This is the world on drugs

I have never considered myself a feminist, having struggled to equate privileged women whining about getting paid less and feeling uncomfortable in math class with moving things forward. Haven't the girls of my generation been given access to the same opportunities as the boys?

But during my adventures I have discovered a very different reality and it is really, really disturbing.

Upon my arrival, there was news of a 19-year old Saudi woman who was kidnapped at knifepoint and gang-raped by seven men (twice each) who also beat her, took pictures and threatened to kill her. When she went to court, the judge awarded her 90 lashes for consorting with men other than her husband!!!! She appealed the decision and the next judge upped it to 200 lashes and 6 months in jail. This is the world on drugs. www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,21332543-2,00.html


During my trip to Thailand last month, I came to look into the sad, glassy eyes of the girls of the Karen tribe (near Chiang Mai). This clan from Burma traditionally puts heavy coils of brass around the necks of young girls starting at age 5. Each year, they lengthen the coil until they are 21 or so, stretching out their necks into a freakishly long, thin, fragile appendages.

The custom has been disappearing... however, now thanks to tourists, these girls are taken from their mountain tribe to live in a fake village where stupid people (like me) can pay $15 US dollars to come and photograph the freaks, revile at the pictures of their bared black and blue necks and feel "cultured." I asked her - does it hurt? She bent her entire body to me (unable to freely move her head), with the top coil cutting into her chin, and said "sometimes." I feel sick, knowing this girl will never forget that she is different and deformed, the freakshow that warrants a photo. She has become a prisoner, never be able to enter a larger society. This is the world on drugs.

Continuing onto Indonesia, which is largely muslim - I become well acquainted with the very symbol of squashed identity - the burka. This head to toe covering may (or may not) leave a slit for the eyes. The more fortunate women only wear head scarves (which has GOT to be hot in the equatorial climate).

I ask my friend - why the burkas, why the head scarves? "Ana," he says, "because hair is beautiful and they need to protect themselves from men's lustful eyes." OK, OK... so the "answer" that has been adopted by the societies of millions and millions is that women need obscure themselves and live behind a mask because the men can't keep it in their pants?!?! This is logic??? This is the world on drugs!

In India, many rural women are married at age 15 and not allowed out of the house. She cannot go to the market, she cannot visit her friends. Her only job, according to one farmer, is "look good for me." During another interview, I learned a man is more likely to get insurance for his cow than his wife. Afterall, the cow is of real value. The wife is replaceable. Yes, this is the world on drugs.

In Jodhpur, I met Rehka, a woman my age with three children and ambition as strong as mine; though she’s not allowed to leave the house (as a wife) and has never even seen the fort that overlooks her city, bringing tourists from around the world. I asked her to come with us; she declined, smiling, saying she is sure she will go soon, but instead taught me how to make chai and Indian potato sandwiches.

I've come to believe, to truly understand now, that around the world, women are simply and completely objects to be owned. The thought that a woman is an independently thinking human who is as valuable of a man is laughable to most of the world. The "She" of billions and billions is entrapped within a gridlocked system that ensures her bonds are tight. She is property, shunned and veiled, condemned for her beauty, a prisoner in her homes. Modern slavery.

THIS IS THE WORLD ON DRUGS

(Dedicateed to Jody and Babs, the strongest women I know)

Answers in the palm of your hand

The astrologist told me of personality, career, love. Strangely, it was a very curt, impersonal interchange, within an office stacked with papers… nope, no sitar playing, no incense or crystal balls. Just like a visit to the accountant.

As for my personality – for those of you that know me, he was fairly accurate, and for those of you who don’t, well, let’s just say you must experience to understand!

For work and love, he was unsettlingly precise about dates. He brought out a magnifying glass, ruler, compass, and proceeded to chart my course along the lines of my right hand, making small dots at fateful intervals in the creases of my palm.

According to my dealt hand, I have four career changes ahead of me (next one in 2 yrs) and also a “very bad period” (mid-life crisis?) between 46-50. But of course no clues about what the hell I might actually do with myself, thanks.

But it’s the question of love (em, could you define that for me please?) that makes me hate astrologers and all their preconceived notions about MY life. So apparently I have “the chance” for love at age 22, 28, 30 ½, 34, and 37 ½... (then I stopped listening).

Ok, now. Let’s think about this. If you meet your love at age 22, what about the people you’re destined to meet at 28, 30 ½, etc? Are they just affairs? Are they missed chances? And has to prod me… who was my love at 22? (‘I don’t think there was anyone special at 22,’ I say. ‘Think, think... ' he says, 'There WAS someone’.) So who did I overlook at 22? I think back hard -- was it the one who disappeared to Montana when I ended it? The player from PR? The free spirit in my pottery class? My adorable, but ever so slightly stupid, roommate? Really? Love? Hmmm, I just don’t think so.

And then he says to me – ‘You are 28 now? Do you know who your “chance” is? Is it over?’ Well, I must have seemed just a little taken aback… have I already somehow missed my one and only chance for love for the next two and a half years?! What crap! Yes, I realize that when you’re a ambitious, irreverent girl (who’s maybe just a little needy... or crazy), meeting a match doesn’t happen everyday, but still. I think I’ve recovered from his questioning, when he looks at me very sternly and tells me ,“Well, you need to find out.”

No, what I need to do is stop wasting money on someone telling me that it’s all pre-ordained. This life is mine.

Where is 'real' India?

After 2 months, I thought that I had a pretty good handle on what was India… a colorful place where nothing makes sense. Disorganized and chaotic, a striking contrast of very new, very fast with inflexible traditions and rituals. Life is lived publically in the street -- cooking fires, shaving, wild and stray animals, all types of excrement, and of course, a sweetshop nearly every block. And a lot of unpalatable food that makes you ill (like this morning - Valerie is being SOOO demanding!).

But I found myself in downtown Mumbai, strolling down a promenade along the waterfront, where beautiful colonial buildings touch long parks filled with cricket players and joggers lined by European-style cafes and I have to ask myself, “what? Is this India too?” Oh yes, a ferris wheel on the beach operated by six young men, manually turning it... Ah yes… it’s definitely India afterall.

Next, I happened to journey to Kolkata (Calcutta) again to discover another side of India; somewhere more organized than Delhi, but not as new world as Mumbai. A place where the Raj (the British rule in India) has left its mark, its kiss of order and a planned city.

How about Uttarranchal? Its a northern province of India, close to Nepal, where Himalayan mountain roads crisscross the peaks, taking hours upon hours to reach ANYWHERE. Where it is freezing cold and somehow the people survive without central heating and few fireplaces.

Or perhaps Jodhpur? A periwinkle blue painted city that still retains its desert “real India” flavor, with open doors and open hearts. A quiet place where the problems of the rest of the country (begging, pollution, trash heaps) have not infiltrated the backstreets.

Or Goa, a stretch of breezy sand and open water, palm trees, and western everything? The one place in India where the people are catholic, the women wear skirts to their knees (scandalous!) and you find more superbly fit westerners doing yoga on the beach than probably anywhere on earth.

But, I think I might settle on Varanasi as “real India”… where pilgrims come from all over to bathe in the holy Ganges (polluted beyond recognition), where the dead are ritualistically burned atop sandalwood funeral pyres by sons who shave their heads, and where the dreadlocked Hari Krishna from the developed world come to convert the tourists.

In Varanasi I placed a candle on the Ganges, watched it float away, and made a quiet wish to open myself, feel passion, be fully alive, and most importantly, not be afraid… of real India and what I might find here, come what may.