I Want to be Naked WITH Pockets -- Camp Full Monte, Montenegro

You know what's a beautiful thing?

Appreciation.

Appreciation is a remarkably beautiful thing.

"Thank-you for doing the washing up."

"We got heaps done today. Thanks for your help."

My previous two placements had none of this beautiful thing. During my entire month on Vis, the only sign of appreciation I received was from my supportive students and from Jurate.

Ivan spent my entire stay talking about his vision for the park. And how he couldn't accomplish his vision because Oprah and the American embassy wouldn't give him money. I'm approximately 97% certain that he hasn't bestowed a syllable of thanks onto a single volunteer since my premature departure (Giuseppe will read this and tell me that I'm being too hard, but I think Giuseppe is being too nice).

Perhaps the expression of gratitude shouldn't be such a big deal to me. Perhaps I should be someone who can do without this refreshing gesture of kindness. This acknowledgment -- this reminder -- of my host being glad I'm there. 

Because I have no roots.

Because I have so little money.

Because I still have so much fear.

Someone saying "thank-you for doing the washing up," translates in my head (and probably my adrenal glands) as "we're happy you're here. You have a place to sleep tonight."

I've been struggling to understand why I never felt truly comfortable on Vis. The retreat goers went (far) over the top with their encouragement and gratitude -- but I still felt uneasily on edge. Like I'd be booted off the island and into the wilds of Croatia, should I forget to put another roll of toilet paper in a bathroom or eat the cheese that was supposed to be saved for Milda's aubergine dish.

Little irritations become damnable offenses when big contributions go unnoticed. 

This is one reason (a primary reason) I'm currently flying by the seat of my pants with Tessa. I want to explore my fear of having no place to stay. Of having no way of getting to where I have no place to stay. Hitchhiking and wildcamping will help me (I hope) to let go of how desperate I am for kind words.

I want kind words to just be kind words. I don't want to attach "I HAVE A HOME!" to "thank-you for sweeping the floor."

I want appreciation to change from something needed to something pleasant. A bonus.

The way I want chocolate to change from something I need to something pleasant. A dessert.

You can't live off of chocolate, Bourget. You'll get sick. Believe it or not.

Visiting Kristina was like going on an all-you-can-eat tour of Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory. The lovely, lively little woman was always bowing and smiling and saying things like,

"Namaste!"

"You are super!"

"You are my sweetheart!"

Three days of being Kristina and Darko's guest were more than enough to compensate for six weeks of feeling unwanted/underfoot by my hosts.

And hearing Denise say, "Thanks for doing the washing up" was like taking a cold shower after a long, hot, hard day's work.

Speaking of.

I've been doing a lot of those, as of late.

Long, hard days. 

I spend the morning (the part most consider night) scribbling in my cheap, Wonders of the World notebook with the fat, multicolored pen given to me by one of my Turkish students. There's no internet connection at Full Monte, so I try to write down snippets of conversation and some of the more meaningful happenings of the day and hope that I'll find myself some internet before I lose the motivation to rewrite everything.

Normal morning (seven o'clock to eight o'clock) is spent watering Denise's veg patch. I listen to podcasts and wear my pants for the sake of their pockets.

Nasturtiums. Vibrant and delicious.

I put these pansies in salads. They're tasty and adorable.

Passion flower. I do not put this in my salad.

Tire flower garden. Watered with compost "tea" (something parts water to something parts urine).

The most inconvenient thing about being naked is the lack of pockets.

I want to be naked with pockets.

A tool belt just seems too skeezy, sleezy.

And a fanny pack feels like I'm trying too hard.

I spend late morning (eight o'clock to ten o'clock) hacking, whacking, spiky, shrubby things until it's far too hot to be hacking, whacking spiky, shrubby things.

Montenegro is hot. It's about far too hot at ten o'clock (or thereabouts).

"Does anyone want a hot drink?" is what Steve asks around ten o'clock.

I love British people and their hot drinks. Their days are punctuated with tea breaks and cigarettes and newspapers. 

I don't punctuate my day with tea, but I do escape the heat by starting the indoor/in the shade jobs.

Ian paints.

Ian. A fabulous volunteer from England who's been to more Pueblo Ingles programs than I thought was possible.

Giuseppe and I garden.

Giuseppe. My Italian friend wearing only his boots and hat.

Gardening naked isn't as dreamy as it sounds. Things prickle and crawl in places I'd rather they not prickle and crawl. The breezes feel refreshing and whimsical and I can't get enough of being barefoot in soft dirt --

-- but I don't like thinking about where all the spiders and ants might end up.

It was much easier to get naked the second day. I understood the whens and wheres and whys and hows. 

 When to get naked?

When it's warm enough to get naked (and when you don't need the pockets).

Where to get naked?

Take your clothes off in the bathroom. Put them away. Come out of the bathroom. Be naked.

Why get naked?

To feel the breezes.

How to get naked?

Let your shame drop with your pants. Fold them up nicely and forget about them.