Ramblings of the Muse
“Our battered suitcases were were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.” — Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Part 3, Ch. 5
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Hippie For the Weekend
Most of my friends think I fell off the turnip truck when I tell them I found happiness on a road lined with slaughterhouses. I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less since they think I’m what my husband, J, affectionately (not!) calls one of “those people”—a lowly hippie. I’ve always been a little different, but I’d really given up hope that people could live in a spirit of giving rather than taking. I’ve resorted to living as a puppet for capitalism—I mean, all it seems people do these days is work to make money to pay bills they are slaves to. But, why get rich to buy free time with your family when you can have free time without money?
There are a group of people who don’t use money, who live off the capitalist grid. These people don’t need government run electrical companies, sewage plants, or running water. They don’t hustle in the rat race; they help one another reach common goals. Hippies have a lot to teach everyone else about sustainability and happiness, and they’re, again, growing in number.
If you think you might be interested in joining a commune for the weekend, you’re in luck! At The Hostel in the Forest, in Brunswick, Georgia, you can learn how to avoid capitalism and try living off the land in a communal setting for a few days or a few months. This is the story of how I got off the grid for a few days and found happiness with, well, a bunch of hippies.
Leave it all Behind
I get home late, but I’m not really worried about it because I already called The Hostel and told them it’ll be at least midnight when we get there. I’m exhausted, down-in the-mouth, and downright foul. I work all day, go to class, and argue with J about kenneling the dogs. Hey, it’s not my fault the place won’t let us bring the dogs!
I get the directions and the GPS coordinates (yes, I said GPS coordinates) of the hostel from the website. I plug it all into my cell phone’s navigation, load the cooler and suitcases up in the truck, and hit the road. I’m cussing the stupid GPS and hating on the bum that stole the Tom-Tom out of my car a couple of weeks ago because the lame-o GPS on my phone won’t update as we travel. Pretty soon, we’re told to get off the highway. It doesn’t look right, but we’re tired and irritable and—who knows, it could be right…I mean, this place doesn’t seem to be on any maps.
Soon, I notice a most unpleasant smell. When I say unpleasant, I don’t mean like smoke or an air biscuit, I mean like coagulated blood and rotting fat. I start to look for a convenience store or something because I wish I’d picked up Diet Dr. Pepper at the last gas station. I’m totally grossed out. The Kentucky Fried Chicken meal I scarfed on the way starts to seem like a really, really bad idea when the outlines of slaughterhouses with delightful names like Happy Farms start to take shape. Pretty soon, I’m wondering if there’s anything in this nasty little chicken hell but slaughterhouses, and I’m surprised to glimpse a Crispy Chick…two doors down from the Happy Farm—at least their chicken’s fresh. Welcome to Claxton, Georgia.
Somehow we manage to make it to a highway. Needless to say, we follow a chicken truck out of that place. I wonder if the driver knows we’re following him, taking pictures in case we never make it off the lost highway. Either way, when we finally pull into the hostel, it’s nearly 1:30 in the morning and I am more than just a little happy that I popped some herbal energy supplements before the trip.
Set up Camp
After a minor parking fiasco, we’re on the path to the hostel. I’m really happy I brought J with me now, because I always forget the flashlight and this place is dark and beyond creepy. At this point, I don’t care if Jason comes running from the forest with ski mask and chainsaw—I’m sleeping here and not asking questions. We find the older of the two dome structures at the end of the path, as instructed on the phone, and step inside. Since no one greets us, we wander around saying “hello?” and “anybody here?” After being instructed by a lone girl on a laptop—the only other human we could find—to just go back into the dome and wait…we do. About 15 minutes later, a rustling in the top of the dome produces a barefoot guy in cargo shorts, plaid shirt, and disheveled hair. He’s rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair. He mumbles, “Maaannnn, I am sooooooo glad you guys woke me up—I’m starving. Do you guys like grapes?” With grapes in hand and us checked in, we follow Freddie, the manager, on an impromptu tour of the hostel.
I don’t pay much attention to where to pick up the linens or how to use the composting outhouses, since I don’t plan to use them, but just in case, I’m a little relieved when J asks Freddie if the outhouses are for number one or two. Freddie must have heard that question before, because he patiently explains to us city slickers that if we pee in the sawdust and poop, it makes it awfully difficult and unpleasant to dump the compost bucket. He points down a dark path to our tree-house, and sends us on our way. I put my sheets from home on the bed, cover the windows with my trusty sarongs, and drift into the unknown.
Immerse Yourself in the Lifestyle
I am awoken, most rudely, by a rooster crowing and the gentle “bock-bock-bagock” of hens laying eggs a few steps away in the coop. My bladder is throbbing and I rush to the window to scope out an appropriate place to relieve myself. The previous night, things were easy. I mean, it was dark, and the whole place was a bathroom for all we cared. This morning presents new issues since there are people wandering around the labyrinth below our window, and other random people just sitting out in the woods with blankets. The camp is alive with the smell of fire, the rumble and occasional exclamation of voices, and the clanging of a bell every few minutes—I’m not taking any chances on being seen squatting, so I decide to hold it.
J gets up and steps outside to pee with no problem. I’m feeling pretty jealous, but I don’t let on. He expresses his desire for some of the fresh, organic, locally grown coffee Freddie promised him the night before, and quickly makes his way to the communal kitchen. By the time he returns with what looks like tea (recycled grounds, we later learn), I’ve already fixed myself a peanut butter sandwich with the stuff we brought from home. Thinking about the impending explosion of my bladder, I suggest a walk, and, since there is no reason to bathe or change clothes, we are quickly on our way.
Almost immediately, I see what I think is a great makeshift bathroom. I set off for the huge patch of low-growing palmettos, not realizing the danger. After one or two steps into the brush, I learn that palmettos are sharp and will grab your clothes refusing to let go. In light of the cut up legs and ripped skirt, I decide that going out in the open will just have to do, and ask J to watch for me while I pee in plain sight. The hostel seems to be shredding my capitalistic hang-ups right before my eyes!
Make New Friends
Relived and having toured the hostel grounds in daylight, we return to camp and chat with some of the employees who are raking corn for the chickens or picking up stray coffee mugs from the railings outside. Most of the guests are taking part in a survival training workshop, so J and I decide to relax by the campfire. Almost as soon as we sit, a guy meanders over to the fire and starts chatting. It’s common etiquette to ask new friends where they are from and how long they have been at the Hostel. He tells us he’s from out west, where he began his journey in search of happiness. Once the car broke down, he continued on bicycle, and then on foot. He isn’t operating on the monetary system, he tells us, so he’s met a lot of really generous people; “there are a lot of magical places” he assures us. He does graphic design for money when he needs it, and cats tell him where to go next. That’s right—-cats tell him where to go!
J smugly comments that he likes cats, but they don’t tell him where to go and starts making the big eyes that usually mean “big boobies at three o’clock” or “that’s an undercover cop, you idiot.” I start to look the guy up and down, then I notice his “Cat in the Hat” shirt, and I give J this other look that says “and you thought I was a weirdo” as we excuse ourselves saying we need a nap.
We make hasty exit and decide on a walk to the next road over where we’ve heard we can park the car. As we re-enter the Hostel, we are greeted by this guy in baggy jeans, a huge chain, and with tons DJ equipment in the back of his car. He comes toward us, arms outstretched, exclaiming how great it is to see us. J and I wonder if we know who he is—we don’t. It turns out, he’s just full of love, and he doesn’t care who we are—we are friends. Later on in the night, he offers us apples dipped in dark chocolate with toffee sprinkles and gets in trouble for having his cell phone out. I’m pretty sure he’s on speed because he’s taking a hundred pictures of the fire and keeps mentioning getting stoned. He even offers to smoke a joint with us, but we decide he’s a liability and politely decline.
Lend a Hand
After a fantastic communal dinner for which I am allowed to prepare salad and homemade dressing and a semi-drunken night at the campfire where conversation runs from “My mom used to read us Goosebumps when we went camping” to “When I used to grow pot” and “That ‘nap’ we took today was divine” and even to “I’ve always wanted to asphyxiate myself while I masturbate” (a note on which we excuse ourselves), we feel comfortable enough to offer to cook breakfast the next morning.
The next morning, I’m showering outside, fully exposed, when I hear “bock-bock-bock”ing again. I turn around to find mama hen and seven chicks requesting permission to drink my run-off water. I turn the temp down with a smile and look around. There are necklaces of precious stones hanging everywhere and crystals lining every surface. I realize I never want to leave this place. It’s my first shower in three days.
I half run, half skip back to the Bamboo Hut where we’re staying, knowing I have a few minutes to myself while J makes breakfast. I remember seeing playing cards spilled and scattered underneath the bed. I get down on my knees and follow the cards into the rabbit-hole until I stumble upon a journal left under the bed; the staff leaves it here to keep people from writing all over the walls and floor during moments of inspiration. I open it up randomly and read an entry:
Today I gave up my son for adoption. I drove hours and hours for the first and probably last time I will ever see him. I don’t know if I did the right thing, and I feel like a total piece of shit for doing something nice for myself when I just did something so terrible to someone I love so much.
I quietly put the journal away, and know that I am changed for having been in this sacred space where so many people seek and find comfort.
A little rattled, I make my way to the kitchen to check on J. On the porch, people in pajamas sip coffee and listen to The Fugees. There’s a portable griddle going, and they’re taking turns making gluten-free corn pancakes. In the kitchen, six or more people are in robes and thermals happily cutting fruit, sautéing collard greens, listening to house music, and there, in the crowd, is J cooking up two pounds of bacon. Oh how I love him right then! He hasn’t bathed or changed clothes in three days, he’s smiling happily, and he’s the man of the hour in that little meat-starved village. As it turns out, it only takes two minutes for twenty vegan hippies to tear through two pounds of bacon. I guess they know how to prioritize when it comes to luxuries like that! With plates piled high, we retreat to the campfire to join the banjo playing and singing of “I’ll Fly Away” already in progress. We sit down with friends, free of the outside world, on a cloud of love and acceptance, and we are at peace in that moment. There is truly no place I’d rather be.
Take it with You
Too soon, it’s time to go—and just when I get comfortable peeing outside, not showering, and with the sulfur smell of the gray water system. We load up, not believing we have to return to civilization. I mope around the chicken coop picking up feathers and putting them in my hair. I stall and whine. I suggest going for a look at the dorm-style sleeping facilities or hanging out in the tee-pee or hanging with the ducks as they turn bottom-up in an effort to rustle up some desired roots, but the evening is drawing near. In one last effort to convince J to stay here forever with me, I run off into the woods and challenge him to find me.
I find a couple of abandoned forts. We spread a trusty sarong out on the ground, and lie on it looking up at the sky. I make J promise to bring me back really soon. I tell him I want to be in this place, this state of mind, this heaven forever. He rolls his eyes and smiles. He doesn’t know how serious I am yet. It starts to rain, and we don’t even care.
On the way to the truck, we pass Louise’s porch. Louise loved to spend time at The Hostel when she was alive; when she passed, Tom, the owner, had her porch moved to here so her spirit could live on. A few steps away, there’s a trail marker with a painted white “T” and an arrow. It’s pointed straight up to the sky—J and I get the point. We never have to leave this place behind; it’s a part of us.
After driving an hour or two, we stop to get gas and use real bathrooms. As I’m preparing to put tissue on the seat, a woman comes in and enters the stall beside me. She shouts out, “Goddamn, motherfucker! That stupid bitch pissed all over the fucking toilet—fucking bitch!” I cringe and start to lose my cool, but quickly recover. I finish my business and exit looking in the mirror. The girl who stares back has a smile on her face, a feather and a flower in her hair, and peace in her heart. I am a changed person.
My friend warns me that very few people reach enlightenment and that I’m not the Buddha. I think she’s crazy. She used to be free spirited—in fact, she’s the one who told by about the Hostel in the Forest. Now, she’s a brain and spinal cord injury nurse and she’s married to an attorney—there’s no question what killed her spirit…capitalism. She just needs to shed the burdens of modern society and look at the world through the eyes of a hippie. We don’t need money to survive or be happy. All we need faith, desire, love, and the belief that we can change the world. Besides when the grid collapses, she’ll be looking for the road lined in slaughterhouses and wishing she had “friends in low places”.
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It’s All Over Now
Well, the check’s in the mail…or the portfolio’s in the professor’s hands. I’m sad to see it go because I feel like I put so much of myself in it. I can’t be satisfied because the essay I wrote contained so little of the awesome things that happened at The Hostel in the Forest. Right before I turned in the portfolio, I made an excursion across the school courtyard to Clayton State’s Loch Shop to buy a manila envelope to put it all in. I guess my anxiety really showed in my face because the girl behind the counter asked me if I was OK—I wasn’t. My baby was leaving the nest.
I suppose it’s all really for the best, because now I can start writing about a new adventure I could revise and revise and revise the other essay, but I have to let it go for peace of mind. I usually feel relief when I turn something in, but that wasn’t the case today. I feel like I left something out, but there’s no changing it now.
The next post is the final copy of my travel essay as included in my portfolio. I hope everyone enjoys it and considers a weekend as a hippie. The hostel is a really cool place, and it’s not easily forgotten.
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Wisps of a Dream
Now that it’s been many weeks since my adventure at The Hostel in the Forest, it almost feels like I’m trying to hang on to the last lingering wisps of a fantastic dream. Much to the chagrin of my well-intended and concerned friends, I haven’t forgotten about my dream of communal living off the grid. My memories have served me well, and I can’t wait to get back. My soul really needs it—the fresh air and the free time. There’s nothing like the rush of P.L.U.R. (peace, love, unity, and respect) whether it’s on the dance floor or in the woods.I can really understand why communes make people go back to their regular lives for a period of time before they move in for good, because I don’t think I’d ever want to go back home unless I had to. The hostel even has a sort of built in send-off method. Managers can only stay for up to six months at a time. This policy eliminates lifers who hang around leaching from the hostel forever. Everyone who works there has a job to do. Some people are artists, cooks, carpenters, and more. They help out, and then they move on. Where is there to go from there, though? Everywhere is just a let-down after being in heaven! Maybe Ashville, North Carolina…I need to check this place out next.
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A Couple Things to Say
I’ll be the first to admit it—it’s hard to stay interested in writing a blog post about an essay that I’ve already written. I wish I could talk about all the cool and colorful people I met at The Hostel in the Forest, but I really just feel like it’s a violation of their privacy. For lack of anything else to say, I’ll talk about the things I wish I had taken with me.
The main thing I wish I had taken is more blankets. Now I know that’s not really helpful to anyone planning to visit the hostel in the warm months. It’s not really helpful to anyone who’s not a germaphobe either, since the hostel has plenty of blankets for guest use. I’m just the weirdo who takes sheets, blankets, and (sometimes) towels everywhere she goes, so never mind me. I would have liked to cuddle up in some cozy blankets in that tree house. It would have been serious rugged luxury!
I also wished I had my beads and crystals or art supplies with me during my weekend at the hostel. I was inspired the whole weekend, and there’s really no better atmosphere to be creative in. I was lucky enough to find a discarded piece of copper wire on the ground, and I attached it to some helicopter seed pods and a feather. I left it hanging over the window in the Bamboo Hut…it might still be there. All I know is that I couldn’t have gone home without leaving a little piece of myself behind in that place. No matter, I’ll go back soon—with hella blankets and craft supplies!
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I’ve Got Work To Do
I honestly can’t believe I managed to put off writing this blog post for so long. I feel kind of like my trip to The Hostel in the Forest was soooooo long ago—I’m on to my next adventure already. It’s hard to look back. But, alas, there is still work to be done on this project!
I may have already written the travel essay, but I’m more interested than ever in gathering interesting tidbits. During the peer review, I realized that my paper is actually shorter than my classmates’. I thought it was supposed to be seven pages max, double-spaced. As it turns it out, everyone else’s essays are seven pages and single-spaced, so I have a little leeway to add things that were suggested during the review.
More important than that, there are a ton of pictures I want to show off from the trip! The ones I posted in the last collage were only of the Bamboo Hut, and you haven’t even seen the coolest stuff yet. My paper’s a little devoid of physical description. I wish the assignment included a photo collage. I get bored by long descriptions about what the surroundings look like in an essay, because I read it more for the story about the people. I figure a showcase of pictures might satiate those who still hunger to know what the place actually looked like and fulfill my desire to share the best parts of the ambiance.
In the next post, I’ll talk more about the changes I’m making in my paper and the research I’m doing in retrospect.
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Another pic from the road…
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Another view from the road…
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At CSU
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Welcome to The Bamboo Hut (the best hut in the forest)!
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[Flash 10 is required to watch video]
The Chicken Channel…the best thing on!
Take note of all the “bock-bock-bagocking” that can be heard in the background. It’s the sound of hens laying eggs and, along with the rooster crowing, served as the morning wake-up call each day.
The new poster child for American patrifeminarchy chases happiness with reckless abandon.
