Tattooed mamas and treks in Bhutan

I had started thinking about getting a tattoo when I was about 17.5.  I was goaded on by my brother George who said that he would gift me a tattoo for my 18th birthday, the date I could go and get a tattoo without parental consent.  My best friend at the time, Jessica, turned 18 a week before I did and wanted to get a tattoo, too.  We made a decision to get one together.

Me, Jessica, and our friend Alissa our senior year in San Francisco.

Jessica, me, and our friend Carlie.  We've known each other for 15 years now.  They seriously look the same as they did when they were 16.  Except that now, all our front lady bits have been altered since having children.

Me on the right and my friend Rachael on the left.  I've known Rach since I was 12 years old.  She decided to get a butterfly similar to mine.

In the 3 or so months since we made that decision, I kept throwing hints at my mom that I was thinking about getting one.  "You better not.  Tattoos are tacky, for low-class people," my mother would say.  I would just roll my eyes at her outdated notions of what was tacky or not (seriously, my mother still thinks that women should wear matching purses and shoes and have their nails buffed, shined, and preferably colored at all times.  Love you, mama.  You have the most beautiful nails.) and her stern disapproval only made me want the tattoo even more. 

The week of my birthday, we were wracking our brains trying to come up with the perfect tattoo.  We were sitting in Jess's room and she pulled out some tissue paper that had come with one of her gifts.  "What about this?"  She pointed to the butterflies printed on the paper.  "I read that butterflies are a sign of friendship, like, in Japan or something."  I loved the idea and was secretly happy that she didn't suggest to get a Nick Carter Backstreet Boys tattoo or something (she was OBSESSED). 

The day of my birthday, my brother George took us to the tattoo parlor and we got matching butterfly tattoos on our lower left back: mine was orange and red and hers was purple and blue.  I'm not sure how Jess feels about hers now, but even though so many people make fun of me for it, I'm proud of the tattoo.  I think it's pretty, albeit a bit faded, and didn't get it because it was de rigeur at the time.  It meant something to me and reminds me primarily of my friendship with Jess and what it was like to be that age at that time.

I have two other tattoos.  I waited 11 years to get the next one, which is etched onto my right ribs and and says "ad vitam aeternam", which means "life eternal" in latin. A few months before I got pregnant, I got another tattoo on my arm: l'amour fou (crazy love in French).  Both of them are super special because they aren't just some fonts that I chose on the computer or in the tattoo shop.  They're actually Billy's handwriting.  Cheesy, right?  I love them.

I'm now contemplating a fourth tattoo: Desmond's name in Dzongkha.  Here's a bit of background: I visited Bhutan on a class study-abroad trip in 2002.  We were slated to go to Pakistan to study the Natural History of the Himalaya, but after 9/11, we were forced to either cancel our trip or change our plans.  We, as a group, talked about traveling to the Andes, Chile, I think, or to China.  I wasn't as excited about either option, but was committed to going and ticking off "trekking through the mountains" off of my bucket list.  However, somehow, our Professor started communicating with the Secretary of State (the equivalent of Colin Powell in Bhutan).  None of us had ever heard of Bhutan, but once Denny started describing it, it captured all of our imaginations: an enclosed theocratic monarchy nestled in the Himalaya, bordered by India, China, and Tibet.  It is a reclusive country, only allowing tourist access for about 2000 tourists a year.  If you're lucky enough to go, you have to travel around the country with one of their government-sanctioned travel agencies and a travel guide.  This is simply because the government want to preserve the unique flavor, culture, and pristine(ness?) of the country.  Its motto is "Gross Domestic Happiness."  It is the most beautiful country I've ever been to and the most exotic.  I completed an 8-day trek to the base camp of one of the tallest mountains in the Himalaya; had a brief, but terrifying, encounter with a yack; learned how to weave a basket; and slept in a tent for the first time in my relatively sheltered life (by the way, this experience is exactly the reason why I don't tend to hike and camp anymore.  Those 8 days were hard: 8-10 hours of hiking and sleeping in freezing temperatures, showering with lukewarm, smoky water...not my general idea of fun.  It was a great experience, but once in a lifetime is enough).

In our kiras and ghos.  All the citizens of Bhutan have to wear the national dress: kira for women and gho for men.

Outside of a Bhutanese school.

Of all the places in the world, in one of the most remote countries, the USA still makes its presence known.  Also, these kids were chewing Betel nut...a stimulant. 

Monks.

Jovial monks.

What I woke up to one morning.

I mean, it doesn't get any more beautiful than this.

Excited to start the trek!

And then it started snowing on the first day of hiking.  Click on the picture to enlarge it so you could see how miserable my face looks.

When we reached the base of Mount Jomolhari.  I definitely was not in a celebrating mood, hence why I'm behind the camera and not smiling in front of it.

 

Bhutan's only traffic light.

This is one of their temples/seats of government in Punakha.

We camped here for a festival.  It was beautiful...

Drunk monks leading me to the store of Arra (their homemade liquor) at the festival.

Carrying cow dung in a homemade basket.

Adding the cow dung to the fields.  Using a real plow or whatever the tool's called (hoe?  Pickax?)

This guy taught me to make my very own basket.  To carry American cow dung, he said.  hahaha! 

Yes, this is what you think it is, folks.  A flying penis.  Painted on the sides of several houses.  It's supposed to offer protection (something about a legend of a guy who came in on a flying tiger and drove away all the witches using his peener as a weapon.)

Over camping.

Anyhow, I asked a local St. Louis Bhutanese man to write out Desmond's name in Dzongkha.  It is this that I will be have put on my back:

This is phonetic for DA-SA-MO-NA.  They don't have the "sm" and "nd" sounds.

I'm so excited and can't wait for the inspiration to come for more tattoos.  Although I don't think I'd ever like ending up with several tattoos covering significant parts of my epidermis, I value the artistry and always find myself appreciating the handiwork, craft, and artistry of SOME tattoos.  I was lucky enough to have lived in Salt Lake City, UT, where tattooed women aren't out of the ordinary (at least not in Salt Lake City proper).  Unlike the Midwest or the Eastern part of the states, Utahans have a lax approach to what is considered "dressed up" and I routinely saw several professors at the University of Utah come to work in hiking gear and some even had tattoos peeking out of their long-sleeve shirts at the wrist. 

I guess St. Louis isn't as used to or as tolerant of tattoos as some other parts of the country.  Especially when it comes to women.  And even more so when it comes to mothers.  I was sitting in my usual seat at the coffee shop waiting for STATA to load on my computer and in walks in this adorable little boy wearing a skater shirt with a bandana tucked into the back of his jeans.  His parents walked in right behind him: his father (I assume) looked like a model out of a J Crew catalog, complete with all of the clothes.  The mother (I assume) had a nice white dress on, long brown hair, glasses, and was wearing ballerina flats.  She also had a full set of sleeves (tattoos that cover the entirety of her arms) and some on her upper chest.  I noticed that I was staring and caught myself.  I smiled to them and looked away.  However, some other people in the coffee shop were openly gawking at what I'm sure was a striking picture to them: why in the world would someone want to do that to themselves?  Why would such a pretty girl ruin her arms like that?  That poor kid, having to deal with a mother that has tattoos like that (seriously overheard a few tables away from me).  I shook my head and put my headphones on.

But it got me to thinking: why do other people assume that because a mother has a few tattoos that she must either be a) weird, b) crazy, c) not a good mother, or d) all of the above?  I could just imagine what other moms must say to their children about so-and-so's mother with the tattoos.  I imagined what Desmond would do or think if other kids would make fun of him for having a mother who had tattoos. I started to rethink having my Dzongkha tattoo.  "I should stop getting them.  No more from now on.  No way am I going to put Desmond through having a 'crazy' mom with tattoos."  But then I read an article on my Google Reader from the blog Offbeat Mama about tattooed mothers and they recommended a book, Mommy Has a Tattoo, that is geared specifically for young children.  I perused the pictures of "offbeat," tattooed mothers and their beautiful, happy kids.  And I realized that what mattered most was that if Desmond saw that I was content and proud of the way that I looked, that he would hopefully pick up on it and be happy and satisfied with the way he looked, no matter what anybody else said. 

So, the tattoo is still a go.