Chapter 8: Lucid Dreaming?
Something is changing. Is it the light? Is it the weather? My comfort level is being shaken
slightly. I think it might be a
bit warmer than it had been. Yes,
something is also changing with the light.
I crack my eyes open a
little to try and grasp what exactly it is that is changing. It seems that I am looking at a sea
swimming full of dark black fish and brightly glowing jellyfish. This sea of black and white radiance is
making no sense. Something thin
and crunchy is mingling with my dreadlocks. Slowly my body announces with a whimper that my back hurts
and that I am far from comfortable.
The black fish begin to
change shape and appear to be tethered in odd branch like patterns. The fish become leaves and the jellyfish
leave their physical form and become pure rays of light. I reach up to get rid of the insects in
my hair and find only dried leaves, dirt, and my dreadlocks formed into a hard
lumpy pillow. I slowly begin to
realize that I am lying on a dirt floor beneath a tree. The sun is rising stealing the cool
night away and replacing it with summer heat. The few times I have camped here in California I was used to
having redwood pin shaped leaves to deal with, not these more normal boat
shaped, crunchy, dried paper leaves.
I donÕt think I am out camping, am I? I have the strange feeling that I somehow made it out in the
middle of the night to the backyard at my parentÕs house.
Why would I be asleep in my
familyÕs backyard? That doesnÕt
make any sense. And where did I
get this strange headache and parched mouth?
The smell of my sweat
nibbled at my nose and I could make out the scent of beer creeping out of my
pores. As these pieces began
falling around me another part of the puzzle slowly waltzed its way in: The
leaves of the tree I lay beneath were dancing. Dancing in time to a lazy 4/4 beat. There was music and a sound system to
back it.
Although it would be great
and make visits back ÔhomeÕ more entertaining, there is no sound system at the
Ôrents house.
Where the fuck am I!?
As I try to sit up my
long-ago broken ribs creek, my shoulder muscles scream in pain, and my knees
buckle with a lack of water. I am
hung over and I have no clue where I am.
There are voices coming from nearby, and I am only able to prop myself
up on my elbows to get a look around to see small groups of people sitting on
blankets, a DJ booth, and a group of people dancing in the middle of what looks
like a Republican version of a forest.
Little tiny trees with
trunks the size of my leg spaced out about ever 10 or 20 feet with rust red
dirt to provide the spacing. As
far as I could see, this was all there was here (except for the strangers
around me). The strangersÕ voices
are not lending any hints to my location.
I hear an odd mixture of American English, British English, Hindi,
Germanic tongued English, and a whole plethora of other tongues and accents
stretching from Northern Europe to Southern Asia.
My memory starts to kick in,
but in small installments. I am
not at home; I am actually away on a trip. I think I am actually much farther away from home than
usual. Yes, yes, in fact, I am all
the way in India. Yes, OK, now IÕm
on the right line of thought. I am
in India, but where am I? I have a
recollection of going out to a pub or two last nightÉ
Éoh lord!
This has happened before,
but in a foreign land with no friends to watch over my drunken life?! Am I mad? I must be.
I somehow made it out to
what appears to be some Indian version of an underground rave. Smaller pieces begin to float in. Something about wanting bottled
water. Something else about
wondering how IÕm getting back since I took a rik out here.
Something else about
actually coming out here with a new found friend. Ah! Something
to grasp onto. I decide to get up
and look for my companion. As I
stand up and shake the awful from my hair I hear someone say in a British
accent, ÒAh, Tobias, you are up!
How is my favourite Canadian doing?Ó
Canadian? What is the guy talking about? He is definitely talking to me, as I
doubt there are many TobiasÕs with dreadlocks to get me mixed up with. Yet another piece floats into my mind
to help solve this sub-puzzle:
I had decided the night
before to tell people that I was from Canada to avoid any misgivings anyone
might have towards Americans and their Budweiser ways. This small piece seems to let me build
the corner of the full puzzle, which almost immediately helps me fill in the
middle.
I had gotten to this hidden
rave in the middle of absolutely Fucking Nowhere over an hour outside of
Bangalore late last night on what I thought to be The Rik of Assured
Destruction with my new friend Sameer.
I wandered around in amazement that I had found really good trance music that reminded me of home all the
way out here. My only other aural
experiences in India had been car horns honking and really bad 80Õs music.
I went towards the DJ booth
figure out what was going on; figure out who was putting this together. A small alcove had been built behind
the DJ for the promoters and friends to hang out. I made myself at home and quickly made some new friends.
They were mostly Europeans,
European schooled Indians, and Americanized Indians. If I hadnÕt been so amazingly intoxicated when I arrived,
and if I hadnÕt decided to grab two fist full of Kingfisher upon my arrival I
might be able to recall names, faces or maybe even some discussionsÉ
I found the person who put
the event together. He was a big
Indian guy wearing sunglasses and a baseball hat, but he surprisingly talked
with an American accent. Almost
all Indians that I met out here who didnÕt have a native accent had a British
accent. This guy had clearly spent
a lot of time in the States, assuming he wasnÕt brought up there to begin
with. He said his name was Big
Bear, or Naked Bear. (My memory
is, oddly, serving me well on this point.
He is the one that
suggested both versions of his name.)
He told me that he used to help throw similar parties like this back in
the States.
This was beginning to make
sense now. The music, the vibe,
the peopleÉ It felt like a rave
back home because someone from Back Home was running it. It is always great to run into someone
like this who is from Back Home.
ÒWhen did you come from the
States out to India?Ó
ÒOh, about a year or two
ago,Ó he said.
I drunken mumbled some
standard response that does nothing other than recognize that I heard what he
said. Probably some Tobias
equivalent of Ôcool, bro.Õ
ÒSo where did you use to
live back in the good olÕ U.S. of the A?Ó
ÒCalifornia,Ó he said.
ÒOh really!? ThatÕs
where I am from!Ó It really excited
me to find someone from my Home Town and my excitement was being run through
the alcoholic version of a 4X10 paired with a 15 BW cab powered by a Sunn
head.
ÒWhat part of California?Ó
ÒSan Francisco,Ó he said.
I was amazed. Really amazed. I am in the middle of Absolutely
Fucking Nowhere India, at an underground RAVE, and meeting someone from San
Francisco. And if you are from San
Francisco away from home and you meet another San Franciscan you always compare
notes.
ÒDo you know So-In-So?Ó
ÒNope, but do you know
So-n-So?!Ó
ÒNo way! You know them?Ó
We all know that San
Francisco is small enough that the six degrees of separation are always milled
down to two. I just wasnÕt
prepared for a single degree of separation like this:
ÒYea, my friend runs the big
club on Saturday nights at 1015 called ÔRelease,Õ IÕm sure youÕve heard of it
and youÕve probably been to it,Ó I said to try and close the gap a little and
give some common ground to work from.
(Oddly enough, I really wasnÕt drunkenly name dropping.[1])
ÒWait! Who are you talking about? Kuz I used to work with Nabil to put
parties like this together.Ó
ÒNo shit! That is exactly who I was talking
about.Ó
ÒYea, me and Nabil go way
back.Ó
ÒCrazyÉ. then maybe you also
know my good friend WayneÉ?Ó I poked.
Nabil and me are friends, but me ÔnÕ Wayne are really good friends.
ÒOh yea! I havenÕt seen that guy in ages! Really cool guy, itÕd be nice to see
his ass again.Ó
This went on and on. It turns out that we probably would be
hanging out together if he were still living in San Francisco. We were going to call Wayne right then
and scare the shit out of him, but I only had my work issued cell phone on
me. (Wayne: It would have been
perfect to call you all drunk in the middle of the night in India to get you in
the afternoon in the states with me and Naked Bear on the line. CÕest la vi.)
As the previous eveningÕs
events unfolded in my mind, I began to wonder what happened to my friend,
Sameer. I wandered around looking
for him and almost instantly I saw a groggy eyed Sameer poke his head up doing
exactly the same. I had lost him
almost immediately upon arrival to the rave. We regrouped and tried to decide how the hell we were
getting home. We hadnÕt really
planned for that when we came out here.
Oddly enough, when we walked
out the ÒgateÓ to the compound we found a row of taxis and riks waiting for
people to finish up with the rave.
Our old friend Mr. Rik Driver was waiting for us to finish up his
inflated fare.
We hopped in, split the rik,
stopped off for hot chai in the morning sun, made it home to crash back to
sleep at breakfast time and let my dreams bring me back to reality.
