If All Your Friends Stuck Sharp Pointy Things in Their Ears, Would You?

Middle child, middle girl between two brothers actually. So I have eaten worms, grasshoppers, and dog food; I've sat on a fire ant hill while counting to five; and I've hung on to the outside of a merry-go-round at full speed with my legs flying out behind me.

I used dares to prove that I was just as tough as my brothers. More so in some cases, though not many because one was older, one seems to have about half the usual number of pain receptors, and both were less risk averse. What is it about testosterone that makes boys unable to do simple math; me+hill+riding with no hands=broken bones? Maybe I discovered that some things weren't worth the moment of "oh yes I can!". After the merry-go-round incident I had a doctor picking gravel out of lower lip and chin for what felt like forever. On the plus side there were sometimes gnarly scabs and pus but not always. Even though I began to developed a sense of self preservation we still dared each other to silly things: to drink six raw eggs, to eat what's in my hand without seeing what it is, to let go of the swing for just one swing. Sometimes the dares were just implied because the first rule of dares is that once a dare is spoken you either do it or you're branded, as long as it's not said out loud you can still say whatever the dare is is stupid and not be a chicken.

I still have difficulty backing down. There was the time I decided to drive through the mountains around Shasta at 1am and ran out of gas and then had to make my way up a washed out dirt road with ruts up to my axle on my 350 Honda motorcycle, simply because it was suggested, out loud, to me by my then-boyfriend. On the plus side my inability to back down is why I learned to ride a motorbike in Ho Chi Minh and why I decided to travel on my own through India with a broken clavicle. But sometimes I find myself doing something that seems so ridiculous, so dangerous and ill-conceived that I wonder about my own testosterone levels.

In Vietnam there are these guys that are street barbers. They have a really basic setup right on the side of the road, usually just a chair, a mirror, and a tarp to keep off the sun. They cut hair, shave faces and, get this, clean ears. It's scary to see because they use these loooooooong metal tools that look like what you would use to scrap tarter off of a crocodiles' back teeth if you wanted to make sure you still had your hands at the end of the procedure. (Not that crocodiles need tarter scraped because they are carnivorous and also they have a symbiotic relationship with these little birds who clean their teeth. Honest. Look it up.) Anyway these guys, on the street in Saigon, just stick these freakin' long skinny metal things right into peoples ears which, to my American eyes raised by the "never stick ANYTHING in your ears" school, looks like the worst idea ever. Punctured eardrums, deafness, staph infections that travel to your brain or eyes and make you blind or insane or, even worse, blind AND insane so you have to imagine the hallucinations you would otherwise be seeing (Does it work like that, do you suppose? Do blind people imagine hallucinations. Okay, hallucinations are imaginary to begin with but do blind people imagine that they SEE hallucinations?) Anyway, I always said never, never, ever was I gonna let some random guy stick metal things in my ears to "clean" them.

Then today I decided to get a massage with my friend L. After the steamroom, the body scrub, and the facial, there they were. Three little barber chairs and men in white shirts and bow-ties, who looked more like they wanted to get me a drink than dowse my ears for god knows what. I looked at L, she looked at me and asked "Are you gonna get your ears cleaned?" What the hell was I supposed to do? She said it, said it right out loud and she has an older brother too, so she knows what it means when you say it out loud. Of course, when I casually said "sure" and looked right at her she couldn't back out either.

No broken ear drums but he some how managed to trim the hair inside my ear! The implications are too frightening to ponder in depth but it's clear that at some point today contrary to my AMA upbringing, I stuck something pointed and SHARP in my ear.

Christmas Saigon Style

It's the holiday season and so of course I'm thinking of friends and family and missing home. Though Christmas here was lovely; there were Santas and Reindeer and fairies and disco balls and bunnies and butterflies, because the Vietnamese don't go for all that low-key American Christmas cheer and figure why not break out ALL the good stuff. The children dressed up in little santa suits complete with faux fur trim and hats, despite the fact that the nights here are in the eighties, which I think supports my theory that the Vietnamese have a lower body temperature than the usual 98.6 F, and now the kiddies also have to wear helmets over their hats because Vietnam has a (gasp) HELMET LAW! So the streets filled with helmeted families on motorbikes, mini-Santas riding right up front, going out to see the myriad lights and decorations erected by the city in honor of birth of Christ, or the wacky flying white guy and his flying horses with horns who breaks into your house and leaves things, depending on if you are Catholic. The traffic jams were incredible.

For me it wasn't "just like the ones I used to know", there was no cranberry at the markets, I had to make do with extra sugar in my tea in lieu of candy canes and cookies, and while there were plenty of fires they were mostly the charcoal kind used for roasting the various parts of animals. So it's not exactly like home but still, it was Christmas after a fashion, a disco/early eighties fashion. An aside here to note that satin, always a favorite of the Vietnamese, has crested to new heights on the back of the eighties revival and I have to say I have never seen anyone look good in a mono-color satin pantsuit not even teeny smoking-hot Vietnamese chicks. Same goes for any fitted satin dress not made for the wearer seconds before dressing so as to flatter the body shape of right now not the one from three days ago before your boobs/butt/belly changed size /shape due to the lunar cycle. It's nice to see that some things are the same the world over.

Now I'm staring down the barrel of 2008. January first has a funny status here because the big New Year celebration is Tet and that is still a month away, true there may be parties and countdowns and perhaps even high shoes involved (another fashion aside, I've been living in flip-flops and can't understand what I ever had against them. I know they are not actual "shoes", more like a way to go barefoot and not have your foot lacerated, but in their capacity as foot-laceration preventors they are amazingly effective and comfortable) but all the really big dealio stuff is still to come. Though, as they say in AA, every day is a new beginning right? So maybe I will celebrate the first day of the rest of my life on January 1 and get dressed up (still debating about the flip flops) to go out and order a mocktail.

Cheers and Happy Holidays everyone.

PS it occurs to that the proximity of the AA reference and the mocktail might suggest to some that I am a recovering alcoholic, I'm not it's just that alcohol makes me hurl.

Know thy self.

In 2006 I did my yoga teacher training and it was an incredible experience, I learned so much, not only about yoga but about myself as well. One of the things I learned was that I was prone to anger and cutting remarks.

I know, shocking, right? Whatever.

Okay, I knew that I had a temper and that I was reputed to have a sharp wit but I thought it was just that. You know, some people like wine, I like cutting remarks that are well timed with deadpan delivery.

Turns out few people found it entertaining or if it was entertaining it was only when it wasn't directed at them and people close to me found it annoying, frustrating, and hurtful. So I undertook a program of self examination and even read "Non-violent Communication" (great book by the way, real eye-pryer-open). Though lots of people doubted my intentions at first, many remarked on the change and thanked me for my efforts later.

But when you're on vacation programs of self control tend to fly out the window, you start off saying yes to dessert and a second buffalo curd and next thing you know you can't fit into your pants or, in my case, open my mouth without some barbed piece of repartee zipping out and heading straight for a major artery. This goes on until something brings it to your attention. In the case of the pants maybe you catch your belly fat in the zipper, in my case someone wrote a song. Because he's British and I'm American it's supposed to be a western prairie kind of ditty.



I wish I was a hillbilly, happy on moonshine
Senseless would be better than hurtin all the time
what have I done to Teletha? I am in the dark
Like a drunk who's stumbled into a trailer park.
Always when I talk to you, you have a quick retort,
Often it is witty but sometimes it just hurts.
Fast wits are a blessing, don't let them be a curse.
Were you hurt sometime, now have to get in first?

Chorus
Life's full of opportunities, we miss them every day,
this goodbye's the saddest kind of yippee ya yay

I am just an Englishman, I don't know your right and wrong,
but I pass my counsel on in a secret song.
I shared with you my secrets, you just had a laugh,
I wonder if you are an inadequate psychopath?
I think you're good at heart, why do you play this game?
Is it that your parents gave you an awkward name?
It is because I care I correct what you do.
You'd be happier with more; sorry, please, thank you.
So kindly let manners be your queen and king,
Do you have time before you go to take a spanking?

Chorus
Life's full of opportunities, we miss them every day,
this goodbye's the saddest kind of yippee ya yay

Thank you Jim-the-Englishman for letting me know that my mouth was making me look like a big ass.

Of course, having said that, Jim is a narky smart-ass himself. Takes one to know one.

Oh and I love that, without knowing anything much about me, he included a trailer park and moonshine, the yipee yay ya was the treacle on the curd.

Modern Pilgrims Take the Bus

Adam's Peak is "the most famous physical feature of Ceylon ... its surrounding group of mountains called the Wilderness of the Peak, is so extensive in comparison to the bulk of the other mountain groups that it appears to form a nucleus of its own, separate from the others. It is about 7500 ft high and, though it is the second highest peak in the land, its position in relation to the topography is so dominant that it stands out above all others." Also at the top there is huge footprint said to have been left by Adam, Siva, and St. Thomas by the Muslims, Hindus, and Christians respectively.

So we set off with one injured back (not mine), one pair of flipflops (the only shoes I brought), one pair of socks (not mine either) and no hats or gloves despite the temp reputedly dropping to 0 at night, no guide book (too much weight), no plan to speak of, and only the most limited idea of how to get there. In fact our entire plan consisted of each of us believing that the other one seemed calm and unworried so they must know what they are doing. When we discovered this nine hours into a "seven" hour bus journey, the destination of which was a guesthouse we weren't even certain was open, we had a good laugh, which made me feel a little less carsick for about fifteen minutes.

All told it took us about twelve hours each way by bus but, once I accepted that I wouldn't be able to drink anything until we arrived back in Tangalle (no bathroom breaks), the bus trips were amazing. The peak is surrounded by tea plantations and hills that rear-up lifting bare rock crowns toward the sun, the whole thing surrounded by mist looks like a Japanese brush painting. We saw hundreds of huge bats flying over the rice paddies at dusk, they looked from the distance like flocks of birds; towns and Buddha statues; rivers and small cities; crazy traffic and lots of locals. Stopped for lunch on the way up and had the real deal rice and curry which was so hot that it made my lips puffy.

And the climb? Well turns out that flipflops are all the locals wear so I had a very "real" pilgrim experience and while my knees didn't hurt (couldn't crash down, no cushion and no traction) my calves were shaking and sweating like pretty new pledges at a frat kegger. However when my travel buddy asked if I would do it again I said yes, the peak is lovely and the thrill of doing the climb outweighs the pain. Besides the locals have calf muscles to die for. Next time though, I'm calling ahead and going in season so I can see the footprint. Oh didn't I mention? Turns out it was closed. The view was amazing though.

Another Day in Paradise

Planning a trip to Adam's Peak this weekend, so called because it is claimed that the footprint on the top was left when Adam paused and looked back into Eden for the last time. And it's true Sri Lanka is beautiful and being a tourist I get to see all the best parts and have been having a chill time, but sometimes I get these little reminders that I don't live here and that if I did my life would be extremely different and so would my experience of this country, this paradise.

Today it was the way all the locals gazed impassively at the the ak-47's sported by the 100+ soldiers at the roadblocks and on the buildings around town, posted there for a visit by the presidents wife, and the way those same people didn't cringe away from the snub-nosed stares of the machine guns in the windows of suv after suv full of additional soldiers. My fear was the fear of the unknown and their calm was born of familiarity. I've never had a machine gun pointed at me before and certainly not one that was loaded and manned, the thing is it wasn't even pointed at me it was just pointed in my direction, I felt insubstantial and powerless and realized in that moment my own frailty in the face of thing that doesn't judge right or wrong but is just an action. Shoot.

Got online and discovered that 15 people were killed in a bombing in the north yesterday.

Leaving next week but have a lot to think about.

ooo la la, there is no beast like an angry french woman

Yesterday we finished our post asana breakfast of fruit and buffalo curd with a drizzle of palm syrup and ... no wait, before I go on I would like to salute the noble water buffalo: their efforts have transformed nations, shifting mud and water to create verdant rice paddies; their dung is burned for cooking fuel and for warmth; upon their yoked necks travel every item imaginable from vegetable to mineral; but in their nobility they have bestowed an even greater treasure (or we have stolen it, either way it's the best) and that, their milk, has been transformed into manna, known in Sri Lanka as curd. I'm not a nutritionist but I claim that buffalo curd is not only a complete food but also the tastiest damn thing to be produced from teat juice, ever! Dude, I could eat that stuff all day and sometimes do. I'm starting to smell like it and that is only bad because I stand around sniffing my sweet curd-y stink and it makes people look at me funny. Though admittedly people are always looking at me funny here but I finally figured it out, it's not becaue I'm doing something rude or freakish (except in the case of sniffing myself) but because I'm a novelty, like a small child in an office or a trained monkey, and everyone feels the need to speak to me with exaggerated facial expressions and say hi and ask me how old I am and what my name is and ask me to say their name and then wave goodbye with too much enthusiasm. I figured this out as I was doing all these things to a little Sri Lankan girl, I got a moment of deja vu and realized that the situation was eerily familiar but the perspective was different. But I digress, both generally and now specifically, the main point is that curd is yummy and should be available everywhere in it's little earthen crocks with paper on top. - anyway, post-brekky myself and two other yogis set out for Uda Walawe National Park.

Uda Walawe has a reputation for having lots of elephants and we had a day off of practice, so we decided to expend our extra energy on a little half day safari, in an effort to have a more "local" experience we also decided to take the bus, not even the air-con bus but the most local of the local buses. Buses in Sri Lanka are like buses in India with fewer people; loud, bumpy, crowded, and not to be missed. I always feel like I see more when I ride a bus and I meet cool people sometimes, like the super helpful guy in Colombo who took time out of his day to direct four tourists to their various buses, trains, and hotels and,in my case, to spend thirty minutes helping me purchase a phone card and find an internet shop, or the guy on the way to Trivandrum who I talked to for two hours about travel and books and then failed to exchange emails with because he almost missed his stop and his traveling partners had already disembarked with all the money, or the woman I met and ended up sharing a room and trip to a police station with or ... well trust me the list goes on. The bus was grand, we entertained the locals by trying to request directions for the bus to the park (this involved elephant impersonations by yours truly) and imitating meerkats foraging and guarding (this was purely for our own entertainment, as I mentioned before foreigners are a bit of spectacle here and we decided, since we had everyone's attention anyway, to do a little improv), we found our bus connection and the proper stop, and got a recommendation for a lunch place where we were able to hire a jeep and have yummy rice and curry at the same time.

Our driver informed us that there was an elephant orphanage very close by but that if we waited a few minutes we would be able to see the babies being fed, so we decided to take a little stroll. It was about here that we met "the French Lady". It started off innocuously enough, fellow tourists making conversation, and when our driver showed up she asked if she could come along. Okay, really she kind of invited herself and asked if we would be able to cover her costs because she didn't have enough cash but she did it in a way that made it sound more like a request than a demand, though that may have just been the accent or the little "no?" on the end of the demand. "You will loan me the money, no?" Whatever. We were in a hurry and the orphanage was free, so she hopped in and we all headed off. The orphanage was fun, lots of babies being fed by bottles, pushing each other around, running around in their baggy trousered hides (they really do look like Charlie Chaplin impersonators from the rear), and the sound of someone going on and on in a french accent about the cost of things and being robbed by the locals.

Travelers are generous people, loaning each other tiger balm or the use of a phone or fan, directing each other to good food or hotels, not thinking the worst when you snap and start to freak out (as you will) about costs and being ripped off, because they've been there too. But sometimes the generosity is misplaced. You loan someone your phone and they call home, or someone starts going on about "being robbed and cheated by the locals" and they aren't freaking out they are just like that. So we overlooked her price paranoia at first and tried to reassure her that we weren't being robbed blind, that this was in fact what we had been told was a fair price. But when we got to the ticket booth at the park and she argued with the staff for fifteen minutes over 100 Rs (split between four people, mind you, which is 25 cents and even I, sadistic penny pincher that I am, thought that was going too far) and then called the rest of us, who just wanted to get into the park before it got dark, selfish and rich, well, we took her suggestion and got tickets for three. And we had a blast. The park was lovely and green, the mountains in the distance were suitably misty and blue, the breeze showed up and was fresh and light, basically the park decided to show us a good time. We saw elephants, spotted deer, a crocodile, wild water buffalo (or "blessed producers of curd" as I call them), monkeys, and lots of birds; crested serpent hawks, peacocks, kites, hornbills, myna birds, and parakeets. It was grand. At one point an elephant decided to run toward us and even though I flinched I knew somewhere in my heart that the most fearsome beast in the park was back at the visitor station trying to get a ride back to town and arguing over the fare.

"Twenty rupees, ooo lala, that is very expensive, no?"

it's a small small world

Went to see "Om Shanti Om"while I was India and fell in crush with the lead, a tasty bit of man flesh named Shah Rukh Khan. He's 42 and convincingly played a 30 year old. I know, I know, he's probably had work done, but that skin, those lips, those eyes, oh holy moses! However, the thing that really got me was the swooning fits he was able to produce in the mostly male audience. I've never seen anything like it. Grown men shrieked when SRK got all flashdance during one of the dance scenes, and it's true he does have quite the six pack and was all covered with water and glistening but really, they shrieked. I got a little caught up in the testosterone.

So anyway I have a crush and on my last night in India I decided to indulge it and buy some movie and lifestyle magazines and tear out photos since I couldn't figure out a way to fit a full size movie poster in my bag and had even less of an idea where I could hang it.

Got some dinner and proceeded to pore over every page and lo and behold on page 44 of the November 2007 issue of Spice (Indian lifestyle mag not the US porn rag) what do I find but a half page article on Oakland metal sculptor Michael Sturts and his bio-diesel custom-crafted Die Moto he's taking to Bonneville. Not only that but there is a photo of the bike and emblazoned on the side is the web address for the Crucible!

How much does Oakland rock my socks? So much I still feel aftershocks in India.

Oaktown, shout out to my peeps.

ot

I had to pee

I pick up change. You know how you walk along and you see a penny and you check to see if it's heads-side up because then it's lucky? I don't do that. I pick up change: all change, from where ever I see it, and when it comes to change my normally myopic vision, which prevents me recognizing people who are more than five feet away, allows me to spot pennies half buried in dirt across the street. In fact my dear friend and shopping partner, A, once had a conversation with her husband regarding how small a denomination I would deign to remove from the top of a dead rat in a gutter if the rat looked like it had been struck a car and the corpse was in no way punctured or oozing. They thought the denomination was very small and it's worth mentioning that at the time I was a bit of a hypochondriac and they had factored that in.

I say "at that time" because I am currently in India and I think it's fair to say that no actual diagnosed hypochondriac would ever come to India of their own volition. I have seen, touched, and even eaten things that previously would have required disinfecting whatever body part had come in contact with the offending object. At this moment I am on a public computer using a public keyboard in a country that still has leper colonies, plural. The only reason to have leper colonies plural, unless armadillos are the current must-have accessory, is because someone didn't get the memo that's it's freaking contagious. But here I am, still typing and intending to do so again in the near future, probably after I go get lunch and use the same soap that has been used by countless strangers to wash my hands, before sitting down at a table that has been wiped with a rag the waiter has just tugged out of his dhoti, while watching a cockroach bigger than my thumb (not including antenna) leap off the bag being carried to the curb and head back toward the kitchen. See, "at that time".

Anyway the restaurants are nothing on the bathrooms, trust me I have been in them. Just take a moment and let your imagination wander as you consider what that means. Remember that Indians don't generally use toilet paper, reflect on the a country who's idea of garbage disposal is to take it outside and that's it, then let me add one piece of information. You know those disks they use in urinals in the states to keep the smell down? In India they put them in the sinks.

Okay, still with me. Let's put it all together: I pick up change; people have postulated that a dead rat would be a mild deterrent due to my hypochondria; I am in India and have apparently overcome the worst of my hypochondria; and finally, I use public restrooms in India (do you see where this is going?).

I just picked up TWO Rupees off the floor in a public bathroom in India!

Dude, if you see a dead rat that looks like it was disemboweled post-mortem you can be sure that someone told me they saw it swallow a nickle.