Every hero must meet their villain. It’s an essential part of the journey. Harry met his Voldemort and the Buddha his Mara. Classic villains aren’t just evil, though. They’re more complex than that. The true antagonist represents both the antithesis of a character and the worst parts of them. This is what makes a good conflict so thrilling: the balance between two characters so different yet so much the same.
Take Harry and Voldemort. Harry, an innocent boy, loves unconditionally, never resorts to violence, and has a nose. Voldemort, conversely, is a hardened murderer, incapable of loving, unapologetically violent, and has no nose. Both characters, however, share a God complex borne out of suggestions that either of them are “the chosen ones”; in Harry’s case, “chosen” to mystically survive a deadly attack; in Voldemort’s, “chosen” to pursue the Death Eater agenda and rid the world of impure blood.
If you prefer, take the Buddha and his Mara. Mara was the Buddha’s demon, representing, among other things, his ego—the darkest parts of his soul. In Buddhist legend Mara attempted to prevent the Buddha’s enlightenment with seductions of “unskillful emotions” like greed, sensuality, and hate. The brilliance of Mara is that he used the Buddha’s own ego against himself, an amplified version of all the bad in his heart. The Buddha did not succumb to these temptations, although he was reminded of the demon inside him for the rest of his days.
All of this is to say that my journey crossed such a plot marker last week. I met my villain, my antagonist, my Voldemort, my Mara. He was so alien yet so much the same, magnifying the worst parts of my self. His name was Clark.
You would be right to think “Isaac – shut up. You’re no savior like Harry Potter or the Buddha. You’re no visionary like Greta Thunberg or Malala. How can you call yourself a hero?”
I’m definitely no trailblazer like Malala or Greta, and I’m definitely not going to save the world. However, I am the main character in my story, the protagonist of my own life. So are you, my reader, but for your own legacy. If I’m the hero of my own life, then this blog is my epic tale. Follow me as I describe my worst WWOOF experience to date—where I met my Voldemort.
Trudy (my previous host) dropped me off in Nelson where I stayed for the night. I think my credit card was compromised during my stay at the youth hostel Nelson – my suggestion is that you never, ever stay there.
I took the bus to Picton (a small coastal town on the South Island famous for having the port of the Interislander Ferries) quite early in the morning, arriving at 11:00. Clark and his wife Mina had offered to pick me up from the library at 6:00PM.
Seven hours later they showed up in a black station wagon. We hit it off immediately – laughing, joking, having a ball on the way to the marina. This had never really happened to me before, the quick hitting-it-off, except for at Ngatjan, funnily enough. I now know that getting along with your hosts right away is not a good sign. Awkwardness plays an important role in human interaction; having initial discomfort is normal, even desirable, as I suppose it means all members of a group are just figuring eachother out. An immediate dissolution of all that is awkward is unnatural – and, I think – indicates abnormal social dynamics.
We reached the marina. Clark and I took all the groceries out of the car and loaded them onto the boat, a medium-large fishing vessel that was green, corroded, and rickety below the feet. I learned that the boat was perfectly safe but looked as it did due to its sinking a few weeks prior. Okay, then.
Mina wasn’t joining us for a few days – she was going to help their daughter move in to a new house. It was just Clark and I on our way to a fun “Boy’s Weekend”.
Clark expertly navigated out of the marina. It was brutally windy and an exit certainly required a great deal of skill. I trusted that I was in good company and relaxed.
The boat ride to my new home, Dolphin Cove, was spectacular. We looped in and out of the Marlborough Sounds, an area that must be seen to be believed. Towering green islands peacefully rise out of the water, resting, largely untouched. There are many long white clouds to be found, dolphins swimming nearby.
We made it to our destination after an hour on the water. I’d had pleasant chatter with Clark the whole way through, although what he said next elevated him to God level:
“Isaac, do you like fishing? Come, we’ll take the boat out on the bay and try to catch some ‘kahawai’, our local fish. I’ll teach you what to do.”
This was music to my ears. I love fishing, especially in pristine environments like this one. I thought that Clark was the best host ever, at that point; most hosts, like my guy in Ngatjan, often talk about going fishing but never stay true to their word.
This guy, however, Clark, was a man of his word, and I respected that. He gave me a fishing rod with a special reel I’d never used before and told me what to do. He also grabbed a pole and began to fish himself.
We were trawling – Clark was driving the boat slowly while our lines were in the water, propelled by the vessel’s movement. Clark immediately hooked, reeled in, and gutted a beautiful fish. I was impressed – my first fish had come off the line. I kept trying, although I just couldn’t bring one in. My technique was lacking; I wasn’t keeping the rod at 90 degrees with the boat; I wasn’t using my thumb to guide the incoming line back onto the spool in a Z-shape; I wasn’t bringing home any dinner. Clark wasn’t upset, but my continued failure was beginning to annoy him. He knew that I’d never done this kind of fishing before, he knew it wasn’t easy. I think he was supremely disappointed in me, likely thinking “my son Daniel would be doing much better than this idiot Isaac.”
I eventually caught a fish, but it was too small to eat. I threw it back and we sailed to the jetty.
We tied the boat to the dock. I seemed to do something wrong with one of the ropes Clark gave me, it wasn’t tight enough or maybe too much to one side. He was unimpressed, and I was beginning to feel like an idiot.
We unpacked and headed inside. Let me just note, quickly, that this property was and will probably always be the most beautiful WWOOF place I’ve ever seen. We were completely remote, nestled among the tall green mountains of the sounds. The water in the cove was calm, clear, coruscating. There were no sandflies or other annoying insects; the wind shooed them away. Wild goats, sheep, deer, and horses roamed the hills. Huge communities of birds provided unique soundtracks at every moment of the day. This place was farming heaven on earth, and my hopes were big.
The house was also fantastic – three almost yurt-shaped sections formed the main building, consisting of 4 or 5 bedrooms, many bathrooms, a huge kitchen, laundry room, living room, and workspace. Everything was solar- or hydro-powered, including the hot water.
I was led to my room and private bathroom – what a treat. The bedroom was large and had an amazing bed made from varnished logs and branches. I saw a note with accompanying Tupperware on my bedside table:
Oh my – what a kind gesture. I’ve never been left with cookies like that before! I knew that Clark and Mina would be experts of hospitality – that rang true for my entire stay, actually.
But reality hit when I walked back downstairs, to the kitchen, with a gift for Clark in my hands. I like to buy my WWOOF hosts a nice loaf of sourdough from a local bakery – it’s a can’t-miss gift. Clark was next to the stove when I approached:
“Hi Clark, I got this bread for you. I like to give bread to my hosts because everyone eats it!”
“That’s not true. Not everyone eats bread. That’s a generalization.”
Stupid me decided to indulge Clark in this pointless argument.
“I’d say that most people eat bread. Can you name a culture that doesn’t have some sort of bread-food?”
“That is a huge generalization. It’s like saying ‘everyone is white’ or ‘everyone is Asian’.”
“That’s not at all what I’m saying. Anyway, I’m sorry, I’ll correct my statement. ‘Lots of people eat bread’.”
“Even that is not true. What about people following the paleo diet? How much bread do they eat? I don’t eat bread, except for as a treat. It is extremely unhealthy, bread.”
This was infuriating me. I knew right away that Clark was pathologically stubborn, that I wouldn’t be able to “win” any argument or concession from him. This discussion about bread haunted me for the rest of the week – he only stopped bringing it up around day 5. My favourite line of his, said on day 2, was that “people who eat bread are stupid.” The context was a discussion about the prevalence of cheap white breads like Wonder™️ in our diets of today. The point Clark was trying to make was that people who don’t know how to or cannot afford to improve their diets are “stupid.” I firmly believe(d) that people who eat cheap white bread are not all stupid – maybe uninformed – but not stupid. Who cares, anyway, I thought? I let it go.
We had a fantastic dinner of the kahawai Clark caught and headed off to bed. I was largely unconcerned – I have noticed that WWOOF hosts, always the men, tend to be condescending at the beginning of a stay. I saw this in Hawaii and Australia, too, even at the best of farms. I think hosts employ condescension to scope out the WWOOFer’s emotional resilience and humility. I think it’s a draconian tactic, in any case. Thinking that Clark was just another patronizing male farmer I slept soundly, knowing that he would ground himself tomorrow.
Incorrecto. I woke up, had a quick breakfast, and headed outside to get some tasks from Clark. He was in a jolly good mood. He taught me how to use his electric lawnmower and told me to start mowing the lawn.
I’m not even going to describe the intricacies of this scene; that would be a waste of words. All you need to know is that I couldn’t do a single task correctly for this guy. I either mowed too high, low, too much to the left, right, let the mower get too grassy, and so on. I was genuinely doing my best, but every time he came to check on my work he was disappointed. It wasn’t constructive disappointment, either. He would often ask questions like “do you have listening issues?” and “tell me, Isaac, why are you unable to do anything correctly” and “it’s a simple machine, Isaac, a good I.Q. tester, don’t you think?”
This motif of I.Q. was an important one throughout my week at the farm. Clark was obsessed with intelligence metrics, calling every obscure door lock or even tight jar an “I.Q. test”. He made me feel like an ape, not even close to his plane of existence. If I fumbled with a bizarre pulley-gear gate system for more than 5 seconds he would say “OHHHHHP! I.Q. Test!” and open the gate. His level of intelligence transcended time and space; I was a dumb 18 year old, a mongoloid, according to him. Or at least that’s how I felt.
After a disastrous morning of doing absolutely everything wrong I still hadn’t learned my lesson. I was talking back to him, saying that the instructions were too ambiguous, saying that I’m sorry for not doing it how he wanted.
We went in for coffee – a morning ritual. He made this insipid “latte” every morning that was really just plunger coffee diluted with hardly-foamed milk. (The coffee probably wasn’t that bad – but my memory and taste are tainted by what followed.)
“Sit down, Isaac. I’d like to tell you something.”
“Shit,” I thought. I knew I was in for a tirade. I sat down.
“You’re 18, Isaac. Your brain isn’t fully developed yet – that’s just a fact of science. Your prefrontal cortex isn’t done growing. You aren’t able to make proper mature decisions, yet, Isaac. That’s another fact of science. You’ve still got a few years to go. 18 year olds are just going to break things – it happens every time. Whenever an 18 year old unpacks a dishwasher they only focus on speed. This ends up chipping the dishes, cups, and that’s not something you want. You see, Isaac, when I unpack the dishwasher I do it slowly, thoughtfully, efficiently, safely. No dishes are broken. You can’t be expected to make informed decisions, Isaac – you’re not there yet.”
This went on for quite some time. I didn’t know what to do with such information. True, my brain isn’t fully developed. Still – how am I supposed to live with myself in such an undeveloped state? Is my lack of maturity an excuse for stupid behavior? Am I supposed to avoid doing anything so as to not make any mistakes? I ask Clark:
“I agree with you. But how can I reconcile what you are telling me?”
“What do you mean reconcile?”
“How can I accept that my maturity is so lacking and still go on with my daily tasks? How can I apply what you’re telling me?”
“Well, Isaac, there’s a reason car insurance is so expensive for young people. You’re way more likely to end up in a crash.”
“O.K. But how do I apply this to my work ethic? Also, if you could go back in time, what would you say to your 18-year old self?”
“Simple things: don’t operate machinery at night, don’t operate machinery at night while drunk, and don’t operate machinery at night while drunk and on the road.” Clark then proceeded to show me a huge scar in his arm from the accident he alluded to. It looked like someone had taken a razor-sharp ice-cream scoop and formed a quenelle of flesh out of his bicep. I think it limited the use of his arm for many years.
Everything thus far was beginning to make sense. Again, I have no psychological or -analytical authority, but I think I knew why I was facing such poor treatment from Clark:
- He resents, maybe hates, his 18 year-old self for making poor decisions. His scar was serious and recovery from the incident was definitely not easy. My assumption was that he is trying to retroactively punish his adolescent self through me, an 18-year old. This explains the obsession with maturity.
- He was bullied or teased as a child for odd behavior that perhaps stemmed from “high intelligence” and now wants to do the same to others, particularly to small and docile people like me. This explains the obsession with I.Q. scores.
After Clark’s invaluable lecture I went on to do more work. This time, he showed me how to pull out a certain type of rush-grass. This grass absolutely covered a valley behind the house, and the removal of it was a purely aesthetic pursuit. I’ve come to learn that pathological obsessions with pointless weeding are not a good sign.
Of course, I did everything terribly. At dinner that night I faced a similar dissertation about maturity and, of course, more arguments I couldn’t hope to win. At this point I didn’t speak back to Clark – I was feeling a bit uncomfortable, and keeping my silence was the best thing I could do. When he would correct me on something or state that I “cannot listen” I was getting vibes of my man from Ngatjan. I was getting vibes of that primal and instinctual fear that’s impossible to describe. I really only said “yes,” “you’re right,” and “I’m sorry” to Clark by then because I was becoming afraid. It was not good.
I considered leaving that night – but two things deterred me. Firstly, the only public transit off the island is a boat that delivers the mail twice a week – I had to wait a few days, anyway. Secondly, Mina was due to return the next morning and I felt that Clark would be more tame around her.
I was right about Mina’s effect on Clark. It’s not that he became friendly to me – he had never been unfriendly (condescending, yes, rude, yes, semi-hostile, yes, but all covered in a thin veneer of jolly friendliness that established his dominance over the situation) since I arrived. He just stopped with the insulting, patronizing, pedantic talk with me whenever Mina was in the room. He didn’t say much to me at all, actually, when Mina was near. However, when she wasn’t with us – e.g. while we worked on the farm or when she was gardening and we were inside – Clark the Bully emerged once more. The second Mina walked out the door he looked for something to blame me for or “teach” me. It was horrible. His new thing was to talk about my level of English, stating that “perhaps you cannot follow my instructions because you do not understand them. Our English is not on the same level.” He also said seemingly self-blaming things like “Kiwis don’t speak English – we spit all of our words out at the same time.” I don’t know why he mentions that, because he made very clear that my lack of understanding was fully and truly my own fault. Also, after spending a month in New Zealand, I can promise you that Kiwis do not “spit all of [their] words out at the same time” – it’s a lovely accent and, I think, easier to understand than a thick Australian one. I think that I was struggling to follow Clark’s instructions because that’s what he wanted; maybe his mind linked false narratives about my working/listening so that he had an axis on which to bully.
After only a few days I knew that Clark was my nemesis, placed within the storyline of my adventure to test me. He fitted the description of my classic villain perfectly. He was opposite to me in his height, life path, and sadistic bullying. He was extremely similar to me, although in an amplified way, in his stubbornness, condescension, and crippling my-way-is-the-only-way mindset. All of these things are parts of my character about which I am not proud but can accept ownership for. My parents and friends at school, particularly, have seen this side of me. I can often cling to something and refuse to accept that it’s wrong, although I have tried hard over the years to control this. As well, I can err on the side of condescension when explaining things to people, especially subjects I’m confident about, and I’ve tried to work on this too.
Meeting and interacting with Clark was like looking into an inverse Mirror of Erised. (For the uninitiated: the M.O.E. My apologies for so much Harry Potter, but I think it’s effectively required reading nowadays.) I saw not what I desired most but what I wanted least, i.e. my potential development into a man like Clark. A scary development. One which would make more than a few people unhappy.
I resolved to “never” be the Clark within me ever again. I vowed to never condescend. I promised to quash stubbornness, to embrace humility. I even said this to my two moms (Jennifer and Linda – and I hasten to add that Ellie is also a mom #2) and now it’s etched in cyber-stone.
But then I realized that my resolutions, like those of New Year’s Day, were unrealistic and would never last. It’s impossible to genuinely erase a piece of your character. It might be comforting to think so, but it cannot be done. Just think about yourself.
The same applies to the classical antagonist/protagonist relationship; one never defeats the other by means of sheer force. Harry wouldn’t have been able to murder Voldemort with a skillful twist of his wand – his, Voldemort’s, soul was too tangled. Harry had to do something else which, I think, is the only way to truly defeat one’s nemesis.
Ultimately, H.P. beat Voldemort by living a life that his enemy sought to destroy, by embodying the traits his nemesis couldn’t hold in his heart. He passively weakened Voldemort’s power by actively strengthening those of his friends, and did so by living with love and virtue.
The story is the same with the Buddha. He didn’t destroy the temptations of Mara; you can’t kill things like greed and hate. Instead, the Buddha defeated Mara by focusing on those traits which he believed were true and good. His unbounding magnanimity and love were enough to quell the demon.
This all sounds grossly cheesy, and I know everyone’s heard MLK’s “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” But if there’s anything I learned at Dolphin Cove it’s that you really can’t change someone with force or clever tactics; all you can do is embody the traits you want to see in the world.
I tried my best to embody this very peaceful being for the rest of the week. I was hardly in contact with Clark for the last three days as I just avoided him as much possible. I never talked back, I never disagreed, and I never did anything that might be able to fuel more of his foulness. My ferry was booked and I was feeling good; it was almost time to escape. I won, I thought. I beat my enemy by not succumbing to him.
Clark wasn’t done with me yet, though. He was looking for one final opportunity to show his dominance, to suck out as much sadistic pleasure as he could.
On my last day I had worked for around five hours. Most of my day consisted of pulling out the grass reeds mentioned earlier in this blog. I spent two hours doing the grass reeds, an hour chopping wood, then lunch, and lastly did two more hours of axework. Note that it is important to not do more than two hours of grass reed-pulling in a day; the motion is very tough on the hands and leads to great pain and blisters if done in excess.
I was feeling great. My workday was done, nothing went horribly wrong, and my time at Dolphin Cove was done.
But my heart began to race when I heard the putt putt of Mark’s A.T.V. advancing. I just knew he was looking for one last gallivant. I was scared.
He didn’t say anything to me and drove directly to the area which I had weeded that morning. I knew he was going to “assess” what I’d done, and I knew it wouldn’t be an A+ job regardless of the quality. I was unhappy at Dolphin Cove because I permanently felt the impending doom of receiving back a test or essay you know you failed.
Five minutes later, Clark returned.
“I saw the work in the valley. I am surprised.”
”Was it okay?”
Clark gives no response. Then, he continues:
“The ground is wet from the rain, Isaac. It is easier to pull out the reeds when the ground is wet. That’s why I told you to pull them out now. Because the ground is wet. What a waste, Isaac.”
I began to shiver a bit because his tone contained tinges of that primal hostility I still can’t describe well. I didn’t know what to say; if I pleaded that I “did my best” or that “my hands hurt after two hours of weeding” I would just be tossing wood into his sadistic furnace. I said nothing.
“I’m going back to the house, Isaac, and I’m going to put my welder in the shed. I will come back here and we will go to the valley together to look at your work. Check it out. See if you actually did two hours’ worth.”
“Would you like me to head there now?”
“Listen to what I say. Stay here.”
Clark said that last line aggressively and I was beginning to panic. Seriously panic. He zoomed off on his A.T.V. and I began to wait.
I noticed that I was shaking more seriously and that my biceps were tensed up. My breathing sped and I realized “Holy shit, I’m having an adrenaline rush.” The revelation only made me panic more.
I was entirely scared that Clark was on his way to the house to pick up his hunting rifle (which he showed me a few days back), bring me to the valley, and shoot me dead. The way he phrased and toned his instructions made me think that our trip to the valley would not be for educational purposes. I thought he was taking me there, all alone, so that he might torture me in privacy.
Adrenalin-crazed me thought that my best course of action would be to hide in a nearby bush with my axe and wait to see if Clark would arrive with his gun. If he did have the weapon, I would defend myself by popping out of the bush upon his coming to look for me. If he didn’t have the gun, I could just pretend I went for a No. 1 by a tree. I knew that running would not be an option in either case.
This all sounds bonkers but I am not lying about my feelings at that moment. They were real. My caveman ancestors died so that I would have a survival mechanism of fight-or-flight and my body had switched on the alarm. That wasn’t in my control; I was prey to my own hormones. I was mostly thinking “oh my God, what will Mom and Dad do if I die” and that thought terrified me far more than that of my own death. I considered using my SAT phone (on a Garmin GPS device) to call the police.
My logical side seemed to kick in, though, and I calmed down a bit. I asked myself questions like “if he wanted to kill me, why not a few days ago?” and “if he wanted to torture me, why not just use an axe or angle grinder or something?” These were morbid thoughts but they somehow gave me solace.
I opted to not hide in a bush with the axe. Clark did eventually return, my heart rate reaching NASCAR levels, and I was relieved to see no gun in his lap. I actually did the phew hand gesture and wiped sweat off my forehead. He didn’t have a gun, yes, but I knew there was bullying to come. I said to myself “just last one more evening, don’t say anything, don’t make it worse.”
He arrived wearing a blank, smug expression on his face. I’ve only seen this particular countenance on schoolyard bullies before or during an episode of torment. It was a face scary in its complacent emptiness.
We began walking to the valley. He started by criticizing my wood chopping, saying this or that about size, wetness, who knows. I didn’t stack the wood correctly, either. He was “heavily disappointed.”
The fun began, though, when he started on the weeds in the valley.
“I took a look at your work in the valley. I have a few possible explanations for why you did such a poor job. Firstly, you might not have done two hours of work. Secondly, your technique might be lacking. I believe it was both causes, actually.”
As we walked Clark did not shut up. I only said “yes,” “I’m sorry,” and “I will do better.” There was a tremble in my voice. I honestly felt like a slave talking to his tyrannical master.
Clark continued:
“Why can you not do things correctly? Are you too much of an individual? Oh, right, you have no siblings. That makes sense. You’ve always had it your way, Isaac, and that’s the only way you do things. Too much of an individual.”
If you removed his beard, 6’1” height, and vocabulary, Clark’s words could easily have come from an 8-year-old bully on a playground. This was just obscene. I’m not sure if it was quasi-verbal abuse, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. Still, I kept quiet. I was feeling surprisingly little internal turmoil, calm like Harry or the Buddha in his last moments, knowing that peace was just around the corner.
Clark was whistling and humming happily during this entire one-way conversation, even though we both knew how emotionally driven it was. He would say something awful to me and then whistle off a happy little lick, like everything was O.K. I importantly note this whistling and humming because it was Clark’s obvious celebration of his complete power over me in the situation. His exaltation of dominance. His sadistic glee. He loved seeing me so unhappy and subjugated. What a sick man.
We stopped walking at a patch of the weeds,
“Let’s begin, Isaac. Let’s see how many weeds we can pull together. Just you and me. Now.”
Before anything else, please note:
1) I had already done five hours of work that day, weeding and axing, and I was exhausted
2) I had done two hours of that weeding the day before (in addition to the weeding of that morning) and my hands were raw under my gloves. You grab the weeds between thumb and index, wrap once around the pinky, and pull hard to uproot. Not friendly to the hands
“We will stay here until the whole patch is eradicated, Isaac. You start there and I’ll start here. Let’s see what we can do.”
There was a huge problem here. I was basically being extorted. My hands were in pain (not severe, not awful, but enough to make me wince) and I was too afraid to say that I was finished my working hours. I felt threatened that if I asked to stop there would be consequences. Mild extortion.
While we weeded, Clark gave his grande finale of a tirade. I wrote it down word-for-word when we returned to the house:
“Isaac,” he said. “Let me tell you a story. A parable of sorts.”
“You see, I used to work in sales. At sales school we were taught what it means to be a good salesman. Well, Isaac, the key thing to know is this: as a salesman, one should never offer a product that one cannot provide. If a customer asks you for something you don’t have, be honest. Tell them that you can’t sell them any apples. You can, however, say this: ‘Dear customer, I unfortunately have no apples to sell you today. I do, however, have oranges – let me tell you why they’re better.’
“Honesty is essential, Isaac. You disappoint the customer when you offer them something you don’t have.
“I was on a sales team with ten people under me. We sold $150,000,000 of D.I.C.T.E. products to New Zealand. 150 divided by 10 is 15. That’s $15,000,000 each. We did it by selling oranges, not apples. We never said we had any apples.”
I gave no response. He added:
“If you can’t figure it out, Isaac, you are the salesman and I am the client. It’s Willing Workers on Organic Farms, Isaac. You sold me things you didn’t have. That’s why the customer is unhappy, Isaac. If you had only offered me something you had you might have been productive, even successful.
“Take these lessons far with you. You are not the worst WWOOFer I’ve ever had, Isaac. We’ve had people cry home for their mommies. All were 18 year-olds. You just don’t know how to listen, Isaac. Too much of an individual. If you can learn to only sell what you have and to listen properly you will be set up well.”
Obviously, a tornado of thoughts was running through my head at this point. The main one, though, was “oh my God – this maniac is basing this conversation on my ability to do pointless WEEDING? I’m not doing brain surgery here. I’m doing AESTHETIC WEEDING. I’m dealing with a madman.”
As we weeded, Clark still didn’t stop with the questions about “why I can’t listen?” and “am I too much of an individual?” Of course, I wasn’t responding to anything. After a jolly session of whistling, he asked:
“Well, Isaac, my questions aren’t rhetorical. What are your answers?”
I knew he was just trying to pull my fuse, to get me to explode. I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. I said nothing.
“We never got it together from the beginning, Isaac. You need to do better. Work harder. I would suggest becoming more observant; that might help you. Do you have any other ideas?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Clark continued to disparage my weeding as we worked, making up errors like “Isaac, don’t put your refuse on the path.”
As I mentioned before, I actually wasn’t flaming in my head. I wasn’t thinking “I want to kill this man” or anything like that. There was a bizarre calmness within me, fresher than the morning dew. I was proud of my self control, and I felt protected under the aegis of my own mind.
In fairness, though, I did occasionally think vengeant thoughts like “he can say whatever he wants about me now, but I am positively going to ruin his reputation on WWOOF.” That’s another normal human reaction, I think.
We finished our first area and moved into another. I was exhausted and my hands were crying a bit. Clark said we needed to continue weeding and kept going with the invectives. As well, he repeatedly mentioned two WWOOFers from the week before, Noah and Alexa, an early-30s couple from the states who were apparently superstars. He did this the whole week, actually, trying to obliquely criticize my own efforts. He particularly mentioned Alexa’s eradication of the valley’s weeks, as if to incite my masculine rage at a woman’s having done better than me. Little did he know that I, Isaac Glassman, a 130 pound 5’4” male who lost multiple arm-wrestling matches to girls in grade 10 Outdoor Ed., am perfectly satisfied with my masculinity. His curses were ineffective. Hell yeah.
We continued working and although I was tired and in pain, my weeding productivity went up because of my adrenaline rush from a few minutes before. Clark continued whistling, humming, engaging in egotistical autofellatio, etc. Time stood still.
“Time for dinner. I’m sure Mina has whipped up some delicious fodder.”
We began to walk back to the house. He asked, one last time:
“I asked you some questions about yourself. Why didn’t you answer?”
“I’m thinking. I’m sorry.”
“Well, you’ve done your thinking. Give me your answers. I’m extremely disappointed in you.”
I still didn’t respond, and he agitatedly uttered “why aren’t you speaking?!”
I thought of what I needed to say and very convincingly sniffled out that:
“I’m just disappointed in myself. I need to do better. I’m sorry. I will learn from your lessons. I will remember them.”
Clark ate it up. It wasn’t an explosion, but my ultimate subjugation would be a second-best, for him.
Then, all of a sudden, he amiably asked if I’d like to “go windsurfing tomorrow? I’ll happily teach you and show you how to do it. It’ll be a blast.”
What a maniac. Asking something like that after the horrible treatment he’d subjected me to. I had no intentions of windsurfing.
Nothing else of interest happened. I ate dinner and ran back to my room, ready to write down everything he had said that day so that I could use near-verbatim speech in my blog. I slept extremely well, in the come-down from one of the biggest rushes of my life.
The next morning I packed my stuff, cleaned the room, and waited for my ferry. Clark was extremely pedantic about the cleanliness of my room, obviously moreso than he had been to any of the other WWOOFers ever. I know this because my room was filthy upon arrival, with cobwebs draping everything possible and hundreds of dead flies on the windowsill and crack between bed and wall. I dutifully cleaned everything, scooping up mounds of dusty raisin-like fly corpses so that the next WWOOFER wouldn’t be revolted by them.
I was in a good mood to Clark and Mina. It was a sign that I had won. Clark didn’t crush me. I maintained my inner peace and didn’t explode. I didn’t go home crying to my mom, although I was close to it.
Before leaving Mina gave me a loaf of her freshly baked bread. What a lovely lady. I only wish her the best. I could write another blog post about her, about how I presume Clark might have treated her. But I’m not going to. That’s not my place.
I took my bags and boarded the ferry. I shook Clark’s hand with joy as I left – thinking back, I can’t picture a more emotionally complex gesture. I’m still not sure what to think about it. Regardless, I didn’t say anything rude to my hosts upon departure, just “thank you for the hospitality, Clark and Mina. I learned a lot and had a great time.”
The boat sailed away.
3 weeks later (I’m currently sitting in my top-bunk bed in Rishikesh, India) I still cannot come to conclusions about my time at Dolphin Cove. I’m not sure exactly what I learned or how I might become a better person. The Harry Potter/Buddha comparison may be somewhat apt, mostly applicable in its forcing-you-to-identify-the-darkest-parts-of-your-soul message. Still, I don’t think calling Clark my “villain” does much to extract meaning from the experience.
That’s because he wasn’t my villain. He was just a guy. A mean guy. A condescending, rude, scary guy. A sadistic, masochistic, egotistic guy. But a guy nonetheless. He’s not the exception, he’s not the rule. There are people like him out there – lots, but there are also lots of people unlike him.
I think all I can do is be one of those people unlike him. Associate with and proliferate people unlike him. If everybody did that – who knows – the world might be a better place.
“What a depressing note to end this blog on, Isaac,” you might be thinking. I disagree. Consider your own life, how lucky you are to be surrounded by people unlike Clark. I think of mine and I realize I’ve hit the jackpot. I’m sure you have, too.
And if there is a Clark in your life – because we all have them, those mischievous creatures – don’t let them make you go crazy. Don’t let them convince you that you are the problem. The best way to do this is to ground yourself in the non-Clarks of your life, to talk to them about the Clark. Without fail the Clark’s spell will weaken, leaving them unarmed and you unhurt. With time, the Clark will go away.
Just wait.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Many of you might be thinking that WWOOFing is too dangerous after reading this blog. Listen to me: it’s not. I won’t cover the details, but I can promise that I landed up at Dolphin Cove due to a keen lack of research. The experience could have been avoided. Still, I wasn’t in any physical danger. Don’t let this deter you from WWOOFing. Shit happens.