Follow Your Bliss

Pegasus Books, Cuba Mall, Te Aro, Wellington 6011, New Zealand

There is an email earmarked in my inbox linking to an interview with Joseph Campbell, where he discusses how to follow your bliss, that I took time out of my *busy #sabbaticalled schedule to watch recently:

“If you do follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while waiting for you. And the life that you ought to be living is the one you’re living somehow. And, when you can see it you begin to deal with people who are in the field of your bliss and they open doors to you.

I say follow your bliss and don’t be afraid and doors will open where you didn’t know they were going to be.”

A quote like this puts me in mind of Bob Dylan’s Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie, which is a resource I return to again and again, especially as a writer struggling to keep self-sabotage at bay.

“Where do you look for this hope that yer seekin' / Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin' / Where do you look for this oil well gushin’ / Where do you look for this candle that's glowin' / Where do you look for this hope that you know is there / And out there somewhere?”

Being on [Chris’s] sabbatical, while fraught with privilege, has put me back on track to follow my bliss. I have the time and space to look for hope while out on my daily speed walks. How do I know I’m on the right track? Because it feels as though while wading a stream that hasn’t yet been bridged, stepping stones pop up one by one underfoot, in time with my crossing, to keep my feet dry. It feels like I’m creating something, just by living, and whenever I get that familiar feeling, I know I’m following my bliss.

It started a few weeks ago, listening to Marc Maron’s WTF interview with Sarah Polley, in which they discuss her now Oscar-winning screenplay for Women Talking. The women in Polley’s movie evaluate three possible responses to sexual abuse within their Mennonite colony: stay and do nothing, stay and fight, or leave the colony.

Then came Legacy of Speed, a podcast about this photograph from the 1968 Olympics:

which I’m familiar with from my poster-selling days but hadn’t before considered the importance of. Malcom Gladwell discusses economist Albert O. Hirschman’s book, Exit, Voice and Loyalty, which lays out three options available to those with a grievance: exit (boycott), voice (stay and speak up), or loyalty (stay, keep quiet, and hope your commitment pays off in the long run.) John Carlos and Tommie Smith, the Olympic runners in the photo, chose voice, and it destroyed their careers. I won’t spoil Women Talking for those of you who haven’t seen it; the women make a different choice, just as valid.

When I juxtaposed the two podcasts, it struck me how both presented the identical set of tools to engage oppression. Both podcasts reveal options - exit, voice (stay and fight) or loyalty (stay and do nothing) - activists can use to facilitate change. The coincidence of listening back-to-back to these two podcasts began to seem purposefully designed.

Then came Because of Anita, which includes a discussion between Professor Anita Hill and Dr. Christine Blasey Ford. Talk about women talking! From this podcast I discovered another famous image - an ad in the New York Times, paid for by over 1600 Black American women who wanted their support of Anita Hill documented in the historical record.

Professor Leslie Hill holding the NYT ad “African American Women In Defense of Ourselves”, originally published Nov. 17, 1991 (Phyllis Graber Jensen/Bates College)

When asked about their motivation for testifying to the Senate Judiciary Committee as an act of citizenship, both Hill and Ford describe it similarly:

Ford:

“For me it was in a way a calling…from the country, or from my civic duty, as a citizen, that I had to say something.”

Hill:

“When you have something, and you feel that it’s important, that it’s critical, actually, then you can stand up in a different way then when you’re thinking about it in the abstract. For me the whole idea of patriotism and why I felt it was my responsibility and duty came not just as a citizen but also as a member of the bar. I had felt in my life how important the Supreme Court’s decisions are…and I knew firsthand the importance of…a court having integrity, and the integrity of the court was only as good as the integrity of the members of the court…Also, my civic responsibility came not just as a member of the bar but as a teacher, to students who were going to be members, and in teaching I not only tried to teach them the law but I also tried to teach them their responsibility to the law.”

Bingo. Of the tools available to activists I’d just learned about, both Hill and Ford chose voice, they chose to stay and fight. Out of a sense of duty to whistle-blow bad behavior that would otherwise negatively impact a judiciary accountable for the good of all. But their efforts came to no avail. Even though TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS elapsed between the appointment of Thomas and Kavanaugh. Has nothing changed, I asked myself? Instead, as Clarence Thomas replaced Thurgood Marshall on the Supreme Court, we saw Amy Coney Barrett replace RBG. While we may momentarily talk truth to power, power will continue to silence us for generations to come.

Hm, I needed to get my hope back. Because of Anita is only four episodes long, and I kept listening. Finding your bliss might just mean making sense of your life, but I don’t want to have to be on sabbatical to do that. I want to do that everyday. And I don’t want to have to wait another quarter of a century for perspectives to change. What the heck is wrong with these tools we’re using, as activists, I wondered?!

In Because of Anita’s final episode, Journalist Irin Carmon offers a few reasons for why progress seems to have stalled. First, government still does not view sexual harassment or assault claims in the same way it does other whistle blower stories. And second,

“The standards by which we evaluate credibility tend to reward winners. So if we are evaluating why should I trust this person over another if it’s an incident in which only two people were present, for example, then we’re using an inherently biased system to say who is more credible. Because the Catch 22 here is that if a survivor was irreparably harmed by what happened to them and they went on to miss work, quit, well how easy is it then to say: ‘oh well she’s just disgruntled. she’s just unhappy that things didn’t work out for her here.’”

This explanation really blew my mind. So it isn’t (as it may, in fact, seem) that the social justice movements I’ve been a part of since high school have not made one iota of progress. It isn’t that feminism has failed. See, we’re not crazy! It isn’t that grassroots activists have toiled for three decades in vain. Instead, “we’re using an inherently biased system to say who is more credible.” Carmon offers us at least one reasonable, rational explanation for why a quarter of a century after the Senate Judiciary Committee disregarded Hill’s testimony, they did the very same thing to Ford.

Now we’re getting somewhere I thought, and as I walked and listened, it’s following my bliss that got me here. I knew what step to take next - as an activist, I knew what inherently biased system to challenge next.

Following my bliss makes me feel like I’m learning from life. But more than that, it has allowed me to write this elaborate blog post, sewing my thoughts together into a coherent narrative, connecting them like a sticher would a quilt. Making something out of nothing to arrive at a larger understanding about how to take the conversation forward in the direction I want it to go, in the direction of the truth. At least until I happen upon evidence of another inherently biased system, which I then need to launch into fighting with all my might.

Cuba Street

Chris at Reynalton, with permission

The noun sabbatical is defined as:

“any extended period of leave from one's customary work, especially for rest, to acquire new skills or training, for study or travel, etc.”

Unlike us, the weather since arriving in Wellington two months ago has NOT been on sabbatical! In fact, we’ve weathered a magnitude 5.1 earthquake and Cyclone Gabrielle. While Chris was disappointed not to even feel the earthquake (I considered us lucky), the cyclone devastated Auckland and Hawke’s Bay but did little damage here. Today is a brilliant, beautiful sunny day, perfect for hanging laundry out on the line to dry, which has become a favorite pastime of mine. I think it’s the privilege talking, but being #sabbaticalled does wonders for transforming the drudgery of everyday life. You get nice and relaxed from residing in one spot for months on end, with all the comforts of home, mixed with the excitement of constantly being a newcomer on adventure. Last night I went to a Women in Photography exhibit at an art gallery, which is the type of thing I always want to do in Chicago but never have time for, and hobnobbed with the art crowd. I fit right in, by dressing like I didn’t try too hard in my new Teva-style Hush Puppies knockoffs and discovered Mary Hutchinson’s Cuba Street photography, which is delightful!

Photo by Mary Hutchinson, from “Cuba People”

Traveling in India, in my twenties (back when Tevas really were in style) brought me face to face with my worst self. Traveling in New Zealand, in my forties, has brought me face to face with my best self (or maybe that’s just middle age!) Everyday is the same, in a good way: I wake up to coffee expertly brewed by Chris, send Louisa off to school (she and a friend can walk there by themselves!), tidy our modernist dream of a house…

65 Moana Road

…read about Simone de Beauvoir, plan what to cook for dinner (another luxury I don’t have time for in Chicago), write, go speed walking through the Botans (which has a rose varietal called Hot Pants), stop by my Third Place for a long black, pick up fresh groceries, do a few hours of work at my desk overlooking Wellington Harbour…

The view

…wind down with an episode of Bad Sisters, welcome Louisa back from school, cook a meal, eat family style and enjoy al fresco whenever possible, head to bed when the sun goes down. Repeat!

We’ve met enough foreigners in Wellington to make us feel right at home - I have made mom-friends from Canada, South Africa, Seattle, Germany, Korea, England, and Australia, to name a few. And the New Zealand national slogan should be: “Built for Families,” with a childcare center on every block, affordable afterschool care, and part time hours (especially as a parent) commonplace. If you ask a New Zealander they’ll tell you the support is not as sophisticated as what Europeans receive from their governments, but it’s still palpable, for me, compared to what we have in the US. One thing I’ve noticed and love, is that businesses hours are restricted, which means people have to take time out of the workday to do personal errands. The upside to this, of course, is that people don’t have to waste “free time” doing mundane life tasks, keeping free time really free.

In January, we took a trip through the South Island, visiting Kaikoura, Christchurch, Murchison, Nelson, and Reynalton. In Kaikoura the weather (you guessed it) was uncooperative so instead of whale watching we discovered real fruit ice cream, which is a thing here! For anyone keen to launch a new start-up in the US, I’d recommend importing a couple of these real fruit ice cream machines, which blend together ice cream and fresh or frozen fruit to create a “sensational real fruit ice cream with very little effort and high profitability.”

Christchurch has a Cardboard Cathedral built out of cardboard tubes, timber and steel from shipping containers (which sounds more impressive than it looks IRL:(

Christchurch’s Cardboard Cathedral

and in Murchison we went on the country’s longest Swingbridge over the Buller Gorge.

This is actually a different Swingbridge over the Falls River, but you get the picture [and checkout my hair!]

Nelson is the push-off point to explore the Able Tasman National park. We stayed two nights at Reynalton - the site of the legendary bathtub photo (those you who know my husband know he is a regal bath taker) - on the Motueka River and befriended our host Zoe and her two daughters, who invited Louisa to her first Kiwi sleepover and taught her how to do aerial silks.

Books I’ve read (and a podcast I’ve listened to) since my last post:

• Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland, by Patrick Radden Keefe

• How to be You: Simone de Beauvoir and the Art of Authentic Living, by Skye Cleary

• Legacy of Speed, hosted by Malcom Gladwell

We’re expecting our first visitors in a weeks time; for those of you still reading this, take care, and come visit!

The Third Place

Able Tasman National Park

It’s been nearly six weeks since my family and I departed Chicago on sabbatical, our destination: Windy Welly. What I knew about Wellington, New Zealand before we left was this (i.e. not much): 1) Bret and Jemaine were from here (they actually met at Victoria University, which is just down the hill from our house) and 2) a good friend from colleges sister lives here, and loves it. Other than that, we were flying blind (I like to travel the way Marc Maron approaches watching movies, without doing too much research first).

Our flight leaving Chicago was delayed by 48 hours, which was just enough to feel like purgatory, but when we finally took off, reverse psychology worked its magic - we were so happy to be ON the flight that it made the trip a breeze. Landing in Auckland, we had our first long black coffees, which (you may remember) I am very familiar with from having spent a year living in Australia, in a van down by the river with Maureen and Jonit, way back in 2000. The two most popular coffees in Australia and New Zealand are the long black and the flat white, and as soon Chris and I had our coffees in hand, I knew we had made the right decision coming here. And (even better) I could tell from the fashion the New Zealanders wore that I had packed correctly: bright, multicolored floral fabrics abounded.

Wellington has a population of 420,000 (it’s about the size of Minneapolis) and the city sits on the southwestern edge of New Zealand’s north island. It is a shipping port built around a bay just east of the Cook Straight.

It is also hilly, very hilly, like hillier than San Francisco. In Wellington it seems that views are prized above all else, in terms of location, and the higher up on the various hillsides you reside, the more real estate cache you possess. The house we were lucky enough to find on sabbaticalhomes.com (username: Midwestern Nice, isn’t that clever?) is on the crest of a Kelburn hill with an excellent view of Lambton Harbor and Matis/Somes Island just beyond.

Sunrise view from our balcony

Sunset view from our balcony, without any color correction!

From what Chris has explained about good fengshui, the house has it: huge windows placed strategically so you can see all the way through the house when standing outside the front door. The house is built of wood and all one level, six rooms stretching out horizontally in the shape of a half moon, with a deck in back facing Oriental Bay, for morning sun, and an enclosed courtyard in front for afternoon sun (and outdoor dining!) I feel like I’m living in a Frank Lloyd Wright house in France, except the climate is subtropical; we’re surrounded by palm trees, evergreens and beech trees, with ferns and flowers everywhere. It’s as lush as the jungle, except without many insects or any natural predators.

We don’t have a car, which is lucky for us since roads are extraordinarily narrow, traffic circles are used in place of stop signs (merge like a zip), and (of course) New Zealanders drive on the left-hand side of the road. There is a bus stop at the end of our driveway (literally) and we’re a 20 minute walk to Wellington’s Cable Car, a funicular that takes you directly downtown in minutes.

This is actually the Christchurch tram, but you get the picture. Plus, check out my pants [Italian linen]!

At the cable car sits the entrance to the Botans (Wellington Botanic Garden) through which I tramp for my daily speed walk. The Botans has a rose garden cafe, called Picnic, attached to the Begonia House, where we sat on one of our first mornings eating moist orange and almond cake served with a side of fresh clotted cream and feeling almost too lucky to be alive. The only downside being that cruise ships docked in Wellington bus passengers to what we’ve started to consider “our” cafe, how annoying! Nearby is a Victorian Perfumery called Fragrifert - independent perfumers actually exist here, which I find so lovely. Every small town you visit has its own perfumer; what better way to remember a place than to take home its smell, right?

The neighborhood we live in, called Kelburn, has a small commercial district oversized in sophistication. Let me walk you through the Village: there’s a St. Vinny’s Op Shop, a Four Square (which is very well stocked, independently owned franchise corner store), a crazy good German Bakery where I can actually find fresh baked loaves of Schwarzbrot, a florist, two Indian takeaways, a fish and chips shop, an independent women’s clothing boutique, a posh wine bar, a pub, an antique store, a salon, a liquor store, and not one but two independently owned cafes. And down the road is the vet, so…yes, this place has almost everything. The only thing missing is a fresh fruit vendor and a dispensary (ha ha:) Even the school that Louisa attends is just a two minute walk north of the Village (and a ten minute walk from home).

Which brings me to the Third Place, a concept Chris introduced to me from his days living in New York City. A third place is not home (the first place) and not work (the second place). It’s more like a hangout, a gathering space, except lacking political or socioeconomic boundaries. I’ve mainly noticed it’s a *cool place people of all ages frequent. Everyone is polite, and it’s usually a small business.

Kelburn Village, our third place

People living in the community invest in and support the third place by patronizing it everyday (they spend money there everyday, or they visit it everyday, or both). The third place is nurtured and protected in the same way couples are told to care for their marriage, as a third party. In a good marriage, I’ve been taught - there’s you, your partner, and the marriage relationship itself which, in order to thrive, should be cared for as a separate entity.

A couple of hallmarks of a good third place are things like: neutral setting, social leveler, playful conversations, regulars, low profile, and accessibility. Wellingtonians individually seem to value the third place because culturally it is encouraged as a source of enjoyment, and there is great social value in living in a place like that, we have found.

Before I sign off, here are the books I’ve read since arriving, all of which I’d recommend:

• Entangled Life: how fungi make our worlds, change our minds and shape our futures (thanks for the recommendation Laura!), by Merlin Sheldrake

• The Hired Man, by Aminata Forna

• Creativity, a short and cheerful guide, by John Cleese

• The Flame Throwers, by Rachel Kushner

Sabbaticalled

Photo by Caroline Selfors on Unsplash

Going on sabbatical is simple (not really). All you need to do is:

1. Work (or be married to someone who works) 10+ years for an organization that grants sabbaticals as part of its employee benefits program

2. Plan, plan, plan, plan, plan…

3. Sell your condominium and put all your belongings in storage

4. Stay for an unspecified amount of time with your parents (or in-laws)

5. Rent a ramshackle furnished apartment over a coffee shop, complete with fridge full of moldy cauliflower and cabinets full of used medicine and reusable takeaway containers, the likes of which you haven’t inhabited since college

6. Prep a summertime wardrobe in below-zero degree temperatures and brave a Chicago winter with nothing but Fall attire

7. Find a friend to babysit your car

8. Abide a flight cancellation AFTER your ride to O’Hare has already arrived (thanks Auntie Kim!)

9. Abide a second flight cancellation the next day, again AFTER your ride to O’Hare has already arrived (double thanks Auntie Kim!)

10. Fly for seventeen hours straight across the International Date Line, foregoing New Year’s Eve celebrations as you journey forward in time but getting to snuggle in an Economy Skycouch instead.

11. Disembark and order a long black coffee, served in a tulip cup, and relish it!

Susiel, Please Don’t Let the Camel Run!

Photograph of Indira Gandhi, taken by what appears to be another woman photographer!

From Tuesday, March 23, 2004

Hi ho from India. I am still here and not only is it beginning to feel like I’ve been here forever, but it’s also starting to seem like I will be here forever. Delhi is the Washington D.C. of India – this capital city is dominated by New Delhi, designed by the British in the 1920s, and what is left of Old Delhi, designed by Shah Jahan in the 1700s. You can imagine the juxtaposition:  New Delhi contains the house of Jarwahal Nehru and his daughter Indira (both 1970s versions of a more modest White House) and a wide double boulevard with trees, fountains, and yes, even grass, that leads from the India Gate to the Government Buildings, while Old Delhi contains the pile-up of hundreds of years of mosques, bazaars, four-story homes, havelis, tombs and temples. I last wrote from Pushkar, and while there we took a side trip to the Rajasthani city of Jodhpur, before heading further north to Bikaner.

Bikaner is a city in the desert; I know you’ve heard me talk much of camels recently but until our desert safari I had no idea how intimate I was to become with these animals. We took a three day safari out into the desert; by the second day temperatures rose to such a degree that we lay stricken in the shade, our attempts at converting Celsius to Fahrenheit unsuccessful. We were useless, trapped and unable to figure out how hot it REALLY was (our guides promised it was only 35 degrees Celsius; but how hot is that?). It was about 110 degrees out there, so we came to find out upon our return to town.

The safari began in typical Indian fashion; our first stop before bumping into the desert being the Eighth Wonder of the World – a RAT temple. Ikrar, our Muslim English-speaking guide who we came adore, ushered us onto the temple grounds. The first rat I saw was curled up into a ball, cutely sleeping in the corner of the entrance gate. I heaved a deep breath thinking, this may not be so bad. We plunged in and lo and behold, there were hundreds of rats scuttling to and fro. They did not necessarily come near us on purpose, as they seemed unconscious of our presence, but when one happened to veer too close I’d be forced to stand on tip toe. In all Hindu temples it is customary to remove your shoes, so not only were there small rats zooming across my path at every turn, but I was standing there defenseless, in just a pair of “moisture wicking” socks.

In a Hindu temple it is also customary to do a round around the inner shrine – rats filled the empty rooms next to us as we ran on tip toe through the narrow passage way surrounding the shrine. They crawled out of water holes and up walls, on top of un-spinning ceiling fans and over statues of Shiva. I must say once you see enough rats, they start looking exactly like little mice…

The heat during the first day of the safari was not as mind-numbing as it was the second. After leaving the temple we boarded the camels and set off with Ikrar, our 19 year old guide, Subhas, the camel man, and Susiel, the cook. Subhas and Susiel spoke no English; Subhas is 15 years old and was married at age 13. Child marriages are common in Rajasthan; I bought jewelry from a successful businessman who had been married at the age of five. The marriages are not consummated until the couple is allowed to live together, which is usually when the woman is 18 and the man 21. Subhas knows who his wife is but does not speak to or see her.

The girls and I felt like true princesses, albeit princesses during the Middle Ages. The sun burned – Ikrar made us turbans from our head scarves, which we then wore covered with another head scarf; every part of our body had to be covered. The heat was so intense, jolts of it would sudden through my body and I’d have to think to keep cool. The first night we were exhausted but slept out in the open, under the moonlight, surprisingly close to the camels, the boys on one side for protection and a family of dogs roaming about to bark loudly at any intruder. I have never slept out in the open before, and I believe it may be good for you. I saw three shooting stars before I could no longer hold my eyes open. It was peaceful – the moonlight woke me when the moon rose, its light was so bright. In the morning we were pleased to see Subhas calmly cleaning and combing the camels. The camel is shaved except for its hump, which is covered in a thick burst of curly fur. Our cart tire was flat so instead of doing another 20 kilometers in the scorching heat we decided to stay near camp, go into a village for water and a cool drink, and relax. Imagine me riding into a rural Indian village on top of a camel with my sun/rain umbrella out, keeping the sun’s rays as far from my actual body as possible – it felt regal but looked ridiculous.

Camels are amazing creatures – ornery as can be, kicking their drivers and ingesting huge bags of feed daily, but somehow majestic with their wide-eyed gait. They are “notoriously flatulent,” and this is no joke as we learned while being pulled close behind one on a cart. Two of us girls would ride atop a camel, each sitting just in front of the hump, while the third battled constant camel toots from her seat on the cart. A camel’s neck and head when stretched up are as tall as Jonit; you can imagine my fright when they stood up, lifting you nearly eight feet off the ground. Although their walk is tough to settle into, the ride is smooth when the camel runs. However, as you’re not strapped on or anything, a running camel is about as stable as an old water-logged wooden fence – it doesn’t seem like a person should be depending on it to hold them up.

On the third day, we were sad to leave our guides and even sadder not to have another night under the stars. I’d come to at least like camels; I can’t say the same for the rats.

The pollution in Delhi is all-invasive and I miss the fresh cool desert night air. To escape the tourist enclaves here never fails to disappoint; Bikaner was a big town with a small town mentality. The people met you with a smile.

I’ve rambled on long enough. Take care, from my side of the world to yours…

Indian Time

Photo by Sonu Agvan on Unsplash

From Saturday, March 6, 2004

In the past month, I have had a palm reader tell me that I was fit and a yoga instructor tell me I would NEVER get fat. The palm reader worked inside the 16th century Jodhpur fort and with bifocals hanging on to the end of his nose resembled a university professor. Using more gracious phrasing, he called me a cheap indecisive double-checker who had the most “fit” health he’d read in years. The robust young yoga instructor suffered from attention deficit disorder and assured me that with my long and lean body type I could eat as I pleased. Good news from strangers, when every face is unfamiliar, is so believable.

We have been in India for nearly three months; a Hindu nation whose population is 13% Muslim. While in public, most Muslim women do cover themselves in black, some donning a burqa, oftentimes while shopping for brightly colored saris of which we outsiders are allowed only a bottom glimpse. The Hindu women have exactly the same habit; they also cover their heads and faces in public, but use their fluorescent beaded sari material to do so. It’s intriguing how the very same social tradition has become doctrine to the practitioners of two different religions. It’s reminded me that religion, even here, is mythological – a set of social rules disguised as a sacred belief system.

The Indian society retains so much history it is ready to burst. The practice of arranged marriage reminds me of political alliance matrimony during the middle ages – two people are brought together because it is best for their families, not because it is best for them. During our SERVAS home-stay in Jaipur, we met a young couple our age, Alok and Anu, married for seven years. “In your country,” the husband (Alok) said, “love comes first, then marriage. In our country, marriage comes first, and love comes after.” Hopefully.

In Indian culture, the marriage of two individuals literally brings together two different families. It’s called a joint family arrangement – and this structure is vital to society. Women, as second-class citizens, are rarely allowed to work; most are housewives, and in some cases the Muslim women do not venture forth from the home except to go to market. Their duties are in the home, and as the matriarch ages, she must have someone to replace her. Welcome the new bride – the son’s wife – to take things over. The work is just too hard for an elderly woman, and her duties are too important and must be continued. Every meal is cooked from scratch and can take hours to make (even the dog gets homemade food); clothes are washed and sometimes made by hand; many homes have no showers so even bathing is time consuming. The children must be cared for, and Indian dads work 12 – 14 hour days, often from 10 AM to 10 PM. The streets are so congested that to get groceries with a baby on a scooter, sari flying while trying to navigate one’s way through traffic (bicycles, bicycle rickshaws, men pulling carts, camels pulling carts, elephants, goats, auto rickshaws, automobiles, cows, dogs, pigs, bulls, water buffalo, monkeys, pedestrians sleeping on the streets and sidewalks, buses, BIG trucks, small trucks, motorcycles and hundreds of scooters) takes all hell of an afternoon.

Take care all of you. I’m sure I love hearing from you a bit more than you do me – so WRITE!

The Desolate Country – this State is almost entirely a Sandy Waste…

Photo by Anshu A on Unsplash

From Monday, February 9, 2004 

This is direct quote from Jaisalmer’s Palace Museum, describing the northern desert-smeared state of Rajasthan. The temperature has dropped remarkably and I, like every other tourist, have succumbed to wearing shawls (i.e. blankets) around town to keep warm at night. Our noses are sunburnt red and our lips chapped by the blazing hot daylight sun and contact lenses are an impossibility here in the land of ‘fine desert dust floating through the air.’ Spring is on its way but as we’re traveling north, so the cold gathers.

Jaisalmer – a decrepit fairy tale classic – home to a 12th century fort still standing and housing Indians and havelis – ancient mansions built by once prosperous merchants and although crumbling still romantic to stay the night in. Arriving in the north has been an incredible shock – Jaisalmer is the type of place one ‘imagines’ when one pictures India. The fort itself dominates the city; constructed of yellow stone its huge walls rise hundreds of feet to encircle the smaller town within – a Lego castle constructed entirely of yellow Legos. Cobblestone streets lead from one round castle-topped rampart to another, with dwellings and havelis in between.

We raced here for the 2004 Desert Festival, being held during the full moon days of February, and drawing hundreds of flabby eyed tourists much too willing to part with their money. We’ve come across so many North Americans I developed a staring problem, as I was so unused to hearing a familiar accent. The Desert Festival lasted three days – camels and entertainment galore. New friends all over the place and dances to make your heart stop – I saw a man spinning round and round for thirty minutes or more while he swung an arm full of swords, balancing one on his raised finger, one on his wrist and one on his raised forearm. While still in motion he also managed to create a peacock from a blue piece of cloth and fly it to and fro. The women are wearing electric colors you normally see in your minds eye as headscarves, and their babies eyes are covered in black kohl with foreheads appropriately dotted to keep away the the evil eye. There was a turban tying contest and a Mr. Desert competition, along with a beauty pageant, sari tying competition and a tug of war between Indians and foreigners – igniting a bit of racial tension but the Indians won, so all remained swell.

We narrowly escaped a steaming whiz of camel piss while wandering out in the desert for the last day of festivities. Camels are fascinating creatures – giraffe necked with slumped humped backs towering over ten feet high, knobby knees and short tails which apparently they spin while peeing in order to spray their scent, marking territory. They are more like dinosaurs than any animal I have seen – furry dinosaurs with large teeth and lips that stretch for miles to chew, and Brontosaurus toes. Camels ROAR.

Camel races and camel decorating competitions and sunset vs. moonrise over the sand dunes kept us busy that last day. We befriended a twelve year old named Raj who braved the elements to take care of us, three women twice his age – we would have been eaten alive without him as the camel drivers were unable to resist their compulsion to question us LOUDLY at any moment:  “Madame – CAMEL?” Our first reaction – NO! We don’t want a @#$^&$* camel…But then I decided it might be fun to take Raj – who’d never been on a camel’s back before – and ride off into the sunset. Believe me, all sand dunes look exactly alike especially when covered in hundreds of people and no established meeting place. Just hill after bigger hill of shifting, floating sand soft enough to sink your feet into. I would have lost Jonit and Maureen for good had it not been for little Raj’s wise eyesight.

Yesterday, while wandering the streets we happened upon a wedding procession. The bride’s family was weeping the loss of their daughter and she was surrounded by women sobbing their grief. Before we knew it Maureen and I were balling too while the turbaned husband rejoined the procession, stoic and scared. All this in a street filled with ancient buildings covered in intricate carvings resembling a medieval nightmare.

The intense beauty and incoherent age of Jaisalmer makes it a magical place. Long haired goats with screw shaped horns walk the streets without bending their legs. Handsome illegal-length mustachioed men in pointy Aladdin shoes with bright yellow turbans and both ears ear-ringed really bring that encyclopedia book page describing India to life.

Brown Paper Packages tied up with String

Photo by Mediocre Studio on Unsplash

From Friday, January 16, 2004

These are a few of my favorite things:

A sari is a single piece of material, wrapped around and around a woman’s body then thrown over the shoulder and draped almost to the heels. It’s an entire outfit, the brilliantly hued skirt and shawl, with a draw-string underskirt and a tiny undershirt, exposing the belly. The cloth in front is for modesty, and completely hides the shape of the breasts. Shoulders and back are also covered, but the belly, the glorious belly, is left skin to air.

In Kerala and much of Southern India the women decorate the dirt doorsteps in the morning with rice powder or white chalk and fluorescent dyes of all colors. They draw intricately shaped geometric figures – bordered white and colored in with pink, purple, red, turquoise and yellow. In the evening when they clean their doorstep they splash water into the dust, erasing the shape they have created simply to recreate it the next morning. When we visited our friend Push’s home his sister had drawn a simple, white-only decoration for the day. When we saw Push the following day he said his sister had drawn a spectacular design in the hopes that we would return. In India the people have so little, even their home decor is temporary – permanence is unimportant and their furnishings are erasable. I find them to be as unconcerned with material things as I am obsessed by them.

Our friend Geo’s aunt, who cooked pineapple curry for us the day after Christmas, has four small stone elephants waiting at her home in Trivandrum.  She says they are gifts waiting for her four American friends should we ever return.

Jonit and I were aboard a bus, stranded a few kilometers from Tipu Sultan’s summer palace and being harassed by a rickshaw driver eager to take us to see the sights. A little pig-tailed girl who was translating for us commanded suddenly:  “Come with me.  You want to go to palace?  I’ll take you; come.” Jonit and I followed her down the street and through a metal pot shop which lead into her house. She said her father would drive us to the palace, just wait a moment. We met her sister, cousin, aunt and mother; the little girls spoke spectacular English and before we could stop them brought us lunch plates filled with lemon rice and papaya pieces. Their father, a well-dressed handsome mustachioed man, arrived with the car and when we thanked him after dropping us at the front gate of the palace, his reply was:  “It is my duty.”

The schoolchildren ride city buses to and from school.  On an Indian bus it is crowded; women sitting in twos on one side and men in threes on the other with people standing elbow to chest in the center aisle. The schoolgirls riding home withh their backpacks cram themselves onto the bus and then haphazardly remove their backpacks, swinging them onto the laps of the women sitting near the windows. These women and girls do not know each other, and when the girl’s stop arrives she grabs her pack with a smile and a thanks and is off.

Take care and write more often.  The girls and I miss you.

Meaningfully Mute with Wordless Expressiveness

Photo by Arjun MJ on Unsplash

From Tuesday, January 6, 2004

I walk the streets of India oftentimes in this very state.

Traversing India is like taking a river swim – the fantastic part about being here is that you never know if you’re going to have to swim upstream or down.

In Kochi we “floated” rather carelessly downstream – we fit in well with all the other moneyed western travelers; we celebrated Christmas in style; there was real filter coffee to fend off grouchiness and plenty of Kashmiri import shops eager to sell us Christmas gifts. Here in Bangalore the mood is more of an upstream fight to keep our heads above water. A daily battle for survival, as Jonit likes to call it.

Photo by Manas Manikoth on Unsplash

We prolonged our stay in Kochi to await Alya and to see a real KATHAKALI performance.  Kathakali is an all night affair – a dance held in a Hindu temple beginning at 10:30 PM and traditionally going until sunrise. The performers are decked out – faces painted in bright greens, yellows, reds, blacks and whites – all natural colors made of chalky rock mixed w/ coconut oil. White and black paper designs are glued to their cheeks to accentuate certain characteristics. The costumes consist of Southern belle style short hoop skirts with pants underneath, ankle bells and great headdresses.

Musicians sing the story while playing hand cymbals and drummers keep the beat for the performers, who do not speak but instead use sign language to accentuate the story’s meaning. The performer’s main role is to commit extremely minute and intricate facial movements while pounding their curl-toed feet in rhythm to the music. The eyeballs are dyed red and small actions such as eye-rolling or figure-eighting with the eyeballs are sustained for long uncomfortable periods of time. The performance is completely captivating, and the best part is the graphic violence that normally brings the story to an end. We saw a character disemboweled – fake blood, eating of red-string guts and all – and a violent beheading complete with screaming actors running through the crowd brandishing weapons and fangs at everyone in sight.

Tradition is sunk into every part of life here.  We met the 1984 National Yoga Champion (Peter Nixon) and he was still attempting to perfect the same yoga positions that have existed for hundreds of years.

We welcomed the New Year on the beach in Varkala, celebrating in the Scottish way, carting around an extra bottle of whiskey and a collapsible cup in order to hand out shots to all our new waiter and shopkeeper friends. Both the Muslim people and the Hindus seem to have no real aversion to drink.

The sixteen hour train ride north to Bangalore, in the state of Karnataka, wore us out despite the fact that I slept heartily in my clothes with the help of my earplugs, eye patch and neck-pillow.  We were in second class sleeper – no aircon, open berths, and eight people to a berth. We had the compartment to ourselves for most of the ride and in the morning were besieged by a delightful two-year old and his father, who as imaginary vegetable vendors sold us pretend tomatoes.

Bangalore truly is the New York City of India – yesterday we were invited into our first Muslim home. An auto rickshaw driver we befriended named Iliaz had us over for sweets and coffee to meet his mother and sisters. The Muslim women stop their education for the most part at age 16 and wait around for two years until their marriage is arranged. They dress in sari or salwar kameez but when they go out do cover themselves completely in black. Iliaz’s father died five years ago and he is solely responsible for caring for his entire family – he is in his mid-twenties.  Muslim women are not allowed to work under any circumstances – if Iliaz’s family did not have a son to support them they may well be out on the streets starving.

I must escape this internet cafe.  Take care y’all.  I’m anxious for more news from home!  Happy 2004 and keep in touch.

Froliche Weinachten

Photo by gaurav kumar on Unsplash

From Thursday, December 25, 2003

Selecting Chennai – India’s fourth-ish largest city – as our port of entry into India is comparable to the average European deciding to launch their American tour from Detroit. It is a city one would normally not visit unless, well, unless you had to [update from 2023, I’d never been to Detroit when I wrote this, and after attending the 2017 Women’s Convention there, I’m now envious of its citizens!] We’ve crossed the peninsula from east to west via the Cardamom Hills in the Western Ghats, and our arrival in Kochi, Kerala was much anticipated. Kochi is a seaside town full of travelers (imagine even the western men wearing colorful head scarves to hide the dirty hair days) with a Jewish quarter, two churches, and a semi-posh coffee shop to hideout in.

Last night we attended midnight mass at the Santa Cruz Cathedral – people were spilled out onto the drive and the sermon was given in English and then Malayalam. The cathedral itself was becoming in its state of decay – the paint was peeling but the holy water holders were full and you could tell by the look of the worn cross hanging from a side wall that is was worn from constant displays of devotion. People in the back of the congregation would drop to their knees to pray at any time during the sermon. Like the Hindu temples in Tamil Nadu, it is moving to see a religious monument so alive with use.

Pure Veg food is eaten with the hands on real banana leaves. Banana leaves are much larger than your average plate and require a sprinkled bottled water wash before use. You’re supposed to fold your leaf when you are done, indicating to the ever-friendly waiter that he can stop reloading your leaf w/ dahls, rice and chutney.

We were lucky enough to do a homestay w/ a Jain Gujarati family in Madurai – Jains are strictly pure veg – no meat, eggs, etc. – and they do not eat past sunset. This is from our Rough Guide: 

“In an incredibly complicated process of philosophical analysis known as Anekanatavada (many-sidedness), Jainism approaches all questions of existence, permanence, and change from seven different viewpoints, maintaining that things can be looked at in an infinite number of valid ways.  Thus it claims to remove the intellectual basis for violence, avoiding the potentially damaging result of holding a one-sided view.” 

Practicing Jains do not eat anything grown underground, like onions or garlic or carrots or potatoes, and they are pacifist, practicing a strict code of non-violence. Imagine our horror when Jonit clapped about loudly killing a mosquito buzzing in the air above her head. Not only did she kill the pest, but she killed it with a smile…”Kill it before it has a chance to kill you” is our philosophy. The oldest daughter, Dimple, sprawled comfortably on a wicker chair, said only: “We don’t do that. It’s a life.”

How many differences may we continue to encounter? My thoughts are with you all on Christmas.  Have a super wild New Year’s Eve!

In India, There’s No Place to Buy…

Photo by Sandeep Kr Yadav on Unsplash

From Monday, December 15, 2003

…toilet paper.

Most Indian women decorate their face, be it with yellow facial dye or a multitude of multi-colored dots. We’ve visited enough temples to recognize that the process of getting dotted is much like taking communion in the Methodist church, where everyone is invited. A shirtless Brahmin with exposed chest hair and three wide white lines painted on his forehead holds a tray supporting a flaming oil lamp of sorts. The Hindus stand in line, and when it is their turn run their hands lightly through the flame, take a bit of colored dust (rice powder) from the Brahmin’s hand into their own and place a mark on the middle of their forehead, on the bridge of their nose, and also on their neck or throat.

Many Indian men wear sarongs – white skirts wrapped around their waist and tied in front. As the heat fluctuates throughout the day, so does the length of their skirt. Oftentimes men can be seen raising the bottom so the skirt hangs to just above their knees and tying it at their waist for a second time.

In Pondicherry (where, by the way, we narrowly avoided a cyclone) we had our fist genuine Ascetic sighting. A man walking the streets was pulling a cart with his back skin and balancing an altar of sorts on one shoulder. The cart contained an orange triangle and had two wheels, and it was attached to the man’s back by two chains piercing his skin. He was really “hooked on” to that cart! His followers were stopping the passersby to collect money to aid in their collective survival.

I love it here but am thankful for the quiet sanctity of our hotel room. I hope you are all well.

Riding on a Bus in India…

Photo by Raimond Klavins on Unsplash

From Sunday, December 14th , 2003

…is a lot like watching television, only better. As the gray fumes from passing vehicles pump in between the bars on the windows, blurring your vision slightly, the scenes that pass by are amazing. I’ve taken to riding around with a kerchief covering my nose and mouth, like most of the Indian women do.

Cows cows everywhere, with no one to milk them in sight, eating trash and the billboard signs off the walls. They have luxuriously curved horns painted in stripes of yellows and reds and greens. There are tiny baby goats with long stiff legs that seem not to bend, wandering with their too-long ears behind their mothers, who are also eating trash.

Men riding bicycles and behind them a rainbow of lime-green coconuts hoovering over the back wheel. Women carrying loads of bricks on their heads from one place to another on construction sites where they make the cement right there in front of you out of black rock and sand they collect from the beach.

I’ve seen two men with two thumbs on one hand in the last two weeks. The one thumb is perfectly normal sized; the other, a miniature growth complete with joint, nail, and cuticle. Small distortions abound.

Our first blackout was in Mamallapuram – a small seaside sculptors’ village just south of Chennai with a beautiful beach littered with trash. The fans were dead, as were the lights, and we walked through a candle-lit town. We were mid-street when the power returned and lo and behold a cow with its tail raised was sending a hose full of urine right in our direction.

In Cambodia, our friend Mono remarked about the large family sizes, “the people know about contraception, they just can’t afford to buy condoms.” In India the situation is much the same. We keep a slew of stickers in our pockets to hand out at a moments notice whenever we are besieged by children begging. Extra tooth brushes, pens, marbles and pins also make good gifts.

From Mamallapuram we bussed it further south to Pondicherry, an old French stronghold still retaining residual charm, and took a tour of Auroville – a New Age co-operative with a huge Epcot Center sized golden ball containing the heart of the community. The heart is a padded white room with one of the world’s largest crystal balls in the center, and is used for meditation.

We are now traveling west, through the Chola heartland, visiting 1,000 year old temples and stopping only to eat, sleep and of course, check e-mail. We’re on a race to reach Alya by the 22nd-ish of December on the Christian west coast in the state of Kerala where we’ll celebrate Christmas. We (even Jonit) have been singing Christmas carols to keep our spirits up but it just doesn’t put you in the same mood when the weather outside is 80 degrees.

I miss you all and hope you are enjoying the *Holidays.  Please keep in touch.

P.S.  The food is phenomenal.

American Girls can’t Nod

Photo by Belle Maluf on Unsplash

While my husband, daughter and I are living abroad in Wellington, New Zealand for my husband’s sabbatical, I vowed to write a travelogue: I’m calling it #sabbaticalled.

Which got me thinking about an earlier travelogue I’d written, waaaaayy back in 2003, during an around the world trip I took to India, with my two best friends. It was a series of letters to friends back home, thus the conversational tone. Luckily enough for me, I was able to dig up copies on Mata Traders website, and in keeping writer’s block at bay, decided to repost here.

From December 7th, 2003

Dear All,

Here in India – our destination for the next four months – the people have a habit of replying to questions with a sideways nod of the head.  A bobble from left to right, a tilting of the chin and ears from one side to the other in a seemingly seamless motion.  The funny thing for me, Maureen, and Jonit is that this motion means not only “yes” but also “maybe” – but definitely not “no.”  So when we run for an overcrowded bus, w/ all our packs plus the video camera and tripod, dodging the motorbikes and bicycles driving haphazardly on the wrong side of the road, grab a handle and lunge onto the bus, pushing our way through the mass of saris and non-deodorant-wearing men in short shirt sleeves, and breathlessly ask: “Is this the way to __ Train Station?!?” our hopes are dashed when the answer is “nod-nod-silent-maybe.”

Jonit and I arrived in Chennai (Madras) the capitol of Tamil Nadu twelve hours before Maureen.  On our trip into the city from the airport the two of us braved the train despite the rickshaw drivers warning:  “No, no, it’s too crowded.”  The platform was empty.  As the train drew near Jonit and I knew from reading our travel guides that a “Woman’s only” car existed and we ran for it.  Stepping onto the train we were overcome by the sight of COLOR.  All the beautiful saris!  Every color imaginable – pastel and fluorescent, more traditional silk in blues and greens w/ gold thread inlaid in the pattern, tons of GOLD jewelry, bangles, bangles, bangles, and all the different colored dots on the women’s foreheads.  Some women also had red powder in the parting of their hair (which I think means they’re married).  Most of the women wore half shirts under the saris thrown over one shoulder and even their skin looked comforting.  The smell of the fresh flowers in the women’s hair filled the car, and we never felt more secure.

We’ve already abandoned Chennai – too big and too messy – and are on our way south down the coast.  I hope you are all well and preparing for the Christmas season.  Write when you can.