Travel Reference
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surrounded by smiling men in gold-buttoned uniforms who ply me with sodas and sweet-
beanpastries.Iwon'ttalk.Thoughthepolicechief,hisvoicegentle,almostmotherly,isread-
ing me a list of all the foreigners in Fukuoka, pausing after each name, I make no response.
He's already been over the list twice, but I pretend not to recognize my daddy's name so I
can stay lost a little longer. Whenever the fun seems about to end, I thrust forward my lower
lip and let it quiver, which sends one of the junior officers running to buy more sweets.
Maybe I didn't imagine it. Even though it seems unbelievable to the American I've be-
come, a lawyer who can't see past her little cloud of “rationality,” maybe I really do come
from a children's paradise. Maybe I did grow up in a place where I could trust any stranger
on the street to bear me safely home. I think of Takeo Doi, the Japanese psychiatrist who
said in his
Anatomy of Dependence
that his society values
amae
, the passive, trusting love a
child has for adults, rather than the self-reliance prized by Americans. I recall his theory of
how a stunted
amae
can block a person's spiritual growth, and now I wonder if there may be
something to it.
Ana starts up the mountain first. Corin goes next, looking over her shoulder and motioning
me to follow. My body tenses. I reach up and clutch a small spur of rock. Lifting my foot to
the nearest tree root, so high it feels like stepping into the cab of a semi, I pull myself up. I
take a second giant step. A third. This root snaps. I tumble about 10 feet, hands grabbing at
branches too thin to hold me.
“Soh-oh-oh-oh-ree,”
sing the girls in unison.
For a minute or two, I lie where I've fallen, rocks digging into my back. Then I rise un-
steadily to my feet, breathing hard. I feel as though a cold fear is rushing into my chest like
sudden gulps of Arctic air.
After the girls huddle and regroup, we start again. This time Sipin climbs just ahead of
me to point out the best roots and rocks, instructing in Pidgin, “Put hand here” and “Put foot
there,” while Corin hovers beside me to tap my hands if they try to stray from the correct
placement and Ana and Dani follow to supervise my feet; Soriben carries my backpack. Last
night's rainfall has left the handholds and footholds slick, some of them covered with a red
lichen that crumbles when touched, others crawling with ants.
So this is “bushwhacking,” I think. That word has always conjured up to me images of a
solitary Jungle Jane slashing her way through the bush single-handedly. But on this trip, I
seemtobegrowingmoreandmorehelpless.What'shappening?It'sasifmyfivelittleguides
have subtly changed and become older than me. Come to think of it, maybe bushwhacking
really is about asking for help. Considering that most jungles already have people living in
them, what's the point of going it alone? To avoid having to share my supplies, perhaps. Or
to avoid saying thank you. I try to think back to when in my Americanization the emotion of
gratitude became linked with shame. It was not always so.
