Read The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) Online
Authors: Erin Reese
I’ve no idea what awaits. I
do
know that, without such a strong and steady copilot, I likely would not make it to such remote reaches and beaches on this particular trip. I also know that the only difference between lucky people and unlucky people is that lucky people say “yes” when opportunity knocks.
Thus, this Full Moon Friday, we depart on a pre-dawn
local
bus to the world heritage site of Hampi, a magical village strewn with majestic boulders and ancient, trippy temples. After Hampi, one chai at a time, Jan and I will make our way to the port of Chennai. If the shared seas are still smooth sailing, we’ll hop aboard a big-old boat and make our three-day way to the Andamans, where a new potential paradise beckons.
This is, irrefutably, a huge gearshift for me. But change has always been my best friend. In fact, I get cranky, bored, and irritable when things start feeling a little too, shall we say,
normal
. Sometimes, life hands us a situation where we don’t know the outcome, period. In such cases, we can stay stuck for days, weeks, or years. And sometimes, the only way out is through.
The Osho Zen Tarot
has a great description of diving in:
“
You can’t work your way out by working it out with the mind. Better to follow your heart if you can find it. If you can’t find it, just jump. Your heart will start beating so fast there will be no mistake about where it is!”
And so, off I jump! Prayers packed in my parachute, laughter lining my life jacket, leaping into the great unknown called the F-U-T-U-R-E. I’ve no doubt this tantalizing tangent will bring a bounty of experiences.
February 14
th
, Chennai
“What happened on the way to Chennai? What happened to
the guy
?” read the emails from home. Enquiring minds wanted to know. Understandably: it’s human nature to follow up on a fledgling love affair, especially given such exotic environs!
As I said before, if our romance had a name, it would likely be “The Mystic Meets the Pragmatist.” Jan is the
Prague
-matist, in case you had any doubt. My last month spent traveling alongside the Czech has been about balance—balance between polar opposites: yin and yang, work and play, dark and light, wrong and right.
Certainly, contrast between two lovers is all well and good and makes for interesting plot lines, yes? But have I mentioned that Jan is an atheist, who sees life almost exclusively through the lens of the linear and rational? As my connection to Consciousness, in all its non-linear, wild and wooly forms, is the most important passion in my life, you can only imagine how confusing such a liaison can be. Sure, it’s all fine and dandy in the context of casual friendship, but when you’re delving into intimate waters, such a contrast in world views can make for some stormy sailing. I’ve not yet had such an intensive looking-glass before me 24-7, where I’ve been utterly
forced
to realize the deepest nature of my mind through amplified reflection.
I’ve learned that the intuitive, empathic, magical-reality mode in which I move in the world is not just some reasoned choice I’ve made; it’s an inextricable part of my soul, of my entire being. And, it appears I’m powerless to change it, try as I might to contort my very nature to become less of a sixth-sense, soul-focused woman.
Still, I willfully decided to try it out, to plunge headlong into an alternative adventure with Jan.
Why?
Just to see what was there.
Like Alice, in Wonderland.
And, oh, how very much
is
there! To begin with, there is a lot of hard work. Traveling with Jan, I’ve learned that experiencing India primarily through the superficial mode of the five senses is a vastly different trip than I’ve been on. By “superficial” I don’t mean lacking importance or depth; rather, I mean it in a WYSIWYG way—What You See Is What You Get.
JAN is all about getting his hands dirty in India through the physical: Scratch your shins while scaling the boulders; order fried brains off the Muslim restaurant menu just to try something new; walk through a Madras slum after nightfall
just to see what is there.
ERIN is all about floating through India as if it were a dream designed exclusively for her: Plant your bum on a sandy dune at sunset; absorb the
prana
energy beamed down by Surya the Sun before he says
bon nuit
; lie in bed, writing, for hours before leaving the boudoir if the muse hits in the morning; sidle up to the sadhus and ponder the astral weather patterns
just to see what is there.
A train-wreck of a romance waiting to happen? Perhaps, but don’t forget that the word “disaster,” from the Latin, means “unfavorable, from the stars.” Stardust doesn’t come without a price. Sometimes it takes a Big Bang—a serious clash of consciousness to create new frontiers.
It’s as if two people stand on opposing banks of a river, the stream of collective consciousness. The individuals are shouting back and forth across the wide waters, the likes of the following:
Person A (Pragmatist)—“Hey, check it out! On this side of the river, there are loads of captivating flora and fauna, a well for drinking water, and a place where we can sleep under the stars
all night long
!”
Person B (Mystic)—“Hey, check it out! There’s a medicine wheel mandala on this side! We can light candles and incense and sing ‘Om Namah Shivaya’ to the heavens
all night long
!”
Meanwhile, the static electricity muddies up the airwaves. You try again to make your side of the river sound even more enticing, using points of reference that make perfect sense—to
you
. When that doesn’t quite work, you attempt to speak the other person’s language and don their values, but it hurts, squeezes, pokes, and pinches like a pair of wrong shoes.
Exhausted from this clashing cross-current conversation, you throw your hands up in exasperation. Finally, one of you surrenders, calls it a day, and dives in to swim to the other’s distant shore, foreign and alien to you as it is. Tuckered out, you welcome the other with open arms, and determine to enjoy yourself. Secretly, however, you wonder what your night might have been like would you have stayed on your side of the stream.
Sound pessimistic? Exhausting? Exhilarating?
Well, let’s put it this way: if hard-core travel is about trying on new frameworks of reality, then Jan and I became the ultimate vagabonds by dealing with each other’s frames of reference.
Of course, all work and no play make for very dull thrills for Jack and Jill. Even if your communication is a disaster, you can still have fun. Hard work pays off, and the truth is, I would not have experienced half of what I’ve enjoyed over the past five weeks were it not for Jan’s practicality, curiosity, skill, motivation, and mode of travel. Ever since we started out on the road together, India has revealed herself to be more vast and beautiful than I could have ever imagined. For this, I have Jan to thank, and I have stories to share…
8
th
of February, Hampi
I was completely, utterly blown away by Hampi, housing the sacred stone ruins of the UNESCO World Heritage site of Vijayanagara in northeast Karnataka. Above and beyond the breathtaking temple complexes, never before have I beheld such intriguing and magnificent natural landscapes.
Our first day filled me with sheer exhilaration, scrambling to the top of Hampi’s boulder-strewn hills just before sunset. Jan and I perched atop the highest boulder we could manage to scale and marveled at the sites before us: miles upon miles of beautiful rocky formations, lined with rice paddy fields, banana groves, Hanuman temples, and tiny villages tucked away amongst the boulder batches.
It was a high beyond heights, a panoramic splendor. As I soaked up the visible wavelets of energy surrounding my auric field at the top of the rock, India’s map flashed through my mind. I contemplated the fact that the Indian subcontinent is considered by some to be the heart chakra of the Earth. If you glance at a map of India, you’ll see that She is indeed shaped similarly to a heart. And the precious gem that is Hampi lies in the heart of the heart.
Our second night in Hampi’s heart, we again ascended the boulder mountains. As the Full Moon climbed high in the sky above our heads, we lay under the stars and sang praises to Ganesha, the elephant-headed god. Even atheistic Jan’s now hooked on a little Indian chanting, egging me on to sing “Ganesha Sharanam”—a real earworm of a mantra. Quite fine with me, as Ganesha is the Divine Remover of Obstacles, especially auspicious for travelers of both inner and outer realms.
Jan and I even ran into my soul sister, Roz, of
Beach Witch!
fame, who had arrived in Hampi the week before. The three of us played away the days, splashed around in a nearby reservoir, and bicycled through rice paddy fields and picturesque villages. We delighted with laughing children who hassled us for nothing more than the occasional “school pen” or “one cricket ball.”
With such alluring natural beauty, Hampi pulled us in twice as long as we expected. But move on we had to, for it was Chennai or bust, where Jan’s boat departing for the Andamans—presumably with me in it—would set sail in less than a week. So we strapped on our packs to make our way to Madras, the southeast port hub. Of course, due to my own distaste for preplanning, we made the decision to leave Hampi at the last minute for an overnight train journey. Without an advance reservation.
9
th
of February, Hampi to Chennai
That evening, just before midnight, Jan and I boarded our train and nuzzled our way into the Second Class Non-AC Sleeper car, without reservations.
I was dead tired, recovering from a cold, and determined to use charm, or
baksheesh
, on the conductor to procure a bunk for the next ten hours. Jan, on the other hand, admitted he secretly wished we’d get booted to Third Class, for a little “harsh traveling fun.” He wanted to test me a bit, to see if we could
endure
a shared night in general seating, sardine-packed Third Class.
Thanks, but no thanks. Not my cup of chai. I’ve done “hard India train travel” before, and I’ve had enough. Second Class Sleeper suits me just fine.
But the universe likes to respond to requests, verbalized or visualized. Jan got his wish. Neither charm nor money worked on the conductor. Our train was overbooked. We were ordered to leave the Sleeper car immediately. With no choice, at the next station, we ran to change cars before being booted off the train entirely. Schlepping our heavy packs, all of Jan’s bicycle panniers and camping equipment, and my guitar, we barely squeezed our way into the Third Class car, just in time.
It wasn’t the most harrowing general seating experience we could have had, and it could have been much worse. We didn’t have to sleep vertical the entire night, standing in a cramped passageway between two train cars with forty other without-reservation passengers and their babies, ten sacks of rice, goats, and what-have-yous, as the door to the toilet goes
phwap-phwap
, open and closing next to you with the scent of urine wafting in your face all night long.
Lucky for us, we managed to get seats on a bench. We actually slept—albeit fitfully—in distorted postures. On our narrow perch, I tried to make myself comfortable, using Jan’s contorted legs (he’s over 6’3”) as a makeshift headrest. A young Indian mother scooted next to me sometime in the middle of the night, taking advantage of six inches of available space. In no time, she made herself cozy on my own lap for the duration. The three of us slept on that bench like nesting Russian dolls. Eight men dozed on newspapers strewn on the floor beneath us. We all slumbered in some weird form of collective comfort as the train rumbled through ’til dawn, when we arrived in Bangalore to catch our connection for another eight-hour “express” to Chennai.
10
th
of February, Chennai
Arriving in Chennai, the southeast port-hub of the nation and capital city of Tamil Nadu state, it felt great to be thrust back into the pulse of urban “real India” once again. For four days, Jan and I encountered less than a dozen Westerners, Chennai being more of a transit hub and far down on the list of most travelers’ itineraries.
What a relief for a change! Less tourists means less hassling. The most persistent heckling we encountered consisted of a barrage of callers asking, “Change money?” Hardly a hair-raiser. The worst rip-offs consisted of a few surprise “Price increases!” not listed on the restaurant menus, which cost us an additional five or ten rupees here and there. Manageable.
I still hadn’t decided whether I’d accompany Jan to the Andamans. Two days before the ship departed from hot, sticky Chennai, we decided to treat ourselves with a little adventure involving air conditioning: a three-and-a-half hour blockbuster at the local cinema. Chennai has its own thriving Tamil-language film industry, it’s own version of Bollywood, called “Kollywood.”
What was the movie about? There were no subtitles, and it seemed more like bad MTV than HBO. I have no idea what it was about! But I didn’t care. I was just happy to be soaking up air-con and sipping flat Coke. Jan and I determined afterwards that the plot was something about an attractive young Tamil man, who owned a bookshop. Some bad people didn’t like his success. So they hired some thugs to go in and bust the place up. Meanwhile, while driving across town, the discouraged bookseller meets a raven-haired beauty who fixes motorcycles in her free time. They like each other, then they argue, then meet again, then dance and sing in a meadow, just like a “Spring Wind” deodorant commercial. And, of course, it all works out in the end.
Cost of the Kollywood blockbuster? 95 cents.
Cost of a custom-popped, on-the-spot cone of masala spiced corn? 22 cents.
Value of soaking up air-conditioning for three and a half hours, not having to think one single thought because you couldn’t understand anything onscreen if you tried?
Priceless.