The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (10 page)

I scurried off as tears actually welled up in my eyes, determined to skedaddle further up the coastline and find a little piece of peace. Off I trod, squish-squashing in my flip-flops through the slurping sand as a light rain fell upon me and all my belongings. I had marveled at the über-organized Germans on the ferry to the island as they oh-so-practically and preparedly covered their rucksacks with some special, handy-dandy fitted canvas coverings that had somehow evolved in backpacker gear repertoire over the past few years. Oh well, you can’t think of everything. That wouldn’t be adventurous, now would it?

I romped aside millipedes and through mud puddles up the jungly coastal trail. Finally, three bungalow compounds later, I came into a clearing of open space and a humble villa. Jutting up against the forest, fragrant, colorful flowers everywhere, the sea lapping up against the land, on the veranda perched a squat, smiling, older Thai man with his young wife and small child. Could it be the authentic place I was searching for?

“Bungalow?” I asked hopefully.

“One only!” he responded with a grin. “Single, fan only, toilet outside! 100 Baht.”

Now that’s more like it! I inspected the digs first, as I always do, but my gut had known immediately it was the place for me. “I’ll take it!” I told the old man. I would have paid double that price just for the lovely essence of the place. I thanked my lucky stars that these little hovels have survived, even in an overdeveloped island like Koh Phangan. I was so much happier there than in a deluxe resort room. I don’t mean to say that I don’t appreciate luxury; first class suits me just fine at times. But that’s not the type of Asia traveler I wish to be this time around. It’s not the point. Plus, I’m in for the long haul, and saving two or three or four dollars a day goes a long, long way.

Exhausted, I threw off my pack and flung myself down on the bed, too tired to tuck the mosquito netting in. It had been a hard haul from San Francisco, via Taipei, through Bangkok as I had made my way down to the island. I was beat, and very much looking forward to a long, sweaty nap.

The cicadas began their cacophony outside in the pre-sunset heat. I tuned them out and fell into a trance, and had just about dozed off when, suddenly, I became Little Miss Muffet.

Half- asleep, I felt something drop—phwap—onto my left hand. Not wanting to look, but forcing myself, I found myself staring at a big, furry friend—an arachnid, three-inches in diameter.

Welcome to the jungle.

With a loud yelp, I bolted upright and flung the tarantula look-alike into a corner of the hut. Inspecting the room for more spiders, telling myself there was nothing to worry about and it was right-quick time to toughen up, young lady, I finally drifted off to sleep—after coating myself with ultra-toxic DEET (screw citronella—it’s no time for au natural in the tropics!) and, this time, triple-checking the net was securely tucked in.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a complete chorus of brass horns started blowing somewhere in the jungle, just behind my bungalow.
That’s odd. I wonder who’s up and playing jazz in the middle of the night?
I got up, making my way to the outside toilet with the moon as my guide, and looked and looked around the bungalows behind mine. No lights on, nobody home. No one blowing horns and no wayfaring trippers still up with iPods blaring. I shrugged, jetlagged and out of it, and tumbled back to bed. I tightly screwed in my earplugs, figuring I’d investigate in the morning.

The next evening, sometime after supper, I was heading back from the village through the jungle path, when I heard the horns again. This time, smartly outfitted with headlamp, I followed the sound. Determined, I bushwhacked through the palm trees into the next resort, sidestepping the swampy drainage ditches. The sound got louder and I knew my suspicions must be true. I shined the headlamp into the murky depths of a stagnant slough, and there they were! A veritable saxophone symphony, a righteous convention of amphibious musicians! All shapes and sizes of frogs, blowin’ their brass like no tomorrow, mimicking Miles and Coltrane in perfect two-four timing!

Now, that’s why they call them horn-y toads!

It was a fabulous “welcome back to travel!” granted by Mother Nature Herself. After three days of making miserable comparisons to the way things used to be, I realized that this compare and contrast with the past head-trip had to stop immediately. Otherwise, there’d be no way I’d enjoy any part of Thailand, let alone what changes I might come across in India.

Things change. I’ve changed. The world is changing—rapidly. Globalization: it’s hard to accept. Still, how can I judge the desire of a developing nation to grow, to modernize, to seek comforts of the West? How can I expect them to preserve their traditional ways, staying poor and rudimentary just for my sake? It’s a complex issue, one I am sure I will be forced to confront throughout my journey.

To be sure, the comparison trip can be a real devil when traveling, especially upon returning to a place you’ve visited before. I suppose one way I can bypass this trickster to some extent is to go to new places as much as possible. Certainly, that’s got its pluses and minuses as well—part of the draw to return to India is to revisit some of the spots that I consider “home,” at least spiritually. We shall see.

All things considered, I dare say: if you haven’t yet traveled to the East, and feel the call:

Go. Now.

And, to my sheer GLEE, as the minivan taxi pulled up next to us curbside, on the windshield was a huge banner decal stating “JAI MAA KALI.”

Maa Kali is the fierce goddess that watches my back. An incarnation of the ultimate Mother, Kali is the divine slayer of illusion, and a great protector and source of guidance for me. Of course She would be the chosen guardian of my very first Indian transport-chariot! Perfect. My heart sang, as I spontaneously repeated the words aloud, with gusto, into the hazy Delhi night, “Jai Maa Kali!”

Surprised, the taxi man turned to look at me, a foreign girl who’d just joyfully sent a prayer to the heavens aloud. But the Indian didn’t miss a beat; with a great white, toothy grin beaming from his beautiful brown face, he repeated after me:

“Jai Maa Kali!”

And off we went, a group of girls piled into the minicab, braving the INSANE driving behavior of India, whirling into the dusty, sparkling, chaotic, colorful, fantastic adventures that India—and Maa Kali—has in store.

“Sapna” is much easier for the locals to remember than “Erin,” and the Hindi name brings a smile to their faces. “Mera naam Sapna hai!” I say.
My name is Sapna

“Sapna! Good name!” they respond, with an exaggerated, head-wobbling nod of approval.

As if to remind me of the perfection of the cosmos, the next morning I received emails from two separate friends back in the U.S. relaying in-depth dreams they’d had that night about me, in India.

Sapna. A dream traveler. Walking through the Indian dreamtime.

I’m a hard-core traveler, but not sure I want to push it, even if I am in
Push
kar. And I am off like a herd of camels.

Here, during festival time, everyone is a friend, and everyone is a con. It’s fair time, and tourists are “fair game.” As long as you keep in mind that you’re constantly being eyed as a “walking wallet,” you’ll be fine.