Glory Days

The Boss and I had quite different 'glory days', but I surely understand the nostalgic glory of a free and easy time in life (when I, too, felt like a boss).  My two truest periods of glory were in Wellington, New Zealand and Cape Town, South Africa -- the first and final destinations of the Greatest Hits Tour, as divine intervention would have it.

I like to think of my connection to Cape Town as something special, but the truth is that it is almost impossible for anyone not to love this city.  I mean, look at the place.  Table Mountain's commanding presence.  Beautiful beaches.  Colonial buildings.  New Orleans-style balconies.  Hipsters mixed with the spirit of Africa.  It's a cosmopolitan paradise.

One thing, though, that may give my love of the city more depth is being acquainted with one of its most wonderful residents, Khumo Ntoane.  Khumo was the first friend I made in Cape Town seven years ago.  We worked together at a restaurant in the middle of the city's party district on Long Street.  It might be more accurate, though, to say that we 'worked the party district' in a more general sense.  This woman of strength, intelligence, and liveliness has a similar love of the random to my own.  She indulges all of my nonsense.  She gets me.  We have one of those friendships that defies space and time.  In the blink of an eye, I was spilling red wine on her new duvet as we spoke in an animated manner about life and love and joy and pain as if we had just been making Long Street the Wrong Street the night before, as if the six and a half years since our last session of wine and girl talk did not exist.

The other factor that might set my love apart from most outsiders is that I attract/seek out the beautiful madness that lingers just under the city's surface.  I want to get amongst all of it -- the wild and the gritty and the questionable and the slightly uncomfortable.  For me, Cape Town is about random conversations on the mini-bus taxis.  It's about bumping into those taxi acquaintances on Long Street and mistakenly accusing them of acting like 'hungry lions.'  It's about engaging in a playful physical battle over a bottle of water with the attendant of the mini-bus.  It is about stomping and clapping and singing on the train from Fish Hoek.  It's about joining a story-telling circle on the beach.  It's about shaking my ass like I own the dance floor with an assortment of other unknown women who also believe that they own the dance floor.

The only difficult part of being in a place that hums the melodies of your glory days is leaving that place. When my adult-life timeline comes up with strangers, I sometimes feel a slight sense of agitation when someone responds by saying, "wow, you have really been traveling!"  Yes, I have been traveling.  I have climbed to the tops of volcanoes and hiked to the bottom of canyons.  I have slept on long distance buses and trains and entertained silly conversations with folks who have been kind enough to pick me up as a hitch-hiker.  I have wandered and shopped and explored and laid on beaches with a cocktail in my hand.  All of that has been awesome, but much more significant than those moments of adventure and exchange in foreign territories have been the different relationships and communities I have fostered in my longer (if still relatively short) stays.  That has not been a vacation; it's been my life (unless, one were to argue that the life of Anna Skinner is a vacation...).  So, when I leave a place like Cape Town, a place that is so charged with nostalgia and meaning for me, it's not just like departing a spring break destination (even if there was a lot of binge drinking involved).  It's like leaving my natural habitat, leaving a bit of my heart, leaving one of my homes...and feeling the pain of not knowing when I will return.    

But, as they say, "tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." As I embarrassingly cried on the plane, looking down at the beauty and confusion and vitality that is Southern Africa, I did so not just in a state of self-indulgent loss but also in deep gratitude for the way the region has deeply changed my life, for the knowledge that it will always be a bit like home, for the joyous memories, and for the important life lessons.  A few tears may, too, have been dedicated to the deep hope that I will get to relive those glory days again soon.  

Seven

I did not realize that seven was a special number until my official dread release ceremony in April.  As I debriefed the timing of the farewell to my beloved hairstyle seven years after its creation, my wise girlfriends shed light on the significance of this number in science, spirituality, and other symbolism.

Since the de-dreading, the number seven has continued to show its importance on the Greatest Hit Tour.  In Rishikesh, I studied the seven chakras.  I spent seven months outside of the Western world.  I had seven brushes with romance (if you count me grabbing a beer with my ex-boyfriend and his current love).  I even met a nice man named Seven who gave me a ride to Katatura.  

Probably the most significant seven of all has been returning to Namibia almost precisely seven years after I packed up and moved out of my flat on Theo Ben Guirab Street in Walvis Bay.  I found this seven year timeframe to be magical -- the perfect window of time to allow me to see and feel some real, significant changes while maintaining a feeling of familiarity and connection.  For my three weeks in Namibia, I constantly felt like everything was simultaneously completely different and exactly the same.  

In seven years, my former workplace, the Walvis Bay Multi-Purpose Centre, had pretty much disintegrated into a skeleton of what it once was.  The offices were populated mostly by new faces and new organizations, with barely a trace of the vibrant HIV-related programs I knew so well.  Even though there was a new cast of characters involved in different plot lines, the general vibe remained -- dudes sitting in the reception area, reading The Namibian, humorously chewing the fat (literally and figuratively). Adelheid -- the former receptionist now giving directorship a go -- was still holding it down, using the same euphemism for sex ('has it been raining for you, my dear?').  Loving children ran around outside, waiting for the soup kitchen to serve lunch as the woman with Walvis Bay's brightest smile, Meme Teresia, quietly watched their game playing and prepared to clean up after their mess.

Seven years later in Owamboland, my mind was blown by the number of malls and blinging cars.  Oshakati had a number of fancy new buildings, and Ongwediva had an entire UNAM engineering campus that had not existed 'back in my day'.  The taxis, however, were still jamming too many hot bodies into a small space, and they still played the same song on loop (though they use MP3 players these days).  It probably goes without saying that the village is still the village is still the (beautifully awkward for an oshilumbu) village.

And, nearly seven years since I last saw The Tall One -- with seven years worth of wisdom about life and love behind me, with the deep understanding that nothing could ever make less sense than me and this guy -- when my ex-boyfriend stepped out of the taxi to meet me for dinner, I frighteningly felt something similar to the first time we met.

Namibia.  Same same, but different.

It's no surprise, then, that I felt so comfortable back in Namibia.  It sometimes felt like I was fluidly picking up where my 24-year-old self had left off.  I was refreshingly connected to the version of me who was regularly drinking beers at Fagan's and making daily stops at the Shop 4 Value.  But, there have been many metaphorical building developments and organizational overhauls in my life, just as I saw in Namibia.  After days of marveling over the personal life developments of my friends and former colleagues, I realized that a lot has happened in my own seven year window:  I have lived and worked in five different countries, I have fallen in and out of love twice, I have had 10 different jobs, I have made friends of such significance that it is hard to believe that I haven't known them my entire life, I sat next to my grandmother and my father as they passed on, I found yoga, and I developed a taste for olives.  

Anna Skinner.  Same same, but different.  

It is difficult to imagine what the next seven years holds for Namibia and for me.   I have a sense, though, that the we will both always more or less be 'same same but different'. I just hope that we meet again before the next cycle of seven begins.  

Culturally Shifting

From the land of Bolllywood to the land of the kwaito dancing brave.  Eish!

Every time the migratory pattern of the Greatest Hits Tour has come up, people have followed the logic of my movements easily until I mention the last leg:  Delhi, India to Gaborone, Botswana.  Though seemingly impractical financially and geographically, this move could not have made more sense to me.  Firstly, Saudia Arabia Airlines was offering an unreal fare to Johannesburg.  More importantly, I couldn't imagine a more appropriate end to my trip -- finishing in the place where my love affair with overseas life began, making an illogical turn to the place where I learned to rethink the term logical.  And, how cool is this -- I cut off my dreads at my first stop on this trip, and my last stop is the place where I created them.  

Indeed, being back 'this side' is fantastic.  I hitched a ride with a dude from Botswana and three Zimbabaweans to Windhoek from the middle of nowhere near the Bots border.  As the car cruised over the Namibian border, with the driver joking about paying lobola (bride price) of 20 cows to my parents, I felt this beautiful sense of contentment:  "I'm back in Namibia.  All is right in the world."  

Still, it has been about the weirdest transition ever.  Or, perhaps entering or departing India is shocking regardless of the preceeding/following locale.  

When I arrived at the Bangkok airport to catch my flight to Calcutta, I witnessed a cultural shift before I even landed on Indian soil.  I was totally fascinated by the scene at the check-in counter:  87 Indian men gathered around -- with barely any regard for lines -- discussing/arguing loudly and passionately about matters of luggage (I think...) with each other and with the very sweet, classically gentle and quiet Thai female airline staff.  I was still technically in Thailand, but this airport hubbub gave me a clear idea of the intensity into which I was heading.  Indeed, Calcutta was beautifully full-on (that Bangkok ticket counter only just scratched the surface), and it took me at least three days to settle into its fascinating chaos.  

Going from Bangkok's bustling population of 8 million to the intensity of Calcutta is nothing compared to the transition of heading from India's dense population to utter sparseness of Botswana and Namibia.  Rishikesh is not a very big place, but it still has the essence of the Indian bustle -- the congestion of people on foot, on motorbikes, and in overflowing auto-rickshaws mixed with meandering cows, hungry monkeys, street cart sellers, and discombobulated tourists.  In fact, Gaborone, Botswana has a larger population than Rishikesh according to my dear friend, Wikipedia.  But, Gaborone is shrouded in the silence of the Kalahari desert.  The city sprawls over a large area, making it seemingly almost as car dependent as the metro-D.  The roads are very well maintained.  Modern shopping malls are the source of entertainment.  There is not the constant noise of horns beeping and devotional chanting. And, it's flat and brown.  

Indeed, it was quite clear when I completed my very long series of taxi, plane, train, and bus connections that I certainly was not in the Indian foothills of the Himalayas any longer.  

I have so enjoyed observing this stark contrast (sing with me here the Namibian national anthem:  '...contrasting, beautiful Na-mib-i-a...').  I have been amazed at how it is possible to equally love two places that are seemingly so at odds.  I absolutely loved my 100% vegetarian diet in Rishikesh, but I also absolutely love street kapana (barbecued beef strips).  I loved the beautiful saris and the modesty, but I also love the tight tops, plunging cleavage, and short skirts even on Namibia's most unlikely female bodies.  I was fascinated by the firmness of gender roles and the scandal elicited by simply giving a man a hug, and I am equally fascinated by the fact that taxi drivers feel that it is fully appropriate to ask to date me/sleep with me/marry me in the space of three minutes.  I was in a dreamland of yoga practice and spiritual talk, and now I am in a dreamland of Windhoek Lager and kwaito music.  One of my favorite moments in India was slipping into a hall full of people that were chanting an entire holy book over the course of nine days.  One of my favorite moments in Namibia has been singing along with everyone in the bar: "she got that million dollar...million dollar oooh oooh oooh".  

On Saturday morning, I hit the defining moment of the contrast of my Rishikesh experience and my Walvis Bay experience.  I went to sleep (after many, many hours of dancing to Southern African house music) at 5:30am -- my old wake-up time in Rishikesh.  There was no yoga or fruit salad that day.  Instead, when I got out of bed around noon, I had a coke and a bag of Simba chips for breakfast.

So, here I am, still bobbling my head as a form of communication while also naturally re-integrating the "oooooh aye ayes" and "eish-es" of Southern Africa.  And, I feel even more in love with the bigness and wideness and weirdness of this world than ever before.  

     

  

Rishikesh Randoms, Part 3

In my first glorious week in Rishikesh when I was being charmed by shit-talking jewellers and American-passport-holding 78-year-old Indian men, I met an assortment of other characters that became fundamental to my experience in the foothills of the Himalayas.  

Wonderful Simon was a friend gateway to one of the most legendary of the Rishikesh nuggets.  Simon is a 48-year-old Englishman -- a bit of an addiction-prone wildman, full of heart and humor, on a quest for spiritual enlightenment (or, at least some creative inspiration for the writing of his screenplay).  We met at Oasis Cafe, the Grand Central Anna Skinner of my Rishikesh neighborhood.  I very luckily ended up sitting directly across from him on the outskirts of the socializing of folks from my yoga course.  We somehow plunged head first into life topics of magnitude and depth, making each other laugh outrageously despite some of the seriousness of our statements.  He was full of great stories, having spent the first good chunk of his adult life playing the role of Jesus in various stage plays around the UK and the other good chunk of adult life existing in the madness of India.  

A few days later, our paths luckily -- yet somewhat predictably according to the laws of Rishikesh -- crossed again.  This time not only did I get to enjoy Simon's company but also that of his new sidekick, Silent Baba.  Silent Baba looked more like he belonged on a surf beach than in a holy city.  He was topless, with a mass of chains/malas around his neck (my favorite being the necklace of white skull beads).  He had shoulder-length slightly sun-kissed hair that appeared to have the volume and wild matted-ness that only repeated dips in the sea could create.  He sat cross-legged just barely maintaining his decency by precariously arranging his sarong/skirt in a manner that prevented any scandalous exposure.  He smiled brightly as he smoked his marijuana pipe (with unique sound effects) in the middle of Oasis.  And, as his title suggests, the man did not speak.  He explained in written form and by way of the special translation skills of Simon that he had taken a 12 year vow of silence at a Kumba Mela about one year before.

Indeed, a word never left Silent Baba's mouth but all sorts of other grunts, hisses, and shushes did.  He wrote on anything within reach -- napkins, other people's journals, promotional leaflets, his hand, your hand, etc.  His vow of silence did not prevent or reduce his communication in any way.  The inability to speak was more of a communication challenge to which Baba was always always always able to rise. 

Our first half-silent conversation began with his special book of acquaintances.  Every time Baba met someone new, he asked him/her to fill out a brief questionnaire.  The form looked something like this:

Name:

Age:

Birthday:

Email:

Life Purpose:

So, we all sat and drank chai, discussing our basic backgrounds and life purposes as Baba shushed and hissed and scribbled his way into the conversation, usually silently interrupting with non-sequiturs about his main benefactors, Sherry and Deja from America.  

Perhaps it goes without saying that in addition to my skepticism of his silence, I do not believe him to be an enlightenment seeking baba/sadhu.  There are not any rules to being a holy man living a simple spiritual life, but I'm pretty sure that the general populace would agree that there is not much holiness in chain smoking spliffs and tagging along with foreigners in hopes of getting a free meal.  Silent Baba was certainly living on the fringes of society, but his path seemed more like the gravy train than the God train.  

Even still, I was fully fascinated and entertained with Simon's new friend, and I was very impressed with Simon's ability to speak Silent Baba's language.  He understood the nuances of the grunts and Baba's tailor-made form of sign language (my favorite movement was akin to screwing in a lightbulb).  I had no idea then that I would soon be fluent in Silent Baba speak, too.  Simon had to ease on down the road a few days later, but Baba wasn't going anywhere.  After that first meeting, Baba became very comfortable in Oasis and even more comfortable with my Rishikesh partner-in-crime, Sally -- a lovely ball of light and love from Ireland.  There was no hanky panky involved in their relationship, but Sally had a heart big enough to patiently tolerate his nonsense at length.  She was so wrapped up in the Baba spiderweb that she had her own sign language symbol for her name -- a sort of side sweep stroke of the hair.

For the next few weeks, Baba became well-known not just by "Baba's Babes" (a term brilliantly coined to describe me, Sally, and our other Irish girlfriend, Erica) but by all of the Oasis regulars.  Everyone was familiar with his standard order of one chai and two chapatis by means of special grunt.  And, it was difficult for anyone to escape the billowing smoke from his unique style of cigarette smoking or to evade his annoying manner of demanding the center of conversational attention despite his silence.  

Then, as quickly as he appeared in our lives, he disappeared.  Sally and I went away to an ashram for a week, where we practiced actual vows of silence for seven mornings.  We had no access to the internet or cell service.  We explained to Baba at length that we would be away for a week without any way to communicate.  However, due to the combination of his slightly unhinged mental state and the extreme amount of marijuana he smokes, he did not seem to comprehend or remember these explanations.  Erica met him on the street while we were away, and he was apparently in a state of distress over not having seen or heard from Sally for days.  When we returned, he tracked her down at Oasis that first evening, but then he fell off the face of the earth.  He continues to call Sally, hissing and shushing into the phone, but, despite her strong grasp of his unique language, even she cannot make sense of his bizarre cachophony of non-words.    

Like so many things about Silent Baba's existence, his disappearance is a complete mystery.  What is very clear, however, is that life became a lot more silent when the silent man disappeared.

Rishikesh Randoms, Part 2

In Rishikesh, I spend five hours a day involved in yoga-related activities.  In the remaining hours, I am eating, reading, writing or hanging out with my old man friend.

Brij Mehra's dogs, Lilly and Janti, sniffed me out first.  It was my second or third day in town, and I was getting to know the street sellers, Mr. Cow Security and The Palmello Kid.  I had just made my first purchase, and I was sitting on Palmello Kid's spare plastic stool as he meticulously peeled the grapefruity goodness.  We were engaged in one of those heartwarming slightly incomprehensible conversations involving his fifteen words of English, my five words of Hindi, and a lot of head bobbling and hand waving, when India's only two leashed dogs approached me.  On the other end of the leashes was an elderly man with a classic elderly man borderline-grimace.  Despite my first impression of his somewhat miserly-ness, he approached me with the same sort of warm curiosity as the dogs.  Before he told me his own name, he spoke on behalf of the kanines.  Lilly was the name of the mother, and her (shamefully cowardly) son was known as Janti.

I'm not sure if it was the intuition of the dogs or the intuition of Brij, but after only a few minutes of conversing, he invited me to his place for a coffee.  I was still waiting for the palmello to be peeled (it was becoming quite a process, probably part of The Palmello Kid's marketing scheme:  "Check it out, everybody.  White girls buy my palmellos. Don't you want to buy one, too?")  Brij lived only half a block away, so I figured I could sneak away briefly.

In addition to the two loyal dogs, Brij has two lovely domestic workers and an assortment of regular visitors.  And, because he is 78 and because he is Brij, people just do whatever he tells them to do.  When we arrived at his house, he told one of the regular visitors, a sweet young man by the name of Neerij, to set up two chairs for us in the garden and to turn on the kettle.  No sooner were the words uttered than I was sitting in a plastic chair with a cup of instant coffee in my hand.  Little did I know that in that moment I was being christened as another one of his regular visitors who was magically charmed into unquestioningly following his instructions and guidance.

In that brief meeting (I couldn't stay long because of the palmello and my yoga class), he managed to set up one of my first adventures in the area.  His domestic worker, Rajiv, was assigned to take me on a walk up the big hill that creates the backdrop for the neighborhood.  Rajiv's family home is near the top, so I would be able to meet his parents and siblings as well as enjoy the impressive view.  This was not intended to be all trekking and chai drinking fun and games, though.  Brij is an ideas man, and he thought that the family could potentially develop some of their land into a small tourism venture.  I was instructed to go armed with my camera and a set of entrepreneur's eyes.    

After debriefing my sweaty but enjoyable visit to the Rajiv's family home, I was assigned to expand this hilltop hike to the masses.  Brij must have sensed that I have a knack for project management, so with his encouragement, together we concluded that it would be a good idea to organize a group trek for my yoga classmates as an income generating project for Rajiv's family.  Echoing elements of my past lives, I was soon making announcements and posting a sign-up sheet and stressing out about whether or not people would enjoy the trek and if there would be enough food to go around.  

What developed out of these talks about trekking and packed lunches was really comforting companionship.  I began visiting Brij nearly every day, and every day I would give him an update on the number of people signed up for the trek and hash out some of the little details about the plan, such as the best method for transporting a tomato salad.  However, we mostly talked about life -- his past, my future, the personalities of Lilly and Janti, the stories of people we love, the sunny-side of American culture/lifestyle, the rituals of Hinduism, etc.  Often these conversations took place during "happy hour".  Booze is illegal in Rishikesh -- you can't find a drop of it in any restaurant or store.  But, Brij would open a little speak-easy for me most nights after my yoga lecture.  We would each enjoy one whiskey and soda, and I would revel in this single act of yoga defiance due to the influence of my 78 year old friend.

Now that Project Group Trek has passed (with great success, might I add), my visits to Brij continue.  Brij has been one of the greatest gifts to the greatest hits tour.  For me, there is something extremely comforting about regularly spending time in the presence of someone much older and wiser than me.  There is something about our generational gap that makes me more open-minded, accepting, compassionate, and naturally loving.  It's nice knowing there is someone looking forward to my next visit, and it is nice to have a house where I am always welcome. Being in his presence makes me feel nearer to my own family, even those who have long since passed away.  To put it simply, it's really nice to hang out with someone I get along with so well.  

There was certainly some magic involved in meeting Brij and the cultivation of our friendship.  We could maybe chalk it up to the special energy of Rishikesh again. However, what is critical to the existence of this relationship is my presence in one place for longer than the blink of an eye.  The truth is, as much as I may appear to be an adventurous traveller, I'm not all that good at it.  I'm built to foster relationships -- to have a regular check-out lane or corner store, to know the name and a few personal details of my local bartender, to have a favorite corner table at the cutest cafe, to have people to wave to and greet, to have a plastic stool next to The Palmello Kid, and to have a wonderful old man friend whose house I can drop into at any time.     

So, for this reason, I am pretty much certain that I will spend another month in Rishikesh, not leaving until I actually have to get on the plane in Delhi.  Why mess with a good thing?

Hula Hoping

Today is the 30th birthday of one of the world's most amazing women.  Amazing women deserve awesomeness every day, but they particularly deserve awesomeness on their birthdays.  I want to be one of the contributors to this amazing woman's day of awesomeness, but I am finding it a bit challenging.  Firstly, the emotional challenge: when you love someone so very much, just about any action does not seem sufficient in channeling the bigness of your love.  Secondly, the logistical challenge:  I'm an American on holiday in India, and she is a Kiwi on holiday in Europe.    

The only gift I could come up with to combat these difficulties of emotion dramatization and friendship globalization is to promote her amazingness.  This woman is a very talented musician who goes by the moniker Hula Hope.  She recently released a lovely album with "songs about threshing wheat and charming men, on the folk side of pop." It is truly great, and I think everyone should listen to it.  

So, my gift to her -- and to all of you! -- is the proliferation of this link: 

http://hulahope.bandcamp.com/

Here are a few bonus tracks, too. (Hula Hope also enjoys music video production.):  

(A brief digression:  In the spirit of sharing Hula Hope videos, I might as well throw in a project on which I collaborated with Hula Hope and Anna-grams.  It is a great source of joy and pride and complete ridiculousness for me:    https://vimeo.com/44302601)

SO...

Happy birthday, Hula Hope!  May this new decade be filled with awesomeness in your music career and beyond.

Rishikesh Randoms, Part 1

About a week ago, I arrived to Rishikesh -- a bonanza of yoga and relative peacefulness nestled into the foothills of the Himalayas.  I came here with the intention of attending a four week yoga course with a school called Agama.  My course is certainly not the only one on the block, though.  You can't walk more than a few meters without seeing a sign advertising a teacher or a class or a program related to yoga or Ayurveda.  Rishikesh is considered a bit of an auspicious spot by Indian Hindus, and, now, with the explosion of yoga in the Western world in the last decade or so, it has also become a hub for travellers and enlightenment-seekers from all corners of the world to congregate. There is a cyclical nature to this that I quite like.  One of the dudes who is credited with bringing yoga to the West (Swami Sivananda) led his adult spiritual life in Rishikesh.  From this town, the wisdom of yoga flowed out to the rest of the world and now the rest of the world is flowing back in.     

With this bit of background, you will have some context for a statement that I hear with some regularity amongst the yoga scene in Rishikesh: "this place has some really special energy."  I can't say for sure what that means, but I can say that I have been on my Anna Skinner game in a way that I have not experienced in ages.  One important amazing symptom of this is that I have been meeting some pretty awesome characters. The first nugget of note is Om the Jeweller with Diarrhea of the Mouth.

When I say that I am staying in Rishikesh, it's a bit of a lie.  I am staying just outside of Rishikesh town in a neighborhood called Swargashram on the other side of the river from the hustle and bustle.  It's a quiet (no cars allowed!) little stretch of one road with ashrams, restaurants, chai shops, bookstores, mini convenience corners, and a few street-cart salesmen.  This means I pass by the same relatively small group of people several times every day.  This might be annoyingly repetitive for some people, but it is ideal for me.  It means that I already know the names of many of the shop owners and get frequent invites for a chai and a chat.  It means that after only three days I was already feeling  like this place was home.  It's like my tiny Rishikesh version of Cuba Street in Wellington or Long Street in Cape Town.  

On my  first walk down this road, I had a brief exchange with Om the Jeweler with Diarrhea of the Mouth.  I was still easing out of my tough-girl exterior acquired while traveling through the madness of urban northern India, so I was not open for conversation business.  I immediately wrote him off as a likely asscrawler.  Twenty four hours later, though, that Rishikesh energy must have been coursing through me because when he invited me into his shop for a chai, I very happily agreed.  I let him unleash his tendency towards verbal diarrhea,  which I mostly found fascinating, estimating only a 25% bullshit rate.  

In one of his rare breaks in speech, I managed to ask a question about the large number of sadhus sprawled out on the benches along the road.  (Quick note on sadhus:  they are "renunciators" following a spiritual path.  They are usually wearing saffron/salmon colored sarongs/robes, they often have wild hair, and they generally look really fierce/maniacal in this manner that I find awesomely intriguing.)   "Are these saffron-wearing dudes really all sadhus...because some of them look like they are on drugs?"  This led to another lengthy description, still upholding the same suspected bullshit rate.  The important information that I believe to be true is that many of the sadhus are for real but some of them are sort of putting on an act to facilitate a lucrative beggar lifestyle.  Some of them might have started out as sadhus with a genuine spiritual focus but they have become involved in drugs and lured in my modern electronics/conveniences.  The most important part of his diarrhea of the mouth was this statement:  "Do you want to go meet a 'real sadhu'?  I can take you to meet one now."  

         

My answer to this question couldn't be more obvious (although the idea was still given some sensible consideration because of the 25% bullshit rate factor and the still existing possibility that Om the Jeweler was an undercover asscrawler).  

I followed my intuition, and I jumped on the back of Om's motorbike.  We headed over the bridge and a bit out of town, down a bumpy dirt road to a new-ish construction site next to the Ganga.  Just in front of the frame of the soon-to-be hotel was a simple but spacious three-walled hut.  It had a wonderful view of the river and the green foothills that have not yet been taken over by guesthouses and restaurants.   Bookending this meager living space was a large Shiva shrine at the front entrance and a big rasta-colored Bob Marley sarong on the back wall.  

Shiva and Bob.  Interesting combo.

Om the Jeweler introduced me to the small crew of men.  I met Hut-owner Baba, Oldman Visiting Baba, Silent Young Baba, and the Babas' Domestic Worker.  I sat in the presence of these babas, not entirely understanding what was going on but totally fascinated by everything I was witnessing -- the pimped-out aspects of this hut life (electricity and hotplate equipped), Hut-owner Baba's amazing dreadlocks that nearly reached his ankles when he unravelled the mass that usually sat like a crown on top of his head, the discussion of the flood that annually destroys the hut, the Babas' Domestic Worker brewing chai, Silent Young Baba playing with a smartphone, and then the bowl of hot water with a small bit of plastic wrap and some unidentified substance inside that looked a bit like sludge.  It was this last fascinating item that gave me an opportunity to ask what I thought to be a socially appropriate question:  

Me:  "Hey, what's in the bowl?"

Om:  "Opium.  Do you want some?"

Me:  "No. no.  Definitely not.  No"

Like I said, Shiva and Bob.  Interesting combo.

So, I sipped my chai, walked down to the Ganga to say a prayer (as encouraged by all Babas involved), watched the ingestion of opium for the first time in my life, and then turned down a puff of the pipe of marijuana.  Hut-owner Baba actually spoke decent English (another trait that made this lifestyle all the more suspicious), so we talked a bit about America and he told me a bit about how he had been living "the sadhu life" since he was seven years old.  

After what I deemed to be a polite passing of time, I gently vocalized my interest in getting out of this weird vortex of sadhu-non-sadhu-possibly-drug-dealer life so I could return to my sweet little sober Swargashram atmosphere for some dinner.  As a farewell and thanks for the visit, Hut-owner Baba offered me a blessing.  Although I thought his spiritual path was largely bullshit, I thought he might have had a 25% authenticity rate. Bob might have been on the back wall, but the Shiva shrine was very impressive and surely much more of a permanent image than that of the sarong.  Besides, there is hardly anyone whose blessing I wouldn't accept.  So, he smudged some holy ash in the area of my third eye and mumbled a few words in a holy language.  As I folded forward to meet my head to the ground, he patted my back, and, in a move that simultaneously boosted and lowered his authenticity rating, stated the words that a Charlie Skinner sort of sadhu would speak:  "God bless you, baby."  

And, God bless you, too, Baba/baby.

I chose not to ask Om the Jeweler any questions about what exactly made Hut-owner Baba a 'real sadhu' when we returned to Swargashram.  He, however, insisted on paying for my dinner, and I could only assume that it was because he felt guilty about his own bullshit rate as well as that of Hut-Owner Baba.  

Despite the absurdity of the sadhu-non-sadhu visit, I loved it and I am thrilled that I get to spend three more weeks in a place where such randomness happens with ease.  This good energy might do me some real random good.  

Rishikesh, let's rock and roll.

   

      

A Different Call to Prayer

Like so many who have come before me, I have had expectations that this journey through India will be a spiritual one.  India has existed in my mind as one big, over-populated holy land that is sure to bring me a bit closer to myself and a bit closer to God.  Why wouldn't this be the site of my spiritual breakthrough?  India is, after all, the birthplace of yoga and the home of a bazillion gurus.  It is the county where Mother Teresa received her "call within a call" from God to serve the poorest of the poor.  It is where Siddartha Gautama sat under a tree and became who we know today as Buddha.  It is where The Beatles studied Transcendental Meditation with Maharishi Mahesh.  And, perhaps most importantly, India is the setting of the 'Pray' section of Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir Eat Pray Love.

In just my first two weeks, I have already visited a number of the spiritual sites referenced:  Mother Teresa's tomb (and her former bedroom), the site of Buddha's enlightenment as well as the site of his first sermon, and a puja (prayer service) at one of the sacred rivers of the Hindus, the Ganges.  All of these experiences have been interesting, pleasant and meditative in their own rights, but they have not been the moments that I have felt closest to a higher power.  In my first few days, before visiting any of these important places, I was unexpectedly called to prayer continuously.  My prayers sounded something like this:

"Dear God, please help me navigate around these multiple piles of poo."

"Dear God, please don't let that rickshaw slam into this bus."

"Dear God, please don't let that taxi run me over."

"Dear God, please save me from a case of raging diarrhea after this meal."

"Dear God, please tell my gag reflex to chill out."

"Dear God, please make this dude leave me alone."

"Dear God, please turn off this incessant noise."

"Dear God, please don't let me suffer from molestation or theft on this train."

"Dear God, PLEASE DON'T LET ME LOSE MY MIND!!!"

"And, PS, please God bless these people living very meager lives (particularly the barefoot men earning their wages by transporting Kolkata on their hand-pulled rickshaws)."

From what I can surmise, India is not the divine location of people's spiritual revolutions because it is filled with gurus and ashrams and yoga and all the remnants of these amazing people who were super close to something bigger than themselves.  For me at least, India is a bonanza of spirituality because it is testing me at every turn.  How far can I take you before you break?  Can I give you 87 people crawling up your ass at once, and can you still remain open-hearted and loving?  (For the record, the response to this question at the moment is absolutely not.)  Can you be hot, tired, and hungry, and still treat all living things with loving kindness?  (Again, nope.)  Can I completely over-stimulate your senses, and can you maintain focus and patience?  (Hmmm, not really.)  Can you accept that life is a big, messy, crazy, unorganized thing, and that I am going to illustrate this to you on these streets, everywhere you turn?  (I'm trying!)  Can you balance all of your emotions and traits at once, particularly maintaining light-hearted intuitiveness and straight-forward assertiveness in equal parts?  (Yeah.  Right.)  

I admit that on this trip I have had quite a bit of hubris around my ability to travel and integrate into unfamiliar settings.  Enter India!  This country is knocking me right on my ass, making me a bit more humble and handing back my sense of wonder and complete bewilderment.  Sometimes shaking out that excessive pride is overwhelming and scary, but I ultimately think that it is really, really good for me (even if it sometimes feels a bit bad).

   

A friend recently said something to me about how reaching enlightenment is not about sitting in a quiet room in meditation, but rather that it's about putting yourself in a situation that really challenges you and brings you face to face with your ugliness.  Let me tell you -- India is no quiet room.  

So, I will keep praying and I will keep looking at my ugliness, and, hopefully, I will survive this crazy place, perhaps even with a bit more of a sense of equanimity and wisdom.  

Bring it on, India!!!

Daughter Chooses Casual Sex Over Well-being of Senior Citizen Mother

I had just hit the official halfway point of the Greatest Hits Tour when my mother (aka Big Bad Betty, BBB, Trip B) met me in Thailand for two weeks.  This was a highly anticipated moment.  It had been a significant year of grieving and transition since we last saw each other.  And, this was a bold step for my mother -- her first trip overseas without my father and her first Asian experience.

With the excitement of seeing my mom and the pride in her for taking this brave step in her travel life, I had not really given much thought to the fact that I was traveling with my mother.  Now, don't get me wrong; traveling with your mother is awesome, especially if she is Big Bad Betty, the greatest mom in the world.  There are, however, a different set of rules and expectations to this travel arrangement.  Having spent months blazing my own trail, I occasionally forgot that this was a different ballgame...

The crowning moment of this took place when BBB and I were in Pai.  It is a small backpacker bonanza a few hours north of Chiang Mai, nestled in the mountains, full of organic-y restaurants and white people wearing Ali Baba pants.  It is sort of what I love and hate most about Thailand all at once.

It also happens to be the perfect place to bump into someone that you have seen previously on the tourist trail.  I have a skill for chance encounters anyways, but I also always interpret them with some degree of significance.  It, therefore, simultaneously felt like a grandly fateful moment and an obvious event when Trip B and I bumped into Stu.  I met Stu about a month prior in Bagan, Burma.  We were staying at the same accommodation and found ourselves sitting outside our neighboring rooms one afternoon, shooting the breeze while we were trying to catch a breeze (the electricity was out and the fans were not circulating).  We had a great conversation about life, love, the future, and our shared mid-western identities (he is from St. Louis and his grandmother lives in Allen Park!).  After that day, he went his own way with his temporary travel companion (a lovely American girl who happened to be 10 years my junior), and I went mine.

So, there we were again, a month later, on the streets of Pai, me with my mother and him quite notably without that young girl.  Obviously, I invited him to join me and Trip B for dinner.

If you know my mom, you understand that she is probably the world's best wing-woman.  A hallmark moment might be the Saturday night when I was laying in bed Granny Annie style, and I received a phone call at 11pm with the voice of a nice gentleman on the other end and my mother's muffled voice in the background:  "Hi.  Yeah, I just met your mom and she said that you are single and that I should call you."  Thanks, Mom.

She may not have realized it at the time, but she was really helping me lay the groundwork for action with this babe, Stu.  I have been defying my familial alcoholic roots and living a dry-ish lifestyle over the last three months.  It's not really possible, however, to stay on the wagon when Betty is in town.  So, along with dinner, there were a few beers.  As we were leaving the restaurant, we met a woman named Leanne (who BBB promptly started calling Cousin Leanne) trying to promote her bar.  Betty was onboard pretty much immediately, empathizing with the plight of a struggling bar owner and loving the opportunity to shove bar flyers in the hands of young tourists. We drank at Cousin Leanne's bar along with some of Betty's recruits, but Big Bad wasn't ready to party until dawn.  After a few cheap rum and cokes, she decided to retire.  Stu and I, on the other hand, decided to continue drinking.

Needless to say, I shared a bed with someone other than Big Bad Betty that night.

At 9:30am, my cell phone rang.  It took me a minute to realize that it was my phone. There were only three people that had my number in Thailand, so the sound of my phone buzzing was quite novel.  The caller ID told me that it was one of the three holders of my number -- my brother's ex-girlfriend.

Me: "Jules! What's up?"

Jules: "Girl, where are you? Your mom is so worried."

Good Lord, Betty contacted Jules!?!? Why??? How??? Whaaaaaaa???

Let me interject some important background information here.  This ex-girlfriend is not just any ex-girlfriend. My brother was in a relationship with Jules for seven years, and they only broke up a few moths ago. She is an absolutely amazing woman, so the loss of her has brought heartbreak to the whole family.  She lives in Chiang Mai now, and I met up with her for dinner a few days prior. My mom was adamant that she did not want to join us.  Seeing Jules would be too sad, too painful, and she didn't want to make things any harder for Jules by being an emotional hot mess.

Suddenly, Betty was singing a different tune when she was gripped with early morning anxiety. A missing in action daughter allowed her to put all that emotional baggage aside. My mother woke up at 7:30am thinking that I might be dead and, more importantly, that she might be left to fend for herself in northern Thailand. In her panicky resourcefulness, she realized that she had acquired one Thai phone number many months ago -- the number for Jules. In her state of desperation, she googled how to skype a Thai cell phone and connected with Jules -- the first contact she had had with her since the break-up with Tommy. She explained that I had abandoned her and asked Jules if she could help get a hold of me. Despite the fact that Jules is trying to pull herself out of the Skinner vortex, she was sucked right back in the middle, called upon to lead the search party for Betty's delinquent daughter.

I explained to Jules my whereabouts and asked her to let my mom know that I was with Stu and that I would return to the hotel right away. I pulled my hung-over self together and did the walk of shame back to my mother's place.

So, a quick recap here: I was traveling with my mom. I bumped into a babe with whom I had a great vibe. My mom basically paved the way for our night of romance. Intoxicated, I chose not to formally notify my mom of the naked sleepover (because maybe that would be a bit awkward anyways?). My mom freaked out and called my brother's ex-girlfriend. My brother's ex-girlfriend called me. I leave the babe in a rush because I am in big trouble with my mom.

Have I mentioned that I am 31 years old?

Betty and I spent most of that day debriefing the incident. I encouraged her to lay down a thick layer of guilt on me, but occasionally I attempted to defend myself. After a while, we entered the more light-hearted joking phase. At that point, Mom told me that if she wrote a blog, she would title her post, "Daughter Chooses Casual Sex Over Well-Being of Senior Citizen Mother." Because I actually have a blog, I thought I could materialize the humorous hypothetical post for her. I think it is about time that I tarnish my good name a bit anyways. It's the least I can do after leaving my poor mother to the Thailand worry wolves.