Read The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) Online
Authors: Erin Reese
The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (9 page)
24
th
of April, Koh Phangan
I’m heading home a week early! I can feel it—I’ve come to the end of my journey. For about the last three weeks I’ve been feeling the itch. It’s not that I’m tired or sick, I don’t have some weird disease, and there’s no anti-American sentiment flying my way.
No, it’s none of that. I’m simply
done
—for now. There’s only so much sensory input one can absorb in a single trip. Perhaps, with the right mindset, the ending is where the good stuff really begins to kick in! The West is, after all, where you get the lovely opportunity to bring it all “home” (wherever that may be—home being in the heart) and put it into practice.
For me, it’s all about integration, and sharing, and using what I’ve learned and opened up to in the East. That is, at least until I settle in for about five days, dust off my backpack, and find myself looking online for the best ticket deal to the next destination. Ah, will I ever really settle? Regardless, I am excited and grateful to be heading back to California in less than one week’s time.
It has been a long haul, and the road has definitely risen up to meet me.
20
th
of May, San Francisco
Closure and completion—the culmination of an epic journey is the hardest chapter to write. I’ve been grieving the end of my travels through India for the past three weeks. It’s time to make the transition, to be here now, back in the West. Talking with a compassionate friend over lunch the other day, I tearfully expressed my confusion about being back in the States. He enlightened me, “Erin, you’re obviously still ON your trip!”
I’ve been experiencing my own version of a Mini-Meltdown since arriving in the U.S. The first week flew by and I recovered from jet lag quickly. The second week I discovered that I didn’t get off so easy. Friends who have traveled extensively in India had warned me that the return home often greets us with harsh culture shock—in reverse. I wasn’t immune. The biggest challenge is facing my resistance to reintegrating in the first place! Part of me has not wanted to be here; I have dreamed of the simplicity and sanctity of my time in India with a fondness that grips my heart and soul.
My second week home, I felt a flood of creative energy rush through me that manifested itself as insomnia. It vibrated like a force field through my body as my spirit struggled to switch frequencies, to slow down the
shakti
vibrations. At first, I resisted the change in resonance—a shift from a spiritual frequency to a material frequency—but I finally succumbed to it, if only to be able to get some sleep and feel more comfortable in this western land. I was afraid to give in to the shift, to allow myself to slow the spiritual accelerator. I had to, or I’d suffer from exhaustion, or drive myself mad!
Still, three weeks after landing back in the States, I’m often hit with a sudden surge of emotion. In addition to confusion, my tears have been of immeasurable joy mixed with frustration. How can I possibly convey to you, dear friends, one small iota of the beauty I’ve experienced through this epic journey?
This must be what an artist grapples with as she embraces her creative process, as she struggles to paint her raw vision on the canvas. All I can do is try, and hope to convey a small feeling, a tiny fraction of my enormous Technicolor experience, as well as the boundless gratitude overflowing from my heart.
I’ve often felt like fleeing since arriving back in California. Of course, it’s good to be here, hug my mom, kiss the cat, take a real tub bath. Yet, I feel like a foreigner in my own land. The desire to return to India for another six months, or one year, is still with me. I’ve thought about going back—this time listening more closely to the secrets She only began to reveal to me. I’ve ruminated over the idea of writing a book while being in India for another long stint. I’ve dreamed about letting this paradoxically rich and impoverished jewel of a nation deepen its effect on me.
I’m debating whether to wear my trademark bindi on a regular basis. Seems even the progressive northern California natives aren’t quite sure what to make of it. It’s funny, because I forget the jewel is sticking out in the middle of my forehead half the time. This past weekend, I came out of a grocery store and asked a middle-aged, conservatively dressed woman for directions to the freeway. She responded to me with a cocked head and a cautious voice, avoiding my eyes. As she was giving me directions, I wondered why she seemed so uncomfortable speaking to me—I’m quite a friendly extrovert, and strangers are usually happy to converse with me. As I walked away, I realized that she had been staring (or, rather, trying not to) at the pink bejeweled bindi blaring out of my forehead! I suppose she feared I might do some sort of Vulcan mind-meld on her, whisk her off to India, and shave her head if she got too close.
Interesting
, I realized,
this is what it feels like to look exotically foreign
—and that’s mild!
It was at another supermarket where I fully realized I was 100% back in the U.S.A. Five days after I landed, I finally ventured out on my own to buy a few staples. After 45 minutes of pulling the glazed-eye-Indian-milking-cow bit, wandering up and down the aisles and coming up with just two items for purchase, I was wiped out from sensory overload. I mean, come on, now. How many types of breakfast cereal must there be?
I ambled over to the checkout line with my two items, stood there, and overheard the following:
Checkout Lady: “Oh! You found it! Isn’t it just wonderful?!”
Shopper Lady: “ I don’t know yet! But I saw it and just HAD to try it!”
Checkout Lady: “You will just LOVE it. I don’t know how I lived without it! It’s so ingenious! Just stick it on and go! It’s…GRILLABLE CHEESE!”
I had traveled 10,000 miles to get back home in order to experience the Eighth Wonder of the World: modified flavored plastic that won’t burn up on the BBQ.
There are magical moments of homecoming and remembrance, too. This past weekend, a relative stranger who heard about my voyage asked me a powerful question. He didn’t pull the old, “How was it?” nor did he ask, “What was your favorite place?” He thoughtfully enquired, “What is one of your most poignant memories of being in India?”
I burst into tears. I knew immediately. As he listened intently and with compassion, I described the most incredible peace I’ve known, meditating at sunset on the Indian Ocean on my little stretch of beach paradise. Every evening, no matter where the day had led me, I knew right where I would be come those final minutes of sundown. I’d make a beeline for the beach, spread my sarong out before the surf, and time it just right.
After thirty minutes or so of silent contemplation, I’d open my eyes just in time to see the big ball of orange fire fall off the edge of the Earth and disappear over the horizon. Sometimes at this moment, I’d glimpse a faint white light surrounding my body. Bowing to the setting sun in a
Namaste
prayer position, I’d give thanks for the Sun, that incredible source of
pranic
life energy.
“See you tomorrow!” I’d say, as I waved goodbye to the Sun for another good night.
And that is, quite simply, as good as it gets.
And on that note, I’ll wave goodbye to
you
—for this trip, for now.
India Calling
Upon returning to the U.S. after my first journey through India, I was so disoriented, so cracked-open and so naturally
high
that for weeks I told anyone who’d listen:
“It’s like I’ve had a lobotomy, but it’s only half-complete. I need to go back to India to finish the job.”
I grieved every single day that summer, missing the elixir of love and soul and freedom of spirit I’d discovered in India. Finally, fearing I’d never come down off my spiritual high, I consulted a transpersonal psychologist. I needed help, it seemed, for I was in the midst of some sort of “spiritual emergency.” Lucky for me, this therapist completely validated my state and my heart’s longing, encouraging me to return to India, for clearly, I’d left my heart on Her soil. I began to make plans for an autumn return.
But a funny thing happened on my way to the travel agent, and I spent the next three years stuck stateside, seemingly to get all my remaining ya-ya’s out: a desire arose—
just one more plunge into the material side of life
, I thought. I also had nagging doubts that I was truly sane—perhaps I qualified for the loony bin with all this “India Intoxication.” Perhaps, instead of taking off, I better stick around the U.S., work hard, and focus on saving for retirement like a good girl.
With the best of intentions to “settle down,” I attended grad school and promptly dropped out after the first semester: sitting in a classroom to learn about the world seemed like an insult when I knew that the world was my greatest teacher. I dabbled in theater, discovering that I had no real acting talent and the only character I play flawlessly is my own self. Instead, I tapped into my writing and stargazing skills, and spent the next two years writing content for a top international astrology website.
All during this wild Western ride, I pined for the East and Mother India every day. Seeing documentaries in local art house cinemas on wandering sadhus, or the Kumbh Mela, or the gypsies of Rajasthan, did nothing to assuage my heartache. I told myself I should be happy—once again, I had it all: I lived in one of the world’s most gorgeous cities, had a creative and unique career, and a ton of talented, loving friends.
But no. The lobotomy wasn’t finished. I couldn’t resist the pull back to India, and a fast-paced life in the States still felt like a burden, a weight on my chest.
Once again, I said sayonara. After a blowout bon-voyage bash, I loaded up my backpack, and gave away 99% of everything I had acquired. A coworker who was short on cash and had just relocated from Texas was pleased as punch when I offered her my
entire
apartment of furnishings—pots, pans, TV and DVD, bed, linens—everything but the kitchen sink, for whatever amount she could afford. “It’s just
stuff
,” I reminded myself as I deposited her $150.00 check. “One can always get more
stuff
.”
The return to India had been three long years in coming, and
oh
, how I was ready…
Diving Deeper
Terra Incognita
22
nd
of September, San Francisco
Today, I paid for my (gasp!) one-way ticket back to India, with a brief stop in Thailand, departing in three week’s time. Don’t know how long I’ll be gone for. Wearing sketched plans like a loosely-draped sarong.
I’ve been aching to return to the mothership ever since I crash-landed back in California three-and-a-half years ago. It’s been a long haul, waiting it out in the West: a stint in Manhattan, a gig at the daily grind, a spurt on the stage, a splash on the page…I’ve paid my U.S. dues. It’s time to be refueled, nourished, and held in the heartland.
Terra incognita
, indeed.
25
th
of October, Bangkok
“Same, same... but different.”
It’s a saying travelers hear all the time throughout Southeast Asia and India, a simplified international phrase used by the locals to describe just about anything. It means, “We’re getting close to nailing down what we’re really describing (a menu item, a bus route, a guest house room).” Even though it’s not
quite
what you’re after exactly, you’ll be pleased enough with the results.
Same, same... but WAY different. That’s the way I feel about Thailand this time around. Three-and-a-half years ago, after being in India for such a long stretch, I’d experienced quite a culture shock here. At that time, Thailand felt like the West. Now, I am convinced that it
is
the West. In three years, globalization has taken hold in a huge way.
When I got here two weeks ago, I was blown away at the change in Bangkok—cell phones, Blackberries, Starbucks, sophisticated Skytrains. Bangkok has evolved into a truly modern city. Is this a good thing? I’m not sure, but I have to remember that it takes a good chunk of time to get one’s traveling “sea legs.” I feel a bit shaky at the moment—a bit rusty.
After two days in Bangkok, I caught a domestic transfer flight to the south of Thailand to get some beach time before heading to the hot, sweaty, dirty north of India. I returned to Koh Phangan, the famed backpacker island. I knew it would be cheap, and easy to meet fellow travelers. A good place to chill out, and socialize as desired.
The first change that surprised me is that prices in Thailand had doubled over the last three years. But the real shock was the development on the island itself. I should have known this was coming, as heavy-duty construction had begun during my previous trip. Still, when I walked up to my old beach bungalow, Poseidon’s Cove, I could have cried at the sight. Before, there were several simple, charming wooden shacks with verandas facing the sunset sea. Now, Poseidon’s was one big square concrete slab. No view. No open grassy area under the coconut trees where I once practiced morning sun salutations. Just a two-storied plot of rooms that looked like a penitentiary block. You could be
Anywhere
.
My heart broke. I entered the premises, just for the heck of it, to say hello and see what the vibe would be. I immediately recognized the Thai owner.
He was sitting behind the front desk, watching TV. “
Sa-wat-dee-ka
!” I greeted him with a big smile, trying to be polite in my non-existent Thai. “Hello! I remember you from three years ago! You are owner, with family!”
“Yes, yes, that long time ago,” he replied. “Much changed now.” Was it my imagination, or did he not seem as happy now, even with his “illustrious,” prosperous hotel expansion? It seemed he lacked the warm twinkle in his eyes from before.
The room rates were double the old price (400 Baht—about $9.50). Of course, the owner explained, I would have A/C and TV, and flushing toilet. Not my cup of Nescafe, thank you very much. There’s no way I could stay here, nor did I choose to afford it.
Before leaving the grounds, I walked around a bit, trying to scope out an entrance to the sea. There used to be a lovely grassy central area opening up to a grove of coconut trees and the beach, where I loved to practice yoga in the mornings and watch the children play at sundown. No more.
