Buffalo: Part One

Whispers of his voice travelled up the river. They slid through the dense Arkansas forest, like ghosts or deer, and drifted into my head.

You know, this is really big.

What do you mean?

The move to India. I don’t like it son!

Ah, it’ll be okay.

A pause in the river, my memory, and his voice. Then: It really is exciting. You’re going to change from all this.

Yeah, probably so. But I don’t think in a bad way.

No, but the rest of your life will be affected by your experiences in Mumbai.

As I broke the surface of the Buffalo with my paddle, I watched the front of my boat turn slightly to the left. The sun beat down on my exposed neck, and cradled my body in a blanket of heat. Crickets sung in a chorus, whining in accordance with the sizzling of the rock faces towering over the still water.

Another voice came from around the bend.

I’m scared.

Me too, but it’s alright. It’s all going to be okay.

The assurance, I knew as I paddled through my memories, was premature and wrong. It was not alright, nor had it been since. A mosquito dive-bombed into my ear, and I slapped both the bug and voices away. I just needed to make it to the rapids, then everything would be okay.

My paddle, oared on both sides, slipped into the water like a knife through warm butter. No sound was made on entry. Gripping the black pole interspersed with water and sand, I pulled it back to my body. I had altered the still surface, and two small whirlpools formed on either side of the paddle. As I pulled it out of the water, a small but forced splash broke the silence. That side of the paddle continued to rise out of the water, high into the air, dripping crystals of clear water that exploded in the sun. The whole process repeated for the other side, and in alternation, my boat swayed slightly from side to side as it floated downriver.

The day was warm, one of the first of the spring, and swarms of antsy adventurers descended upon the protected river. Particularly annoyed at one bend, and with a stomach panging for food, I pulled sharply to the right in the middle of a rapid. The bow of the kayak slid up upon the rocks, and I jumped to pull it onto shore before the back end was taken away by the current. A creek joined the river, and there at the confluence stood a tall and solitary boulder.

Dude, this is a sick face.

Francisco’s voice and memories of Hampi hit me like a wave, and my body involuntarily jumped onto the rock, eager to return to the climb.

Once scaled, I unpacked my small backpack for lunch. I had carefully prepared a sealed back of pita bread, but my ration for lunch was only two pieces. Two protein bars, half a bag of beef jerky, and an apple completed the meal; it was fit for a river king. As I calmed my angry stomach, I gazed down upon the river rats.

An old couple went by in a canoe. The wife sat in the front, paddle in tight grip, fiercely moving from side to side, deciding on the plan of attack for these rapids. Right? Left? She made the decisions, but gave no verbal indication to her bemused husband. He sat with a paddle dragging in the water, motionless and emotionless. Her lips were pursed so tight that vertical ridges had formed, and his were so lax that air slipped into his mouth, as obscenities quietly slipped out.

A group of Boy Scouts followed. They all donned life-jackets too large for their scrawny bodies, but none of them cared. Some boys were serious or scared, and shouted simple and ambiguous commands.

“Left!”

“Paddle left?!”

“No go left!”

“Paddle right?!”

“No left!”

A few canoes went by like this, with furious and redundant paddling. Several more went by in silence, partners in sync with each other’s actions. Brining up the rear of the convoy was a chubby boy and his annoyed partner. The larger boy had lost his paddle along the way. He grabbed the sides of the canoe and was shaking back and forth.

“Earthquake!” he yelled, “Woaaahhhh!!!”

The bowman was not amused: he threw his paddle down into the boat, and the pair floated down the rapids backwards.

A minute later, drunk college kids came by. They were spread in four canoes, presumably by couple. They hardly paddled, and were letting the water take them downstream. The men were shirtless, and had hats cocked slightly up and to the side: brim direction is often a good test of sobriety. The women were clad in bikinis, but with an oversized tank on top. The group laughed and drank warm beer. The rapids were of no concern to them, and to their credit of observation, they were one of the few people that saw me perched on the rock. One woman stopped paddling to give a big wave, and said “Well hey there!” through a deep smile.

As I finished my small lunch, a father and son floated into view. I stopped chewing. My throat had refused to work for a moment. The dad was saying something to his son, but it was deep and low. The kind of thing meant for his son’s ears and future memories. The son sat in the front of the canoe, his paddle resting on top, followed by his arm, then finally his head: he was deep in thought. Perhaps he was bored by the float, but his open and bright eyes indicated otherwise. As the father guided them through the rough patch, the son saw me. He raised his head and sat up. We made eye contact, but neither one of us waived or said anything. We locked eyes until they went around the bend.

I packed everything back into the kayak, pulled it into the river, and with a push-off I slipped back into the current.

He was right. Mumbai had changed me, and it frustrated me that I couldn’t quantify how. I still felt like Michael, but somehow the definition of Michael had changed. The new definition had been inscribed in Hindi, and was foreign to the people here. Even I couldn’t read it, but at least I could feel it. I knew what it felt like to ride a motorcycle through the dust of a frontier city. I knew what it smelt like along Marine Drive. I knew what a vada pav tasted like. I knew what a rickshaw sounded like, as the two stroke engine struggled through traffic. I knew the sight of raw human endeavor and failure, and the honesty in cheating. But I couldn’t read these things. I couldn’t pick up these memories and read them to the ones who loved me. It’s a lonely feeling not being able to define yourself to those around you.

On a deep part of the river, an algae covered log rose from the depths and scratched the bottom of the kayak. It came from nowhere, and it scared me. A swarm of ghosts jumped from the embankment, and swam up to my boat.

I’m going to miss you son.

I know. I’m going to miss you too.

You have to jump before it stops. It’s the only way to ride the Bombay local.

You’re fucking crazy.

What do we do now?

We make it work.

Money? Payment sir?

We don’t use your god damn services! Stop asking!

England? From England?

No, USA.

USA! Skinny American!

Mr. Black, your tests have come back, and unfortunately you have tested positive for Dengue fever sir.

Are you serious?

I love you.

They had finally gotten to me. I balanced the paddle across the boat, and sat still. I put my head up, in hopes that the tears would fall back into my skull. They didn’t, and my eyes recolored themselves to red. I was unhappy with where I was in the river. Bound by my resume and gut, I was stuck between a scary future and a bright past. It was so easy to look upstream, and let those memories drown me. I didn’t want to be too concerned with downstream, because it inevitably leads to the take-out spot. Each paddle is a step closer to that.

Some people paddle hard, prepare for rapids, and navigate the obstacles easily. What’s the point, though, if everyone eventually leaves the river? Why paddle at all if the relentless and never-ending current takes us all away? The purpose has to be the journey, not the destination, because otherwise there would be no differentiation between anybody. All people die, but only you can live by your paddle.

As the sun sank low over the tops of the Ozarks, spilling golden rays over the tops of newborn leaves, I pulled my kayak out of the river for the night. The wetbag had failed, and it was difficult to pull my wet clothes apart from my sleeping bag. I set up the tent, and cowered over my cooking stove. The beans and tuna were good, but fell uneven on my broken stomach.

That night, I fell asleep under the Milky Way, unaware that a cosmic shift was occurring. Electricity pulsed through my sleeping brain like a thunderstorm, and knocked loose a trapped memory. One mile downstream, in the still darkness, an epiphany was waiting to reveal it.