Liquid Courage, Part 2: Kodaikanal 8 Jan 2012
Two steps in and she glances back at us. No don’t be scared. Wait, why are we scared? There is a question in her eyes, but she doesn’t show fear. There is a man on her right. He has a wirey yet impressive mustache. I think he is approaching her, but he doesn’t stop at the site of a young foreign girl. Natalie continues toward the vat. Her nose is pointed down and her ears are red. A young man with a red beard and almost translucent skin catches her eye. He is near the vat and chatting with a few others. When he sees Nat he moves toward her. They meet somewhere halfway between the entrance and the enchanted steamy vat. When they move within talking distance of one another there is a palpable awkwardness in the air. The red beard looks inviting, approachable, friendly. Katie and I join. Why were we so scared to move forward?
Red beard calls himself Dustin. Nat takes a shallow breath and is about to unleash all of our questions, assumptions, fears on Dustin, but before she does he explains. “It’s moonshine. But not just any old Indian moonshine. Did you hear about that big ordeal last month when ninety some odd people went blind and one died? That’s this stuff. I’ve heard people call it Visam or Alkahal. Visam is more the right term, poison.”
At first I am so ecstatic that he is speaking English, I catch myself listening to his words but not his content. I’m also looking at his beard. Nice beard. I’m caught up in his beard and blue eyes and somewhat American, somewhat Israeli(?) and something else accent. Then his statement lifts from the fog and steam of the room and sinks into my head. Wow, moonshine, cool! Wait, deadly? While a slew of possibilities and consequences conveyer belt through my brain he speaks again; we still have said nothing. “You shouldn’t be here. Well, I don’t know how much it matters; most people can’t see you anyway. This isn’t normal moonshine. I know you don’t know me so you don’t have to trust me but I suggest you go home and pretend you didn’t see this.”
While he is speaking we examine the room with our new knowledge. I see it now. Swaying, drunken staggers, loud talking. And warmth. Everyone is drunk, drunk, drunk. Some men in the corner, small cups in hand, seem to be doing a music-less lock and pop. What? Then I notice it’s more of a convulsion. Should I stop staring at them? Mid convulsion/hip hop move steam rises out of their chests. I stare so hard my eyes hurt and the space between my eyes is dull, numb. The steam isn’t just steam. It’s in a shape. I am surely making assumptions because I am in India and I just got here and I’m in this crazy place I shouldn’t be and there is something secretive and scary happening, but I swear, a shimmering, slightly blue steam figure of Shiva appears from one man’s chest. It quickly disassembles itself and sinks into the vat. My eyes are playing tricks on me. But maybe their not, I think. Shiva just came out of that man and moved into a huge bronze vat of moonshine. This is real. This is happening. When I decide its all happening and it’s real is when I really start to question everything. What’s real? Snapping out of my daze and what I’ve now decided is a new clarity about this situation, I look to my right to catch Natalie or Katie’s gaze. But they aren’t there.
Dustin tells me Katie tried to get us to leave but I wouldn’t. At this point I’m just accepting things. I don’t have any skepticism left. Red beard points to a corner and I see that Natalie is lock and popping over there. I turn to Natalie and though her steam shape is indecipherable, it’s there, it drops into the vat quickly. Dustin begins to explain. “To be here you have to believe. To stay here you have to give up your reality. I came here two months ago. I think I am mustering the strength to leave, which is why I can see you.”
I’m wracking my brain. For some reason, the thing that surprises me the most is that I believe in something enough to still be here. Honestly, nothing else is shocking anymore. Steam shapes coming out of people; blindness; vats of poison. And really? All I am confused about is why am I still here? It makes sense that Katie left. Natalie would stay; she is a believer. So what am I?
Here are some images of Kodaikanal: Jan 9 2012.
Thanks to Katie Sugarman for all of the photos.
Liquid Courage, Part 1: Kodaikanal 8 Jan 2012
After finally getting some food in our bellies we were ready to explore Kodaikanal. Katie, Natalie and I all went our separate ways. For the first time we were independent. Our judgments, our thoughts, everything entered the imagination churns in our heads, only to be shared later with each other.
That evening we found ourselves at our first non-Indian restaurant. The steamy goodness of Tibetan momos and noodle soups was all around us. Delicious. We shared dumplings and stories of our afternoons. Katie and Natalie both went into enticing detail of walking around and just observing the windy streets and colorful market of Kodai. After dinner we decided to follow some of Natalie’s suggestions and go for a short walk:
It was dark out. Not the kind of dark we get here. It took the three of us a minute to figure out why the dark felt deeper, more real; there were no streetlights on. Wires spidered about above our heads, and old school Edison bulbs floated in the air, but they were not on. The darkness surrounded us, but we could still see. The liveliness of the streets guided our way through what then seemed like a mystical, fantastical town. The small curved streets coiled like snakes in the Secret Garden and we followed them. Up hill, down hill.
Like the rest of our trip there were men all about. Cackling, drinking from small cups and just socializing. Always men. There were also cows everywhere. Of course.
At the top of the hill we could see “the jewel box” of lights far below us. They twinkled and we were enchanted not by the beauty, but by the innocent English names people used to name the sights around them. “The jewel box” was a phrase we continued to use on our trip for lighted cities in the distant darkness. We walked downhill. We saw slaughtered animal shops. We saw shack like restaurants with tin plates and men with small cups. We saw teetering buildings holding on to the side of the hill. We saw fog and steam and cows. Everything we saw and noticed felt special, like it was only for us. The dim generator fueled light bulbs gave the town an ethereal feel. As if everything we saw was a secret, was only ours to see.
It was then that we noticed the deep yellow-lighted steam unraveling from the crevices of doors. Men gathered around clandestine entrances to underground clubs. The steam was rolling from cracked entrances, as men seemed to disappear into the steam itself. Where were they all headed? Speakeasy? This Miyazaki created scene filled us with intrigue. We thought about what these clubs may be. After a bit of discussion we realized we hadn’t really seen any bars, pubs, liquor stores or any other supply of libations. We rehashed what we knew about Indian liquor laws and culture: laws are strict; alcohol is expensive because of high taxes; people can and do drink moonshine, especially in highly regulated areas. These ideas of liquor and its high regulations colored our thoughts for the rest of the evening.
Here we are. Us, India, the dark. We continue walking. We turn through a small gate and though people don’t seem to notice us, we see that there is quite a commotion happening. It seems to be a small vegetable market, in the dark and with cows roaming and controlling the space. We look down what feels like our own, singular tunnel vision to a bit of light. Steam seeps from a slightly cracked door with soft yellow light flooding out. We follow the light and what looks like a hooting group of middle aged men. They don’t notice us. They open the door and we sneak in behind them. The door is heavy and wooden and smells a bit on the sweet side.
The room is full, hot, stuffy even. Everyone is holding a small metal cup and steam is everywhere. I kid you not, the steam appears to be rising out of the men’s chests. Like everywhere else in India, the women are nowhere to be seen. I think to ask someone what is this place, but as soon as I take in my pre-speak-breath, Natalie turns to me and gives me a quick no-don’t-do-it, we-aren’t-supposed-to-be-here head shake. Actually, I agree. I don’t think we are supposed to be here. But why hasn’t anyone noticed us and told us to leave yet?
The walls are made out of that Louisiana tin roof stuff that reminds me of thumpin’ soul drivin’ music. The building is a ramshackle make shift situation and is so small we can feel the pulse of the group around us. People, men- with small cups- are jibing, lively, jubilant. It isn’t until Katie makes a slight whisper of drunkenness that I notice the rouge tint to everyone’s cheeks, the unfocusing eyes, the smell of something sweeter than rubbing alcohol but spicier than say, bourbon or rum. At that moment, I find myself staring at people, at men. Anywhere else in India and the tables would be turned; they would stare at us. I try to look away, but again find myself cognizant of the fact that no one has yet to notice us.
We continue to inspect the room. What’s here? Then we see it. How did we miss it? It’s so big. One huge, must be at least 20 gallons, vat is in the corner of the room. It is bronze and sits on the floor. Men surround the vat while one slight suggestion of a man stirs the contents of the vat with a big wooden spoon. What is this, a witch’s’ council? This is mythical, unreal; where are we?
Despite better judgment, we stay. If only we could understand what all the men are saying. I wonder. Too bad my Tamil is non-existent. The vat liquid is clear and there is steam all around it. We stare at the swirly vaporous mass in the air. I turn to Natalie and Katie, “Um, guys? Does it look like the steam is going into the vat instead of out?” My brain turns and runs for answers. Marathon. What the hell? What next? Talking cats, ear obsessions and the realization that I’m in an alternate universe?
No one answers me. I guess it was a rhetorical question. I wish someone had answered. The three of us glance at one another. Fear and confusion in our eyes. Good thing Natalie is strong in abnormal situations. With strength and balance in her step- something Katie and I are currently missing- she moves toward the vat.
Stay tuned for the next installment of Liquid Courage.
-sent from my cloud factory, Sara Marie
On the bus: Madurai to Kodaikanal 7 Jan 2012- 8 Jan 2012
Although Madurai felt like a religious sanctuary compared to Chennia, we still felt the urge to move on soon after arriving. And fast.
Because we had never heard of Madurai until we decided to go there we had no way of anticipating how crowded it would be. Madurai was not crowded the way Chennai was; it was full of Indian families on vacation and religious pilgrimages. As a result, we spent hours trying to find a room that was both in our budget and somewhat, slightly acceptable. We settled on a stain ridden, use a bucket to flush the toilet room for 600 Rupees. Not a great deal but we didn’t have many options. I’m sure that room is part of why we only stayed for one day. Not one of us wanted to sleep in that room one more day than we had to. One step closer to enlightenment, one step deeper into India.
Later on in the trip we would have laughed at ourselves for our own naivety. We bought tickets for a private “luxury” bus. Silly, right? Well, yes because it turns out that our “direct bus to Kodaikanal” was no ordinary bus. “The Boss” (as pictured in an earlier blog from January) was a tour bus. But we didn’t know that when we embarked.
Another early morning start. We clipped our passports onto our waists or in Natalie’s case in her bra, and put our bags into the back of the bus. This “luxury” bus was nothing of the sort. Let’s just say you could see the ground and rock it (or roll it) Flinstone style if you so desired. We got on the bus. The bus drove through town and stopped at another hotel to pick up other passengers. As if to intentionally increase our anxieties to the absolute maximum, the bus stayed stopped there for at least thirty minutes. Let me remind you that all of our things were fully exposed in the back which was now open and our things were ripe for the taking. We couldn’t see the back. Like other times in the beginning of our trip none of is voiced our anxieties lest we send each other into a panic or, worse, seem like we weren’t cool, calm and collected at all times. The bus filled up and we left. Kodaikanal, here we come.
What we thought was a three hour journey was not. Two hours in and we made our first pit stop. Fair enough, pee and chai break. This, we expected. About fifteen minutes later and we stopped again. The bus driver strongly encouraged everyone to get off the bus. Everyone, not just us, was confused, why are we stopping? Apparently there was a fantastic view of something and we all just had to see it. So, we got off. We trekked through some roadside trash and over a small wall and past an old concrete slide to discover a free standing three story concrete structure with stairs. What is this tall frame like thing for? We joined the ranks of hesitant bus riders to the top level of the security crises of a staircase. The view was stunning. Green hills, a canyon and a waterfall in the distance. Now, this might not be the number one most amazing thing I’ve seen in my life (re: Glacier, Beartooths, Thailand and the Blue Ridge Parkway to name a few of my recent conquests) but it was the first bit of nature, of fresh air, of green-spiration we had experienced since arriving in India. We breathed deeply. Mountain air.
That’s right, hold on tight Nat. Structurally unsound.
Refreshed, we got back on the bus. Ok, that was worth the detour, I guess. At the time we all thought our driver was just very excited about this spot and wanted to share it with each of us. Back on the bus. Here we come, Kodaikanal. Except not. Fifteen minutes later we stopped again. Now what? The bus driver insisted we all get off, again. The passengers around us looked tired, confused, ready to just get to our destination. We got off. Oh,(sigh) great, a waterfall. It was pretty small and in true developing country fashion there were numerous stalls selling various things from fruit to cigarettes to get your picture taken! We checked out the fall and reloaded the bus. Ok, let’s just get there already.
There was a monkey at the waterfall too.
We got back on the bus. Alrighty, no more stops, right? This three hour journey has lasted a good— “Ah, my bag, I left my bag, turn around, go back, stop. My thiiiings!” That’s what we decided was said (since it was in Tamil) when the bus came to a complete stop in the middle of the street and a couple got off and into a jeep going the other direction. And so the bus, and its passengers, waited. In the middle of the road.
At that point I finally talked to the man beside me. Or rather, he talked to me. He and all of his family, no really, most of the people on the bus, were from Nepal and traveling through Southern India on a two week holiday. Most of them had never left Nepal. They were experiencing India (as if there were another way to travel in India). And guess what? They didn’t know we would be stopping every other minute on our way to Kodai either. I suppose we were all just stuck with and had to make the best of this bus-tour-ride.
Ten to twelve minutes later the couple returned with bag in hand. And we were on our way. For the time being.
Twenty minutes roll by via tarmac and uncomfortable bums. And then, we stop. Really? Glances fly around the bus- what’s the deal this time? Yes, of course, a museum of taxidermied animals in the middle of nowhere mountains in India, right. We reluctantly funnel off “The Boss.” Instead of spending five rupees each to enter the taxidermy museum of amaturely stuffed animals, Nat, Katie and I opt for a short walk around the area. We felt we could see enough of the poorly stuffed creatures through the door. The bus driver caught up with us on our walk. He couldn’t possibly understand why we didn’t want to see dead animals on display. Katie tried to explain to him that, honestly, we just wanted to get to Kodai.
We got back on the bus. Finally, Kodai. The bus-tour-driver-guide attempted to persuade us to see one more thing while rolling through the small mountain town of Kodai. We disagreed; we asked to get off. We got off. Thank Ganesh we had made it and all of our things were still in the back, an anxiety we had pushed back in our minds with anger and impatience. Kodai was a small town with fresh air, handmade chocolate stalls on every corner. We all had to instantly throw on our sweaters. We could breathe. Cool mountain air.
Katie from our Kodai Balcony.
-sent from my cloud factory, Sara Marie
On Religion: Madurai 7 Jan 2012- 8 Jan 2012
Here are some pictures of Madurai, India. This was our second stop in India. Madurai was a shining light after our overwhelming time in Chennai. Although we didn’t know it at the time, the temple in Madurai was the largest and most active we would see on the whole trip. Madurai is a holy town where many families and pilgrims come to pray and practice Hinduism. We spent about a full day observing people in and around the temple. I think many people did the same for us.
Kudos to Katie Sugarman for her beautiful shots.
-sent from my cloud factory, Sara Marie
On the train: Chennai to Madurai 6 Jan 2012- 7 Jan 2012
Buying train tickets is harder than it sounds. Than it should be. It took us the entire day to buy our train tickets out of Chennai. You read that correctly, our first full day in India and we spent the most of it trying to find a way to keep moving. By the time we finally had our tickets we really did want to leave. The charm factor of Chennai had warn off. Because five tuk tuks, two train stations, what seems like at least 100 men- some helpful, some just staring- and three chais later we finally had tickets out. Actually, we saw the most of Chennai via tuk tuk on our tickets journey. Means to an end. End to a means.
That night we took one last Chennai “get in an argument to secure a somewhat normal price” tuk tuk. Chennai- its people, heat and pollution had exhausted us. Again, we waited at the terminal with no idea of what was next. Madurai? What’s that? And our train gets in at five in the morning? And what will this train look like? Our train arrived and we wandered the corridors. Sleepers, people, things strewn about. We found our spots. Three tier sleeper. I’ve been on trains in other countries. We all had. And of course, our past colors our present. I expected more, more cleanliness to be precise, and where is the hot water boiler to make tea and convenient noodles- damn it! I am too used to China. Nat and Katie reminisced about Africa and the possibility of strangers jumping up and poking their heads through the window. Ahh, frightening. I thought what if the train doesn’t stop- it comes to a complete stop, right? Or does it just slow down and we hop? Our present situation was also colored by stories- ok, so exactly how late will our train really be? Hopefully we arrive around nine in the morning, that would be nice. Five A.M. is not nice.
We grumbled inwardly as we looked at our sleeping quarters. The train was an odd shade of teal green with not-so-sutble brown-dirt overtones. I took out my thank-god-I-have-it sleep sheet. Unfortunately, I can’t or, better, won’t get into my sleep sheet. Because, unfortunately, I am honestly thinking this: what if someone shanks my so very exposed feet in the night? I mean really, they are just out. That could happen. Just saying. So I didn’t take off my shoes. I slept on my sheet but not in it.
I’m not sure why I was so scared, but I was. Maybe I was reminded of Slumdog Millionaire (honestly Sara, don’t think about that movie while in India… or do, but don’t let it freak you out too much!). Maybe I saw the guy across from me both lock his suitcase to the sleeper and rest his head on it to ensure maximum security. Maybe I was just unsure, new, cautious. It was then that I felt the manifestation of my anxiety. We are just three girls. We don’t know the rules here, so how can we play by them? Anything is possible in India. I kept my shoes on. I slept on all of my things. I slept.
4:30 A.M. Nudge. “Sara, our stop is next,” whispered Natalie. Argh. So. Early. Not late train. What? I stuff my things into my pack. I was not shanked. I’m ready to jump off at any moment because we still don’t know how the stops work. But then, instead of having to be ready to jump at any moment, we sit. We wait. A while. Feels like forever. I’m tired and confused and how do we know it will stop and do they announce our stop, what if we get off at the wrong place?
We get off. It’s dark outside and since this is our second night in India we stay in the station. We find a tea stall- really, they’re everywhere- and get some chai. We await sunrise and another day in India.
-sent from my cloud factory, Sara Marie
Let me share with you
Joni Mitchell’s California is playing and I’m looking out the window to this sunny cali spring breezy day. But instead of dreaming of my birth place- a place so coveted rent prices are out of control- I dream of my reality. I’m high. High on Portland, folks. High. Everywhere I turn my excitement surfaces. I like the rain. The it’s so freaking cold why don’t I have a better rain coat rain. And. The I love the feeling of mud splashing my calves and the mist in the trees on my first Forest Park trail run rain. And. The thank the Portland Gods for steamy, succulent coffees and filling, soul warming beer rains. I love it.
This is what its like. To be home.
My new house is big. Too big? It’s new to me, but it still has that old 1920’s it’s oh so vintage smell when you first enter the building. It has a sense of place. I beg for it to share that with me.
My new neighborhood boasts some dear old NE Portland favorites, some lovely past times but also new fabulous noodle houses with steamy windows and secret corner Italian restaurants- all just whispering for me to visit. My hood has a sense of place. I need it to share that with me.
My first week back and I’m working on finding my sense of place. I found my lungs in Laurelhurst Park, racing around the pond with Jasin only blocks from our new house. I found my inherited obsession with food at the Big Egg, Boke Bowl, Ned Ludd among other inspiring haunts. I found my strength climbing at the Circuit. I found my brain, my intellect at the Hollywood Library and Eastside Powell’s Books. I found flour all over my hands and dough in the sink in my new kitchen. I found love in my bedroom, in my heart, on my mind. But most importantly, I found my soul- shinning, jovial and lightened in the rain, in the forest, in Portland.
I’ve found myself. I have a sense of place. Allow me to share it with you.
-sent from my cloud factory, Sara Marie
On Coming Home
Today I will hit the highway for twelve hours to arrive in the town I sadly said good bye to in August. For at least the past few years I have considered Portland my home. But here I am ready to go back to it and all I have is a contrived idea of what my home is. The bedroom, kitchen and neighborhood I think of when I think of home isn’t real, isn’t mine. So what is going home? Portland is a home, but it doesn’t keep me warm and it certainly doesn’t keep me dry. I don’t need to say anything silly about Jasin being my home because while that might be true, there is still something about being back in a familiar place. Where is my couch? How do I use this kitchen? What is my home? Today, I hit the road once more. Only to come back. To understand what this trip has taught me. To see the juxtaposition of me in Portland as this new, learned person. To be grown up and continue to grow and learn and see. To comprehend Portland without me. To reacquaint myself with the mountains, the beer, the friendships, the rain, the cold that gets into your bones, the coffee and my love, oh my love. Portland, I am coming home.
Ah, but it is more complex than that. I have just spent two weeks in Santa Rosa. My thoughts of home have been lost in a time warp of my past. Since the day I left Santa Rosa, almost seven years ago, I thought I didn’t care. My teenage angst took the best of me and I wrote that place, that home, that childhood off. It didn’t matter to me. I threw it away. Until today.
Usually when I am at the home I grew up in I feel out of place, dislocated, incorrect, bored. But this time I had to clean out my stuff. For real, why hadn’t this happened earlier? Well, it didn’t and there I was. A mess. In my room. Because no one told me that a version of me was still alive. The person who fell at her first gymnastics meet and was embarrassed and upset because she couldn’t finish her floor routine. The person who endured high school with melodramatic journal entries. The person who listened to pseudo punk rock. The person who couldn’t get enough. Of life. Of gymnastics.
So here I go, home. But what is home? Where is mine? And what version of myself do I leave behind today?
-sent from my cloud factory, Sara Marie
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