M9: Words Are Worth a Thousand Pictures

     Woken by the sound of oars slicing choppy water, I slid out of my bunk and climbed a set of stairs onto the deck of my ship. All around me, the China Sea stretched out for miles. After 30 days of sailing, I had found my sea legs, and I confidently strolled to the end of the vessel. Prince Shotoku had entreated me to travel to China as his advisor, so I had been given a crew and a boat. Once in China, I was to collect examples of Chinese culture to bring back to Japan. The adventure was very exciting, but sailing for months was starting to annoy me. I was understanding the ways of ocean travel, so I awoke the crew and we rode a wave of wind closer to our destination.
     The horizon line was fuzzy with morning fog. Miles away, a shape was becoming prominent in the haze. I could make out building and trees that dotted what I now realized was land. We increased our speed and were at the port of China within the hour. People carried sculptures of Buddha into pagodas and musicians played gagaku on shengs. I was amazed by the commotion, and I jumped off the boat with gusto. In a frenzy, I grabbed huge stone carvings, maps of Chang'an, drawings of temples, Buddhist writings, and Chinese calligraphy. At the last minute, I grabbed an unimportant piece of poetry and shoved it into the already full boat. When I had substantial collection of Chinese culture, I headed back to Japan.
     Our boat moved slowly away from the mainland. With the boat brimming with artifacts, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I had completed Prince Shotoku's task, and I would be honored when I reached Japan. A ship was moving toward us, but I thought nothing of it until the vessel was practically on top of us. Suddenly I noticed the flag waving from its mast. Pirates! I called all hands on deck, but already the swashbucklers were boarding our boat. They took all of our precious cargo. They left after the deck had been cleaned of everything. Dismayed, I realized that I would have to report to Prince Shotoku empty handed. We didn't have enough supplies to go back to China. With a heart full of sorrow, I retreated to my quarters.
     After the attack, the journey was more subdued. We anxiously awaited our arrival in Japan, fearing our failure. As I halfheartedly commanded the crew, a lone piece of paper on the deck caught my eye. Flipping it over, I quickly scanned the beautiful poem written on it:
Sitting by the oak,
My mind wanders, as always,
Transporting me to
A peaceful place where nature 
And man live in harmony
I recognized the poem as tanka, a Japanese form of literature with 5 lines. Hope overcame me. Maybe my journey hadn't gone to waste.
     Rushing up the steps of Prince Shotoku's palace, I hoped he would accept the poem. I entered the throne room and showed the ruler my makeshift collection of culture. At first, he was skeptical of my marginal work. "Is this all you have brought?" he asked gruffly. As he read the poem, however, a smile spread across his face. "I love the use of syllables." he stated. Showing the poem to others that had gathered, I knew that I had made the right decision. The royalty started making up tanka poems of their own. Word quickly spread through the city about the new phenomenon. I had just introduced Japan to a new art form.

M8: Matchmaker Mistakes

     Trekking through the Mayan rain forest, I approached ancient Chichen itza. The sun crested the horizon as women ground maize on stone blocks. Teenagers watched chubby babies and stray farm animals and swept dirt floors. At the center of the city, a giant temple rose up into the lightening sky. I walked up to a thatched house in the rural section of the city. An aging couple stood in the doorway, arguing heatedly. "The atanzbah paired our talented son with that ugly witch from down the street." the man said. Abruptly, they turned to me and stopped talking. "What do you want, outsider?" the women said with hostility. "I'm the most skilled matchmaker around. I have come to help you find a great wife for your son." I replied arrogantly.
     After much negotiating, I reached an agreement with the couple. They would pay me only if I got Ixmucane to marry their son Kukulcan. Ixmucane was a 15 year old girl who was great at cooking, weaving, and singing. Thinking this would be an easy task, I went to interview Kukulcan. As I approached the field where he was working, I hesitated. Kukulcan lay under a tree, fast asleep. I tactfully nudged him with the toe of my boot, jarring him awake. I interrogated him, but he had little to share. He was weak, ugly, and stupid. Trying to consolidate a list of good characteristics while still being honest, I started to worry.
     While walking back to his parents, I crossed the path of a group of Mayan soldiers. They held magnificent, curved bows and graceful spears. Intrigued by the fine weaponry, I asked where it had been made. Surprisingly, they pointed in the direction of Kukulcan. "He is the most skilled weapon maker around. All wealthy warriors use his weapons." a burly soldier informed me. Excited, I began to run towards Ixmucane's hut. I was met by her hunch-backed parents. I told them that even though Kukulcan was ugly and weak, he would pay a large dowry. Reluctantly, Imuxcane's family agreed to meet with Kukulcan's family to discuss possible marriage.
     The parents haggled for hours. I sat by quietly and watched, amused. Finally, a decision was reached. Kukulcan would give Imuxcane's parents a dowry that could pay for new farming equipment and enough seeds to last 20 years. He would also farm their fields for 5 years. Both families were happy, and villagers built a hut behind Imuxcane's family house for the couple to live after the ceremony. Special clothes were woven, and invitations were sent out. The wedding was about to begin!
     A priest stood at an altar in the plaza. In front of him stood Kukulcan and Imuxcane. Both of them looked sad to be there. Suddenly it hit me. No one had asked the couple if they wanted to be married. They had had no say. I hadn't meant to help set up a forced marriage. I thought being a matchmaker would be more like "Fiddler on the Roof". Since I didn't want to be sacrificed (or was that the Aztecs?), I stood by quietly as the couple was blessed by the priest. They were now officially married. Defeated and angry, I traveled back to New York. I would never again be a matchmaker.

M7: Influence of Islam

     In a flash, I arrived in a Mali savanna. Yellow grass tickled my knees, and I could spy scraggly trees in the distance. A barren village loomed on the hazy horizon. Smiling at the yolk colored sun , I meandered toward the mud huts. As I started to enter the surrounding fields, workers stared at me suspiciously. In the heart of the small town, a metal worker created ornate dishes out of scraps. Intrigued, I paused and watched. The artist was an old man, but he still moved with a spirited grace. In an instant, he had whipped up a gorgeous work of art. Deciding that I wanted to learn the ways of the metalworkers, I asked about apprenticeships.
     We had a conversation in Bambara, a popular language in Mali. He informed me that many people wanted to become his apprentice, for he was the only metalworker that wasn't part of a guild. Young, talented, workers had traveled from miles away to earn his teaching, and all had failed. All apprentices with potential had to make a sample piece that was put through intense scrutiny. Despite his warning, I made up my mind to try. Inspired by the Benin plaques, I formed a wax model. It was a snapshot of the metalworker.
      I surrounded the wax form in clay, then stuck it in the fire. Soon the wax had melted. I created an alloy out of scrap metal and poured it into the empty clay mold. After a half hour, the metal hardened. Using a hammer, I chipped away the clay, revealing a perfect plaque. Proudly, I showed the metalworker. Alarmed, he covered my work with a piece of Kente cloth. "Don't you know anything?" He yell-whispered. " This village has converted to Islam. I am the only animist left. Creating art that depicts people or animals is sacrilege, because only god can create life. If we are caught with your plaque, we will be punished." Astonished by this display, I winced and accidentally pushed aside the cloth covering my treasonous art. A collective gasp was released by a gathering crowd. "Run," the metalworker spat through gritted teeth. "RUN"
     As I slipped through a gap in the people, I noticed the metalworker had been grabbed by the chief's advisers. Cursing myself, I turned on my heels and walked to the captors willingly. We were taken to the chiefs house. "You have been caught practicing animism. This is a great crime and you will both have to pay severe fines." the chief chastened. He addressed the metalworker with scorn. "I expected much better of you, griot." Surprised, I studied my companion with respect. The griot opened his mouth, and a flood of words spilled out. In a hypnotic voice, he told onlookers about how I had come from a place without the light of Islam. He wove a magical story that had the chief tearing up. When the griot finally stopped talking, the chief let us go with many apologies. The griot seemed weary of me now, so I thanked him and went on my way.
      As I walked out of the village, people smiled and waved. I pondered my new adventure and all I had learned. Griots have great power, but the power of Islam is greater. Sometimes though, a griot can tell a story that combats this power. No matter what anybody said, I was proud of my plaque. Contentment spread through my veins as I waded to my Porsche.

M6: Botswana!

     I alighted on the Gaborone airstrip, and a perky flight attendant announced our arrival. I didn't get how anyone could be perky after a 16 hour plane ride. Because I was going to modern Botswana, I had to deal with commercial travel. When I left the airport, I was blinded by the bright sun glinting of the sparse skyscrapers. Gaborone was the capital of Botswana, but with only 191,776 people, it paled in the face of New York. I stopped for a lunch of pounded meat (a popular dish in Botswana) and took a cab 200 miles to the central Kalahari Game Reserve.
     After 3 hours of dealing with a hostile cab driver, I had finally arrived at the game reserve. The reserve is the second largest in the world, covering about 32,808 square miles. Tall, sun-bleached grass swayed in the mellow wind below a never ending expanse of blue sky. Last year I had gotten my safari license, so I rented a jeep and set out by myself. Giraffes, cheetahs, leopards, hyenas, and warthog are just a sample of the abundant wildlife that calls the Central Kalahari Game Reserve home. What I really wanted to see, however, was a lion. As I drove along a dirt road, I heard a loud snarl emit from under my vehicle.
     After braking quickly, I peered at the ground below me. A lion cub batted my face with a soft paw. For a moment, I was entranced. The cubs tan fur stuck out at odd angles, and his big brown eyes seemed to melt my soul. After ooohing and awwing over how cute the cub was, I started to wonder what he was doing here. The circumstance bewildered me, until I noticed a large scratch in his side. I realized that the cub must have been abandoned after his mother noticed that he was losing blood rapidly. As a reflex, I started to grab him. He let out a low, malignant growl. Deciding that I couldn't pick him up safely, I climbed back in the car to get help.
     I turned the key, but nothing happened. The jeep sputtered before dying all the way. Ducking beneath the car again, I cautiously approached the injured cub. In one fluid motion, I threw him into the passenger seat. I wrapped him in my jacket while he was still stunned by the throw. Shoving him in my pack, I started to walk back the way I came. The hot sun produced a line of sweat along my brow. Growing exhausted, I almost gave up. Just then, a mournful whine came from my pack, reminding me why I needed to keep going.
     Finally, just as the horizon was erupting is a golden sunset, I saw the Game Reserve Headquarters. Inspired by the dropping temperature, I sprinted the last mile of my taxing journey. After explaining what had happened to a flustered secretary, the cub was taken by some veterinarians. The head vet explained that the cub would've been a goner if I hadn't rescued him. As I was leaving, the cub let out a bittersweet purr and waved his paw, as if saying goodbye. I knew then that some things were worth sacrificing for.

M5: The Crusades

     Sitting on a wagon among a sea of carts, we were funneled into the holy city of Jerusalem. My driver, Jacob, turned left onto a different road. We followed the stream of traffic toward the West Wall. Jacob was my Jewish friend that had volunteered to show me the remains of the Jewish Temple. The Jewish temple had been destroyed by the Romans. The Western Wall was all that was left. Jerusalem was a holy city for Muslims, Jews, and Christians. Finally our wagon pulled off to the side and we got out. Just then, soldiers streamed over the walls that protected Jerusalem.
     "Jerusalem belongs to the Christians" a knight no older then 13 screamed as he vaulted over the wall. Quickly, I realized that these people were malignant Christian crusaders that believed Jerusalem should just be for Christians. They were trying to take the holy land! In an instant, we were swept up in a wave of horror. Soldiers stabbed Jews, releasing heart wrenching cries. Crusaders spit on the Western Wall and stomped on holy books. A large, hairy man came towards us with a look of hate on his face.
     He grabbed Jacob and hoisted him up by the throat. Suddenly, I snapped out of my trance. I jammed the mans nose into his skull, just as my self-defense coach had taught me. He dropped my friend and sneered at me. I dished out three swift upper cuts to his jaw, and he fell with a thud. Turning to the disheartened Jews, I gave an angry cry. "Are you going to sit here and let these Christians trample on your faith?" I yelled. "All three faiths of the book should have an equal claim to Jerusalem." Men and women stood and brushed themselves off with fiery determination. They grabbed broken boards and bricks from the street, making weapons out of junk.
     The make-shift army started down the road, where crusaders had started a bonfire with copies of the Torah and Qur'an. I joined them. Even though I'm an atheist, I still believe in religious equality. We stopped a group of crusaders in their tracks. " Jerusalem should be shared." Jacob said. "Stop destroying symbols of our faith. We are very similar." With loud battle cries, we rushed towards the fight. Blood was being shed by Jews and Christians alike. Sadly, I shook my head and zapped back to my New York Condo.
     To late, I had realized that the right way to settle religious arguments did not include dead bodies. Wars between faiths had been going on for centuries, but it didn't have to be this way. Instead of suiting my friends up for a fruitless battle, I should have organized a peaceful negotiation. I did understand, however, that beliefs were worth fighting for. I just wished we could all get along. Confused, I went to bed, leaving the heavy thinking to the scholars.

M4: Sandstorm!

     A leash clenched in my left hand, I led a peevish camel through the harsh desert. Behind me, Bedouins wrapped in long scarves trudged along the well worn trade road. All together, we made up a caravan of dehydrated travelers and tired livestock. After arriving in an oases on the Arabian Peninsula, I had joined forces with the nomads. So far, it had just gotten me a face full of camel spit.
     The flat, sandy, plain of the desert stretched out in all directions. I was getting really tired of the same old scenery. The air was over 120 degrees and bone dry. Suddenly, a hot wind blew in my face. The subtle difference almost knocked me over. The breeze culminated into a roar, and a giant wave of sand loomed in the distance. "Sandstorm!" a Bedouin yelled over the din.
     My companions immediately hunkered down behind their camels. I thought it was awful to use an animal as a shield, but camels are the boats of the desert. They are built to block sand. I pressed my self against George (my camel), who had already sat down. I buried my face in my scarf. The minute I had got into position, the storm caught up with us. Even though I was covered, the grit worked it's way into my mouth, ears, and nose. Huddled for dear life, I tried to keep breathing.
     After about five minutes of 0 visibility, the wind died down to a low moan. I could see the sky! I surveyed the rest of the traders. We had all shifted backwards 10 feet. Standing up shakily, I shook about 20 pounds of sand from my clothes. Assembling back into caravan formation, everyone carried on as if nothing had happened. I was very confused. Didn't people die in sandstorms? Why were they all so indifferent? I asked a kind man named Muhammad. "That little thing? That was just a breeze." he replied with a laugh.
     I had the caravan drop me off at the closest town. Even though Muhammad had assured me that we had been in no danger, I was still kind of freaked out. I rushed to my Porshe and zoomed off. I really didn't want to face another wall of dirt. If I did ever encounter another sandstorm though, I knew to locate the nearest camel. In an instant, I was greeted by New York. I noticed an identical face peering through the crowd. Linking arms with Glimmer, I walked away from the barren Arabian Peninsula.

M3: I'm an Actress!

     As soon as I arrived in medieval Europe, I noticed the troop of actors meandering along the dirt road. One held up a sign saying "Actors Wanted". Interested, I approached the group of unique individuals. "Hello." I said to a fat bald man in a robe.
"Are you, by any chance, an actress?" He asked hopefully. I decided to take a chance.
"Uhhhh, not exactly," I started, "but I was a tree in our fifth grade production of A Midsummer Nights Dream." He looked quite puzzled, but he must have realized that a crazy actress was better than no actress, because he handed me a paper full of scribbled text. I accepted the script and followed the group along.
     After seeing that I was at least literate enough read a my lines, the actors had promptly given me a lead role in their mystery play. A mystery play, in case you didn't know, is a play about a story from the Bible. This particular play was about the story of Noah's Ark. The leader of the troop had explained to me  that there were many theatre groups, and so one needed to be unexpected to gain notice.That was why, instead of the men playing the male and female roles, they wanted a women to play the main male role. Noah. I was not very thrilled, because just the mention of an audience had me sweating through my tunic.
    The next two weeks were full of rehearsing, rehearsing, and more rehearsing. The play was an hour long, and we were going to perform it at a merchants festival in a nearby village. I had 123 lines, and so far I had memorized 23. Basically, in the play, Noah hears god telling him to build a boat with two of every animal to save all the species from a big flood. I was sure some other stuff happened, but I had only read that far into the script. The director was acting really peevish, because we had only successfully ran through the first scene. We were so busy that I almost forgot to be nervous about the actual play. Once and a while though, I remembered the thousands of people that were going to see me make a fool out of everyone. Even though I was terrified, I stuck it out, and eventually, opening night came.
     It was one hour until curtain, and the butterflies in my stomach had turned into a herd of elephants. After I paced backstage and chugged 2 gallons of water, the play started. There was an introduction, and then finally my cue. A few uncomfortable seconds passed, until someone used a cane as a goad. I said my lines without a hitch. In fact, everything ran smoothly. Well, except for someones robe slipping, but that wasn't my fault. At the end of the performance, I took a final bow while loud cheers assaulted my ears, then I removed my beard. The crowd was completely silent, and I was quickly pulled out of the limelight.
     No one seemed to like our controversial casting, but at least they had liked me when they thought I was a man.The rest of the night was a blur of congratulations from fellow actors. It seemed that I hadn't crashed or burned. Although I only got payed about enough to buy a subway pass, I had faced my fear, and that was what mattered. The theatre troop had also asked me to continue on with them. Considering I had to get back to college, that wasn't an option. It was good to know I had a career to fall back on though.