The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (5 page)

Things are happening in the energy centers in my body, called
chakras
(“wheels”). It is believed that the human body has seven main chakras, starting at the base of the spine and going up and out the top of the head. From the bottom up they are root, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye, and crown chakra, in that order. A decade ago, I tuned into and worked with these chakras in my own body; in the past few years, however, I have been out of touch and lost interest, focusing on other important elements on my path.

Now, what I am experiencing in Rishikesh is a full-blown reawakening to these energy centers in my body. The heart chakra is opening and expanding, which is significant in that it is the unifying center between grounded earth energies and the higher realms—an integration vortex of sorts. As I live day to day here, I experience spontaneous “burning” in my heart—and, no, it’s NOT the chilies in the Indian food. It feels a bit like a stretching, like a lotus flower opening from its bud. It’s a visceral sensation on a physical level, without explanation, manipulation, or expectation.

Many people come to Rishikesh to find their “guru,” or attune themselves to a specific ashram or body of teachings. For me, my everyday life is my guru, and that the common laborer I chat with in the chai shop for hours on end is as much my spiritual guide as the swami or enlightened master sitting in the front of the
satsang
hall. At least, so far.

An added benefit of being in a place like Rishikesh is that everyone can be as “freaky” or outcast as they want to be! I could walk down the street with wacky face paint resembling the strange markings of a
sadhu
, chanting and skipping if I wanted to, and I’d fit right in with the renunciates and babas living along the Ganga. I haven’t been painting my face much—a mild act of liberated freakiness is allowing myself to drop into a spontaneous meditative state no matter where I am, whenever I want. But I’m rarely seen without my trademark
bindi
—stuck right on the
ajna chakra
, the spot where my third eye peers out! That space seems to be wide open now, indeed.

For the last three weeks in Rishikesh, Katy and I had considered whether to go south to the Gathering, and the time was finally right. Katy, a 21-year-old bright sprite from England, is actually an ideal travel partner for me right now—a totally independent free spirit with no hang-ups—a well-seasoned traveler who has been making her way around the world for about a year now. Perfect.

Together, we made our somewhat bittersweet goodbyes to the chai wallahs, the blessed Ganges, the holy cows, swamis, sadhus and other humans we had befriended during our six-week stay in Rishikesh. It had become my home; I had to remind myself that I can always return to my little blue room at the guest house in Lakshman Jhula if I want. Such is the nature of my journey sans itinerary.

After a few days of lengthy farewells, Katy and I set off for a four-day haul to find the pot of gold at the end of the Rainbow.

Thus began a mammoth journey in which we went from down jackets and fleece hats to coconuts, pineapples, and tropical paradise. But first, we had to undergo a wild transport adventure involving a rickshaw, a train, a taxi, a train, a bus, a bus, a bus, and, finally, a four-kilometer walk into India’s coastal jungle.

The first major leg of the trip involved an overnight train from Haridwar, the main railway hub near Rishikesh, to Old Delhi train station. Typical India: the train arrived in Old Delhi two hours late. As a result we had, literally, only twenty-five minutes to make it ALL THE WAY ACROSS DELHI—the capital city with population of thirteen million!—to Nizamuddin station in the south of the city, before our vital link connecting train was scheduled for departure.

Now, this was a feat for nothing less than superhuman deities. What needed to happen was logistically impossible. We needed our taxi cab to sprout wings, Inspector Gadget-style, and fly across town. As we threw our packs into the car, we both shouted “GO!!!!!!” to the driver at the top of our lungs.

Of course, the price instantly rose 100 rupees out of nowhere, but we didn’t care. “JUST DRIVE!!!!” we commanded, again in tandem.

Usually I am quite the optimist, but as we sat in a monstrously huge, seemingly insurmountable traffic jam of cows, scooters, rickshaws, delivery trucks, and taxis for over ten minutes without moving an inch, I had less faith than the size of a sesame seed that we’d make our train. I did notice a sweetly-lighted Ganesh altar blinking on the dashboard of the cab, and silently prayed, “Okay, O Ganapati, great divine remover of obstacles, we need your help!”

The driver kept gunning the little lawnmower engine, then stopping for traffic, hiccupping his way across Delhi in the constantly-stalling morning traffic. I pulled my shawl over my head—I couldn’t look. We were at a standstill, another massive confusion of cross-purpose activity, just one block before our train station!

“Get out and RUN! You only having four minutes to get your train!” bellowed our driver. I shoved three hundred-rupee notes in the man’s fist and tumbled out of the car, already buckled and strapped into my pack and ready to fly.

Katy and I ran as fast as we could, weaving through traffic and barreling through the crowds. What a sight we were: two crazy-looking, disheveled white women with overstuffed bags, panicked eyes and wild bed-head hair flying everywhere, heaving our way up the steps to the platform crossing, huffing and puffing like we might keel over.

I shouted at the top of my tired lungs, “WE NEED A PORRRRTER!!! SOMEONE HELPPPPP!!!!” as we had absolutely no idea which track the “Mangala Lakshadweep Express” train would be departing from, and the only signs to be seen were in Hindi hieroglyphics. People were not coming forward to help; instead, they were getting out of our way and moving aside. There wasn’t a red-vested porter in sight.

A glance at my watch informed me that we had less than thirty seconds left; realizing that no uniformed officials—or anyone for that matter—wanted to assist the crazed Western women, I decided to “punt.” I picked a random track that had a bit of activity brewing and went for it! With Katy bringing up the rear, we flew down the steps to a train that looked lengthy and long-distance, praying it was the one! Sweaty, dirty, and desperate, I shouted as we reached the platform, “IS THIS THE MANGALA BLAHBLAHBLAHBITTYBLAH EXPRESS????!!!!!”

The answer, thank God, given to us by a group of Indians wobbling their heads in the affirmative, was YES. As we stepped on the train, it immediately started moving beneath our feet. Not a second to spare.

The kitchen and a few small living areas had been hollowed out of tightly clustered coconut tree groves, with hammocks strung between trees and straw mats strewn hither and thither.

I walked around, checking it all out, unsure where to begin or what to do. I heard a friendly voice say, “Welcome home, sister. Put your pack down and come down to the water for sunset!”

It was a sparkly blue-eyed, cute-as-a-bug Kiwi, barefoot and barely twenty. With his homemade clothes and feathers tied in his hair, he looked like just a wood spirit, exuding nothing but pure love. I immediately felt at home, thanks to him. I chained my backpack to a coconut tree and dove right into the Gathering.

Katy and I stayed at the Rainbow through the closing full moon and beyond, into the clean-up period until final completion. During our time at the Gathering, I encountered new ways of conflict resolution and group decision-making: vision circles using a Native American talking stick. I had used talking sticks before, but not involving a hundred personalities! I learned how to make
chapati
(Indian flat bread), and
seera
(semolina porridge) in an assembly line, enough for a peaceful army. I soaked in the sun, swam in the sea, slept under the stars, and filled my soul with lovely live music, drumming, dancing, firedancers and firelight. I witnessed ways to be a part of a huge family, scratching the surface as to how to live in a close-knit community without losing one’s independence—or one’s sanity.

Interestingly, there were only three Americans out of about two hundred Westerners that came and went during the course of the Gathering. In general, Americans are scarce along the travel routes of India. On this trip, I’ve met more people from Belgium, and even Brazil, than the U.S. Of course, there are some political reasons for this, including the fear that has been instilled by governments about international affairs. Also, with the exception of the most popular vacation destinations, Americans simply don’t travel abroad near as much as Europeans, Australians, or even Canadians. This contributes to the fact that the average American is notably less worldly-minded and internationally-aware than other nationalities, for better or worse.

Enough of socio-politics; I digress!

Back to the Rainbow!

As the closing full moon of the Gathering drew near, Katy and I talked it over and absolutely agreed that it was a good idea to stay through the clean-up period—to continue to learn and observe, and to work and contribute even more, to give back to those who carried the vision and were such powerful examples of “servant leadership.” It was touching to see the group shrink in size, slowly, slowly over the final three days, to a hard-core clean-up crew of twenty. The final morning, our small tribe held hands in a circle over the remnants of the main fire, offering a closing prayer of thanks and a final “Om.” We then loaded ourselves into a (prearranged) local boat to be carried across the sea to the nearest beach with amenities; in other words, someone else to cook, and a proper place to shower.

Twenty of us climbed aboard the flimsy fisherman’s craft. Like the miracle on the Mangala Express, here was another instance of waning faith. A rickety boat straight out of Robinson Crusoe, with a tiny putt-putt motor attached. Would it hold?

We were a sight to see, piling onto this poetic little wooden ship—dreadlocks, grimy clothes, djembe drums, beat-up travel guitars and what-have-yous, and the full-on colorful sight of twenty freaks
au naturel
, some who hadn’t left the beach in over thirty days. Man, oh, man, that boat was rocking. There was a huge chance we’d capsize. The Indian man kept yelling at us to stay down in the base of the boat, his little boy running from stern to prow, back and forth, end to end to balance out the weight! We were tipping! And still, the temptation to peek out from the hull was too great, as dolphins swam by, leaping through the air, welcoming us safely to our new home on the next shore.