The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (22 page)
Read The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) Online
Authors: Erin Reese
But no matter how hard I tried, I simply could not envision these islands embracing me. In fact, they were kicking me out the door. In one sense, the Andamans are so wild, so very untamed—it’s as if Mother Nature herself gives you the boot in order to preserve herself as long as possible.
And besides, how long can one endure the hell realm, the absence of solace and light, right?
From crunching crabs and slithering snakes and infuriating fleas, from coral-cuts and scarred shins, and middle-of-night hammocks hurling to the jungle floor—it’s not a difficult question.
I decided I’d had enough of hell. It was time to get back to the mainland, back to the Divine Comedy of life in civilization. Jan and I bought our tickets for the long ship journey back to Calcutta, fortuitously set to arrive on the spring equinox.
Our vessel, the Good Ship M.V. Nicobar, turned out to be an absolute luxury liner compared to the M.V.
AckBarf.
I’d heard rumors that the Nicobar was indeed an upgrade, but I wasn’t buying it until we actually boarded the boat. In Port Blair for two days before departure, I mentally prepared for the four-day haul. I swore I’d be a breatharian and live off pure ether, rather than attempt to stomach such filthy freight-liner food again.
Jan pledged to help me out of scurvy survival, and the morning of our boarding, we hustled around the fruit and veg markets, picking up stores of tomatoes, cucumber, and lemon for salads, nuts for protein, biscuits and Nescafe for sanity, and an entire branch of bananas, straight off the tree.
Serving as our own sherpas, we hauled all these goods up the loading plank of the ship. Along with our usual load of backpacks, bicycle, panniers, and guitar, we now included twelve whole kilos of bananas—still attached to their original bough. Even the home-cooking Indians thought that was a little extreme, bringing an entire banana tree with us. We were clearly the laughing
stalk
.
I didn’t care. We strung our fruity loot above my head in the lower bunk, hanging the banana branch like a baby in a basinet, and concealed the goods with a
lungi
. Every few hours, when hunger kicked in, we’d snag a few single bananas off the branch and have a feast, just like Hanuman, the monkey god.
Lucky for me, on this return journey to the mainland, I had a plucky pioneer to help ease the discomfort. Jan is one of the most courageous adventurers I’ve ever known—as he would need to be, to bicycle from Czech Republic all the way to India, overland. When it comes to intrepid travel, he knows how to make due in the worst of conditions.
Being a natural extrovert and “people person,” I had a grace and finesse in building an instant community with other Westerners. But when it came to initiating contact with the local Indians, Jan is extraordinary. It’s partly because of his Central European good looks—the blue eyes and height alone catch the Indians’ attention; he stands out, commanding a certain respect from the Indians, perhaps out of curiosity or out of wonder. Like it or not, the Indians also gave him automatic respect because he is a male. Also, his blatant assertiveness opened doors.
Take, for example, navigating the ship. This vessel was HUGE, a virtual floating city. I couldn’t get from Point A to Point B without losing myself along the way. Every time I’d go from the lower—
a-hem
—bowels of the ship, where our third class bunks were located, and try to make my way to the upper deck where we’d hang out with the other travelers, I’d take several wrong turns, just like a maze. I definitely got my exercise, going round and round, up and down, lost on several flights of steps, leading to dead-ends, purser’s chambers, and captain’s quarters.
But within ten minutes of hopping on board, while I was still stringing up the banana bassinet in my bunk, Jan had scouted out the old, yellowing diagrams of the ship’s layout posted by the information booth. Instantly, Inspector Jan had figured out when the lending library was open, how to get to the galley, and what time the old Bruce Lee flick—in Hindi!—was showing in the Bunk Class Rec Room.
I was glad he knew about the kitchen, that’s for sure. Knowing my terror at the
thali
meals awaiting us for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Jan took me by the hand and showed me the secret backdoor to the galley. Then he instructed me, “You know how to do it. Turn on that smile.”
I peered in through the porthole windows in the doors. I could see the Indian cooks in there, preparing the evening meal. To my glee, everything was clean, clean, clean. Where I had seen filth and dirt in the M.V. Ackbar kitchen, with whole chickens carcasses lying on the dirty floor behind the canteen counter, the Nicobar galley exuded lovely scents of simmering curries. Fresh vegetables were chopped up and thrown into massive vats and pots, and the cooks were smiling and chatting away.
I opened the swinging doors and introduced myself with a cheery “Hello!” The gracious all-male staff of cooks looked up from their tasks and immediately greeted me with pleasantries, offering to fill up my bottle with hot
pani
for my instant coffee. “Anything you need, Madame, anytime. Welcome to our kitchen!”
What a relief! Jan and I enjoyed sunsets on the deck, munching biscuits and chugging chai and Nescafe. I relished in a sense of safety on this ship, a pleasant aura of protection. With Jan at my side, I could actually
enjoy
the scenery too, without being hassled too much. We’d play chess on our travel set for hours on end—so much fun for us both, since in the West, one rarely takes the time to play the game of such study and concentration. I even read a whole book without having to fend off incessant stares or irritating questions like “Which country?” and “Married?”
Jan and I befriended a sweet Spanish señorita, Monica, who had mastered a mean flamenco. The three of us mapped out a “chill zone”—two words understood by young people the world over—which quickly became the place to hang for the twenty-two western travelers aboard. Yoga mats were laid down, blankets, biscuits and drums emerged. Over the next four days, tall traveling tales and stories were shared, and fast friendships were formed.
Now
this
was what I was looking for. Forget isles of isolation. I needed a sense of
community
! Now we were in my territory—the realm of humanity and socialization. I felt reconnected in the most delightful of ways, as the first rays of spring shone down upon us, and we rode the last waves into the docks at sunset. Calcutta, the city of the Divine Mother Kali herself, welcomed us with open arms and played heavenly hostess for a magnificent first evening.
Every single one of us—especially the thirstier Irish and Brits in the bunch—clamored for an icy cold one. We were already punch drunk, worn and weary from our four-day schooner journey. No matter. Our backpacking bunch scurried off to find rooms in the travelers’ hovel—the Sudder Street slum.
First priority: shower as fast as possible. After taking half a bottle just to get a lather going in my hair—indeed, it had been over three weeks before shampoo and fresh water had graced my gritty locks—I had been reincarnated as a something resembling a human being. It was impossible to get more than the surface layer of dirt off in one round, and Jan was impatient for a beer, so I told myself the entire next day would be devoted to beauty.
But now: we drink. Just like any sailors who’d just rolled into port, the whole crew of us met up minutes later at the closest watering hole.
What amazing people! A global representation: Belgian, Israeli, American, Czech, Aussie, Irish, British, Indian, German, Polish, Spanish, and Swiss—the giddy group joined together for a gala evening of celebration. Blowing off steam and stress, we topped it all off with a night of cutting the rug in a posh hotel discotheque.
As far and wide as I love to travel, I could not have been happier to be back on the mainland. And as wild and crazy, unpredictable and chaotic as Calcutta may be, I was utterly thrilled to be back in the cosmopolitan groove of civilization. I boogied and bounced to bad disco into the wee hours, and thanked my lucky stars.
It felt so good—so very, very good—to be alive.
29
th
of March, Kolkata
I was shocked from the outset in Kolkata, and in a completely opposite way than expected. From my associations of poverty, leprosy, and squalor—Mother Teresa’s Home for the Dying, LaPierre’s
City of Joy,
and the acclaimed documentary
Born Into Brothels
, for example—I thought I’d be running for cover or cowering fearfully in my hotel room.
Quite the contrary. Calcutta took my breath away. From Day One, after sleeping off our night of disco-dancing-’til-dawn, Jan and I plunged into the capital city of West Bengal, immersing ourselves in the city street life. We reveled in the fascinating mix of degradation and dilapidation, contemporary culture, aesthetics and art. We lost ourselves in the most pleasant of ways, far off the beaten tourist track, wandering into ’hoods and hovels, encountering Indian eyes that rarely, if ever, had ogled such pale skin. By this point in my travels, I was so comfortable with contrast that I embraced it, practically sought it out.
Sometimes, we’d give the slum kids a few coins, treat a beggar for tea, or buy an extra curd
lassi
for a leper child. Often, we just gave them the simple gift of acknowledging their existence and humanity, and a few moments of our time. I watched—and learned—as Jan playfully, fearlessly bantered with the beggar children. When a grubby gutter urchin would rush up to me, pleading for rupees or “just one chocolate,” I could actually hold their hand now, and walk with them down the alleyways. The love and hunger would pour forth from their imploring eyes, spilling into my heart until it overflowed as nectar, and back to them through the squeeze of my hand grasp. I was beginning to comprehend the incomprehensible in Kali’s own city, in the arms of the Mother.
30
th
of March, Kolkata
Although, like everything in India, the origins are controversial, most people accept that the name Kolkata, or Calcutta, is derived from one of its colonial central villages, called “Kalikata” or “Kalikshetra,” meaning, “Land of the goddess Kali.”
Who is this Mother Kali? Why does she enrapture me? Why, in heaven’s name, would I intertwine myself with a wrathful devi, who inhabits the cremation grounds? The Divine Mother in the form of the fierce Ma Kali came to me in a vision. At first, I couldn’t accept this form of the Mother—red blood dripping from her lolling tongue, jet-black tresses flying wildly, naked save for a garland of decapitated heads and belt of human arms, brandishing sword, sickle, and skulls from her arms. But, since she appeared while I was meditating, though I was frightened at first, I decided to get to know her better. Besides, I believe that we judge that which we do not understand—so I strove for better understanding.
Through my research, I learned that Kali is anything but evil.
Kali
, which also means “black” and “She Who is Time,” is a force of nature that fully embraces death as a part of life. She doesn’t run from darkness—she devours it, and thereby transforms darkness into light. She is the Divine Slayer of Illusion, assisting us in cutting away whatever thoughts, attitudes, or beliefs stand in our way. Her fierce likeness—whether seen as an archetype of the collective unconscious, or as a very real, down-to-earth incarnation of Shakti—is a constant reminder of the only constant: change.
Kali, like her divine consort Shiva, is both creator and destroyer—a timeless, never-ending figure eight, the infinite cycle of life. To reject this truth is, in essence, to reject the truth of nature. The harvest of late summer, the decomposition of autumn, the incubation period of winter all precede the new growth of spring, where we resurrect again and again.
No doubt, after just a few short days in Calcutta, I would hear my own call for quick change. The mother of creation and transformation herself had already started with a few sharp, significant pricks, indicating it was high time to get a move on.
30
th
of March, Kolkata
I was so in love with life in Calcutta that I wanted to stay in her cozy arms for a long, long time—even after Jan said goodbye, setting out across north India en route to Delhi.
I would miss him—how could you go through something so intense with another person without them becoming a part of your very soul?
Yet, I knew we had to go our separate ways. Even if we had endured so much together, and learned so much from each other, we were NOT meant to be a couple. Friends, yes. Partners? No way. We loved each other and cared a great deal for each other, but we were not compatible—we argued all the time, about stupid and petty things that shouldn’t matter. We seemed to take away from each other’s happiness rather than contribute. So, in lieu of starting to really despise each other, we cut our losses and said goodbye.
I’ll never forget watching him ride off on his bicycle into Kolkata’s burnt-orange setting sun, toward Bihar. Jan promised he would get me a leaf from the bodhi tree in Bodh Gaya, and I knew he would—because that’s the kind of friend Jan is. After saying goodbye, I sat myself down and thought about my options and what I would do, where I would go next.
I had quickly grown comfortable in Calcutta. Our room in the Salvation Army guest house was a dank, decrepit dungeon, but I dug it in some weird way. Our nearby ’hood included a park, metro station, market, theater, and cheap Internet. I could write here, work here! I’d made the acquaintance of a few well-educated, inviting local women, including one of the top designers in West Bengal. The Manhattan-y mystique of cabs, chaos, and culture was creatively stimulating. I didn’t even seem to mind the fact that it was a three-shower-a-day kind of humidity.
I could
feel
that my karma was quickening, my time in India was finishing. Still, I had a scheme up my sleeve to stay. And you know what they say about schemes: “If you want to make the gods laugh, tell ’em your plans.”
One day, I strolled confidently into the Foreign Registration Office, brandishing my ten-year India visa like a badge of honor pasted in my passport, banking on my Great American Charm to move mountains. Instead, I encountered a five-foot mountain of strewn paperwork, forming a barricade behind which perched a bespectacled bureaucrat who looked as dusty as the piles of files behind him.
“Sorry, madame. You must leave India,” he said flatly, without emotion.
“But, sir, it says right here on the TEN-YEAR visa, ‘Not to exceed six months without registration.’ So, here I am, ready to register!” I stood there nice ’n tall, grinning widely, doing my best to exude confidence that
of course
the answer was
the way
I
planned.
“Madame, very sorry. Twenty-five years I have been here. Not possible.”
My heart was deflating. “I really, really don’t want to leave India, sir.”
The old man grinned gently, in a way that told me he’d heard every excuse, complaint, beg, and whine from foreigners over the years. No matter how pretty, how smart, how eloquent, or how well-endowed with visa one was, he wasn’t budging. “I understand. You leave India. You go on now; you go Nepal, or Bangladesh. Then you come right back!” He smiled encouragingly. I could tell he was trying to cheer me up, not to be an ass. “But must go, madame” he said, and then went back to sorting dusty files.