Good Shit Part 2 (second version)

The flight from Bombay to New Delhi was uneventful. My only recollection was a tired surprise at how many well dressed Indian business men were on the flight and how much gold or what seemed to be gold was openly shown on the women.

New Delhi was a short stop, but not without a moment or two. I stayed at a hotel called the Janpath just off Connaught Circus. This is Delhi, the capital. Delhi the European looking center of India.

The first night was lovely. My hotel room had no air conditioning but did possess a huge fan which was in keeping with the sort of Raj mood I was in at the time. I tried to sleep but there was an incredible racket going on outside. Giving up on rest I opened my door and looked toward the source of loudness. Not hard to find at all. An Indian Circus, a real Circus, not the British coming together of streets that shares the name Circus was in proud business on the near horizon. I had to see.

Almost right away I was offered some hash and I bought it. Not the quality I was used to but not bad. I wandered up and down the Indian Midway, surprised at the groups of Europeans attending. All in all it was not a hell of a lot different from a circus at home except they still had a Freak Show with capitals. A small detour here for me to reminise, one of the big advantages in writing for myself.

When I was about 14 I ran away from home and lived with my Grandmother on the docks of Vancouver. She was a caretaker for a tug boat and barge company, and my bedroom was about 10 feet from the dock. I did not go to school that year, and to fill my time I went to what was called the Exhibition every day it was open, which was most of the Spring and Summer. I got so well known I was offered a job as a shill on one of the games. I sat and played the game all the time so there was always someone sitting. People do not like to be the first. I was also very good at putting the ball in the slot, making the little car go up the tracks, which meant no big teddy bears were handed out when yours truly was on the job. It was in that very chair I listened to the Beatles play Empire Stadium right next door. Looking back, I realize how much my life was predicted by working as a carnival shill while my peers screamed their guts out over "Please Please Me".

Although this seems as if I have gone off on a tangent, I have not, at least not too far. The point is, the Exhibition had a Freak Show with capitals during its prime run, when it was known as the Pacific National Exhibition. The whole thing fascinated me. The barkers or spokemen were great, talking in superlatives dressed up in penny opera.

"Come and see the Cat Lady of The Borneo" they sang, hands inviting all and sundry (keeping in the spirit) to view the wonders behind a painted canvas that showed whiskers, claws, stripes and long legs matched with huge breasts. Those painted canvases were a wonder unto themselves.

They continued their call out into the perfume of a Midway.

"Captured only by the daring of Colonel Ramsey Savage, and with the loss of three native porters, this feline miracle has been brought here for you , the General Public" to gaze at in awe. Come one and come all. Have I said she is beautiful, and it is her beauty she used to lure unsuspecting men" , glancing down he spied me and a friend, " and boys to their doom."

Here he would stop, holding the growing male crowd in his gaze, and raised his eyebrows in a way that clearly suggested what he was about to say was between us and him only. Taking a quick look around the Barker would lean forward and gesture us closer.

We moved as one, shuffling herd like..

"She lured men and boys like us, and she did this by promising in her hissing cat-like manner, a purrrfect time that the mensss and boysss would take to their graves. Hissssssss.

"Can you imagine" he went on in a normal tone, "can you imagine how wonderful her prey felt while enjoying her caress?"

All of us could, glancing at the picture of the beautiful Cat Woman.

The Barker clapped his hands loudly, turning us back to him. He was rocking back and forth on his heels and shaking his head. his hands were wiping at his now wet cheeks. Obviously great sorrow and grief had overcome him. Standing in the group, a part of the group, I could feel our empathy.

"It's alright" he whispered, dredging up his strength. "It's ok".

His eyes looked up at ours, and we stood a bit straighter as he reached down to the place men were men.

"After all this pleasure, when we were at our weakest and most vulnerable was what she waited for, this feline fiend from hell. After all this"....his voice began to rise..."after all this she struck, tearing our throats out with razor sharp claws and fastening on to the red fountain, she drank and began to eat, finishing even the largest and strongest in one sitting."

The crowd were stunned. Even the cynics, the unbelievers, were swept up in the masterpiece of oration they had been party to.

No another word would he speak, just holding out tickets to those of us who had the courage to face the monster. Who would not buy?What man would not want to face such doom from a safe distance?

As usual with Freak Shows, what was inside was always a disappointment. Just a sort of homely lady showing some skin with whiskers and tail glued on and stripes provided by makeup. I learned that day two valuable lessons. One, the pitch is what they pay for, and two, the freaks are not in the tent.

Back to a warm night in Delhi. I probably spent two hours looking at all the rides and games, enjoying the colours and noise while stopping nop and then to refresh myself with a toke of hash.

Preparing to leave and get some sleep I headed for the gate. It was the cadence of the Barker that grabbed me. It could be French, English or Hindi that casts that spell. No difference at all. I knew there must be a Freak Show with Capital Letters and my heart rate went up.

Weighing how much I needed sleep against my interest took a heart beat or so. I AM IN INDIA. How cool is that? So off I went. looking for pictures drawn on canvas bursting with colour and beautiful images. Following the rapid Hindi I swam through the crowds, homing in on the Freak Show. I suppose my motivation was nostalgia but I was stoned so who knows?

The voice belonged to a tiny man swaddled in robes. Irridescent colours of orange, lime, purple, red, blue and black covered him from his turkey neck down. His hands were jeweled, bracelets and rings fighting to relect all the light in the circus. To my stoned eyes his arms swooshed up to exclaim, and his fingers spread out to me and the others as if pointing to some special G spot on our bodies.

I understood not a word, but his face told all I needed. He had that not uncommon look in what used to be called the Northwest Frontier of brown skin and green eyes. There is a famous picture in the National Geographic of an Afghani woman who has this look exactly. The contrast, at least to me, is just lovely. Refreshing and seductive at the same time. Go figure.

The face was dominated by a hook nose that was so thin it seemed to exist in two instead of three dimensions. Truly a blade of a nose. High cheekbones and thin lips with white teeth finished the look off except for a scar in the shape of a question mark that sat high on one cheek. Me and my hash wondered what the question had been and hoped he had answered.

Tearing myself away I looked for my artistic canvas but could not find it. The only display was a small heading over the entrance to the tent written in both Hindi and bad English. "THE FAMOS MOLE GURL. That was it. I paid and walked in to a dark area that contained a few fellow seekers. Their attention was riveted on a plywood enclosure which measured around 6 feet per side, and lit up by a single bulb dangling overhead.

As I worked my body into a position to see I noticed how quiet the crowd was. All my previous experience with Freak Shows involved large groups of males calling out suggestive lines or just being insulting. Apparently not in India. At least not in Dehli and certainly not tonight.

My gaze left the faces around me, and feeling the start of disquiet I took my first look at the FAMOS MOLE GURL.

Have you ever looked at one of those puzzles that sometimes shows up in the comic section of a Sunday Paper? The kind of puzzle where nothing is discernible until you spend some time letting go of expectations and allow the camoflauged image to come into sight. This was the same.

My first impression was of a large duffle bag covered in hair. The hair was long and gray, and someone had combed or brushed it in the same direction. Around this time I became aware of a strong odor that remindd me of mothballs. I confess I flinched when the hairy duffle bag raised its head and looked out at us.

The features were human and Indian, but were also covered in hair. As soon as I saw her brown eyes and lips I came into ownership of the whole picture. Both her hands and feet consisted of flippers which scrambled weakly against the area her body rested. I thought back to my brother Kevin, and all the time he spent lying in one spot, and realized with certainty she (there were hairy breasts coverd with a skimpy top) was looking to find comfort in her position.

I probably stood around 10 seconds, taking it all in. This was no trick, and there was no tail glued on or otherwise. The person in the pen was real. All of my North American Disney nurtured values were appalled, but even stronger was the shame I felt.

I backed out fast, heading back to my room. As I walked I remebered a tragedy from when I was a boy. Many women with child had been given a drug called Thalidomide to combat morning sickness. Severe birth defects were often the result, and this woman was old enough I guessed to fall into that category. Perhaps the daughter of a midddle class or wealthy family that could afford Western medical intervention. Or maybe it was not that at all, and just represented my lame attempt to put a box around the mystery. For all I know she may be the answer to the question on the barker's cheek.

The next morning I caught my flight to Kabul. I had breakfast at the hotel and had to wake up the waiter from his bed under my table to get service. He was better natured about it than I would have been in his place.

Some thought into the whole thing about people we care for getting dead.



I open my dreams at night to my loved dead

Come to me I whisper into the dark of sleep

Come and give me a beloved face

A visit, a glance, a touch from a hand well known

There you are, full, of love for me and your sails

powered by unknown joys and vistas unseen by living eyes.

We laugh again, we love again, tastes and smells alive yes alive

One more time and one more time and again

Visited by a friend, a mate for life and death like the vows go.

My darkened room holds a smile or a tear or both

Just one more thing I plead into the departing face

Come back again and again and again

My ghost, my beloved, my life in my dream

Good Shit (revised)

PART ONE

Two weeks off! I had two wonderful weeks to go anywhere I wanted within a certain amount of bucks. Part of the job agreement. Work two months, every single day, and the reward is 14 days and nights in all the exotic locales within reach of my work site; The Sultanate of Oman. (For those of you lacking in geography, think of the west coast of India and go straight West across the Indian Sea).

A little bit of background. I worked in what is called a geophysical crew where our job consisted of chasing down copper deposits using the properties of physics such as magnetism, gravity and so on. More on my time there later in another story.

My fellow crew members were all smokers of cannabis, and it had become somewhat of a contest to see who could find the most powerful smoke to keep us entertained. Tim had recently returned from Nepal where he obtained two products of wonderful quality called Mustang grass and Nepalese Temple Balls. I was determined to do him one better. I booked my trip for Afghanistan where legend has it that the most wonderful hash in the world is to be found. Arrangements were made and I found myself at the Sultan Qauboos Airport on a warm sunny day, which is somewhat redundant when talking of Arabian weather.

Bored while waiting, I wondered up to the open roof. The mountains that hold the city of Muscat are worth the effort. Volcanic and dark, they look as if you could shave with the highest peaks. The Gulf of Oman stretched to the East, with the local waters guarded by an old Turkish fort. Picture postcards are'nt in it. Not even close.

I became aware I was not alone and turned to see three small Indian men crouching against a wall in the foot flat on the ground way they have in this part of the world. All wore a poor man's turban, and I guessed them to be contract workers returning home to India. The new modern Arabia would not have gotten built without this lot.

I briefly nodded and returned to the view, but was unable to shake the sense of being closely observed in a joint formation. I have been watched before. Who has not? However, on some level down in my mud two sure beliefs sprung out. First, they did not mean me well. Second, they were using the 'joint-formation to intensify the power of their gaze. In fact, I felt as if a 6 eyed beast was present, and was hungry for some fucking thing.

I could run, or at least walk fast to get out of view, but I am often an idiot. Instead I crouched down in the same position, giving silent thanks to all the games of camel shit checkers I played with local beduoins, allowing me to be comfy in the posture. I engaged their eyes. All of them.

The sun was to my back and it reflected fully in all the wetness of their look. Dark eyes gleamed right at me. I stared back, reliving the old child challenges of a contest, with the loser looking away first.

Part way through I regretted my once-again idiot self. I knew if I looked away I would lose more than simple pride. They would take something I could not get back, but damned if I knew what it was.

The tension, at least my tension, drew out and out. The connection between my two and their six was tightening, and then they started that uniquely Indian habit of turning their head as if trying to touch an ear to a shoulder, and then bobbing the whole head up and down.

In previous interactions with other Indians I had enjoyed this motion, and had started to do it myself, just to see what it meant on a kinetic level. I had thought it provided a friendly rythym to talk, but I was wrong. This was the opposite of friendly, and they all started doing it at the same time, but if there was a signal I missed it.

How much time went by? I am truly fucked if I know, but the gleaming and the intensity mixed with the motion of up and down. Three heads up. Three heads down. In the middle of the motion a six lensed gleam. A shine from the surface of the eyes that hid the thoughts and identities of these foriegn workers. So very bloody different from the 'yes Sahib, whatever you say Sahib you wonderful white man'

And then it was over. I came to aware they were gone and the sun was setting. I was not robbed and felt intact. I did not see any of them on the flight to Bombay as it was called then. I looked very hard.

Landing at Santa Cruz airport is worth mentioning for a couple of reasons. The big reason was the part it would play in the rest of my tale. However, I also mention it because landing in Bombay was the only time in my life i experienced culture shock.

The first surprise came with the spraying of the interoiur of the plane before we got out. I never did find out what it was for. The second shock came with the drive right outside. i ahd a little time and was going to walk to one of those airport hotels to wait until my flight to New Delhi. I only had one bag but it got grabbed as soon as I stepped outside.

I was somewhat vigilant already, so it became a tug of war between a 6'4" Canadian and a small gang of brown men with none over 5'7". I quickly realized they were all smiling and I have always been one to appreciate manners. Even when i am being robbed.

After a bit of back and forth I caught what they were on about with the high pitched entreaties.

"Please mister, please, we carry bags to train or taxi. Keep you safe mister. Keep you
safe Sahib".

I took a quick look around and saw what seemed to be local allowing their bags to be carried so I let go, prepared to run, although in truth there was nothing in the bag $50 could not have replaced. I had all documents and money tucked away on me.

Through some effort I pointed out a nearby hotel all lit up and we walked on in the moist night, dodging scooters, mopeds, cars, trucks and other moving contraptions including what looked like old fashioned bicycles hooked up to small motors. The smell of gas, kerosene and organic mixed with a cacophony of babbles in high pitched tones. i loved it but and starting to experience some cultural dissonance.

After about ten minutes walking characterized by attempts to communicate and lots of laughing we got to the parking lot. This was a vast space taken up by about twenty acres of tarmac and dirt. The whole enclosure was walled with about 4 feet of concrete.

Every single space along the entire perimeter was taken up by families. A spread blanket would hold a pot or two, bags with various items, and children tended by a woman or girl. My guides indicated this was their port of origin as the travel people like to say.

They took turns calling out, and in the gloom a flash of white teeth would answer. I have never seen so many smiles in any country, and I have never seen so much joy in living for so little material reward.

I paid them off and slept on a grassy area by the hotel entrance until dawn when I caught my next flight.