Who do the voo-doo that you do-- so well!

Pictured here with a visiting artist, Chakia, a sculptor from NY. I had to hide in the corner of a studio to get my giggly smile to go away before I met with her. Doubled over with silent, painful laughter, I did some cheek excercises until the threat of an outburst passed.

As my friend Ann-Maree described the artist's elaborate accessory-- "Just picture, it's like you wrapped 20 dresses from an African thrift store around your head." I kept dreaming up other articles I wanted to stuff in there-- I decided tube socks dangling from each side, like floppy bunny ears would be pretty funny. Or she could pay homage to destructive tornados and have pieces of siding, perhaps a tree branch jutting out.

And yes, the party's only upstairs. Below the voodoo mama headdress and African printed fabric that was knotted into a top, she wore a navy blue painter's jump suit and paint-splattered Vans. So, somehow, she manages to get paint while balancing a whole wardrobe on her neck.

If only her work was as interesting as her get-up. But that's a tough act to match.

Oh Maya! The semester began with one of those savory moments when you realize that you're reaping the rewards from simply being where you're meant to be. We got to help install a Maya Lin show at a museum here. This one, where we sit like band members, is made of all 2x4's. Lots o' drilling and meticulously puzzle-piecing the smaller tiles-- and photo op's.

Then, we got to be best friends with Maya! We skipped down the sidewalk, ice cream cones in hand. If only. But I can tell you a few insider secrets about Maya. She doesn't like "esoteric" potato chips-- the ones fancy delis give you with spices sprinkled on top. She does like, perhaps only for nostalgia sake, White Castle hamburgers. When we went out to dinner with her after the opening, she had the restaurant serve everyone White Castle-esque burgers, except these tasty bites were made with Kobe steak. And, she has a little chin. If I were that fruit vendor in Amelie, I'd make a Frenchy rhyming song with the phrase, "Maya Lin! Little Chin!"

She also thinks collaboration, mainly b/w artists and architects, is way overrated. I found that interesting-- and refreshingly honest. She's communicates clearly and simply, like a middle school science teacher-- the ones you could listen to for hours. Simple curiosity generates all of her work, leading her to investigate geographical forms and translate them into forceful poetry. Unnh! Go Maya.

I'm Stateside now, but still processing a very full summer in India. I wrote the following over a month ago.

Riding in Cars with Boys

...Means not actually riding in the car. I learned this truth, among many other insights into male traveling preferences, on a spontaneous trip to Nepal last week. I was desperate to leave Delhi. My fellow Texan, Sam needed to renew his Visa by reentering India. He called at 5 pm to let me know that a bus was leaving at 7pm. So, at a moment’s notice, an adventure was born.

In eight minutes I was showered, haphazardly packed, and running down the street to catch an auto. I met up with my friend and his co-worker, Gitesh who would host us with his family in a Nepalese border town. Traffic was against us, and we realized we’d miss our bus, but unanimously, we decided to just take the first bus out of town and see where it took us. I was exhilarated! I’d been in Delhi over a month without having a truly wandering adventure. My smog-burdened soul needed this!

Eighteen hours later, after a series of jack-hammer bus rides through an Indian night, savory roadside paneer, middle of the night chai, and a 5 am cycle rickshaw ride through a wakening farm town, we arrived in Palia, Gitesh’s hometown on the Western border of Nepal. We jumped off the rickshaw in front of a shop selling floor to ceiling housewares—stacks of plastic buckets, thermoses, teacups, flashlights, cutlery. A tall, stern-looking man with a bit of a paunch stood up and greeted us: Gitesh’s father, the shopkeeper. We were home; his family lived above the shop. We climbed freshly mopped marble steps, carefully stepping over stacks of wares, to be met by a grinning mama and a white haired man with huge earlobes.

No sooner had we slumped our greasy, travel-weary, bodies onto his mom’s lace-covered sofa, than we were served a feast of rich, buttery japati, dal, rice, and curried goodness, followed by a plate of julabi (syruppy, golden, deep-fried curly-cue sweets). Contented and weary, my Texan friend and I went into a deep sleep, while Gitesh, energized to be at home, set out to meet old friends and family scattered around the town.

But time was precious, and adventure awaited. Gitesh procured two friends with motorbikes and we were off for a ride through the jungle, in search of lions, tigers and, monkey-eating buffalos. Fact about Indian men: they’re never too grown up to sing songs about high school friendship. Indeed, wild, testosterone-driven bike rides can and should be accompanied by nostalgic sing-alongs. As we rode through a wild life preserve, I was informed that it was my turn to sing. The only song that came to mind was a Hillsongs worship tune, but they gave me backup crooning that encouraged my faltering voice. It began to pour, so we hopped off the bikes to have a proper puddle romp. One of the friends lost his eyeglasses, and I burned my leg on the bike's tailpipe, but these are all details that qualify such an excursion as a true adventure.

The following day we were to cross the border into Nepal, but we woke to flooded streets. It had been raining all night, and there were no signs of letting up. On a mission for his morning cigarette, Gitesh rolled up his trousers and sloshed through 18" high flowing water. Sam, a burgeoning filmmaker put his skills to work, and the two of us made a riveting short film about two paper boats-- the S.S. Mongoose and the Black Pearl. It was a complicated plot involving spying monkeys with laser guns and a scandalous love affair. I'll let you know when it's out in theaters.

By mid afternoon, the rains have died down, and Gitesh deems the streets driveable. We haven't been driving for ten minutes, before Gitesh climbs out of the little sedan's window onto the roof of the car, hooting and hollering, "I'm the king of the jungle!" It's not long before I assume the role of the queen of the jungle right beside him. The view is much better from above, I conclude, as we cruise through the verdant jungle landscape replete with frolicking monkeys and statuesque termite pillars. After constant thudding against the roofrack, my butt starts to hurt, but Gitesh reminds me that "comfort and excitement do not go together."

Though we barely cross the border, the difference between the two countries is noticable. Nepal is more serene, quiet, cleaner. And we saw a pig with the hugest balls you've ever seen. I think he was rabid as well-- I pity the lady he descends upon! We splash around in a creek and, again, ride on the rooftop through the foothills. Glorious.

But more beautiful than the scenery was the send-off by Gitesh's family. A mom's tears for his son, cheek-pinching, hugs, gift-giving, and some cheek kisses. His mom gave me beautiful bejewelled, green fabric to have a suit made.

On the long bus ride home, I made the boys play "Masher" with me. (Any girl who was a junior-higher in the 90's knows what I'm talking about.) Actually, the boys were more into it than I was. Sweet Gitesh wasn't mean enough to give Sam the crappy options, like New Jersey for the honeymoon. I think I ended up with McDreamy in Mumbai. The rest of the night Gitesh and I talked about how faith has shaped, or does not shape, what we believe to be possible. Suffice to say, I learned alot-- and gained a brother.

I return to Delhi exhausted, greasy, and with mosquito bites dotting my face-- but oh so content.