats and greets and whatever my little heart desires.

No. The fêtes have been replaced by writing, writing has taken over my beach days, and the eats and greets have been substituted with–writing.

Syracuse, me, and my painstakingly expelled 6,452 words, have spent a beautiful summer together in grad school.

And by beautiful I mean I never saw anything outside of my often blank computer screen and the scribbled lines of my notebook pages. 

But I hear Syracuse is lovely in the summer. 

I imagine if I had had time to explore, I might have spent my Saturday mornings eating a breakfast of champions (very, very large champions) at Stella's Diner. My oversized banana pancakes would have been sweet and delectable and just the right way to start the day.

I imagine I would have spent time sipping coffee on Marshall Street, just off campus, enjoying a chat and discussing the woes of the world and a writer's struggle with my erudite classmates. 

I might have caught a glimpse of downtown, wandered through the MOST museum getting my scientific discovery on, and maybe caught a jazz festival or two. 

I may have even had a few jaunts to the lake when the day's heat was unbearable, and the cool water on my skin could quite literally have washed away any semblance of stress.

Sigh. What a wonderful summer it would have been.

Okay, so maybe I did manage to squeeze some of these things in, but they were all "on deadline" and in such a flurry, that they almost do seem like a figment of my imagination.

But the summer was wonderful anyway, and the excessive writing welcome. I may have traded in life and traveling on a whim, for an overweight messenger bag and endless nights attached to my computer, but travel is waiting for me on the other side. I am really learning my craft studying journalism at Syracuse University, and will be well prepared to tell the untold travel tales that lie ahead.

And, the best part is, on most days when I awake to begin a new grueling day, I actually feel like a real writer.