Nomad Girl

Niema Ash

Description

Since childhood Niema Ash craved adventure. This craving launched her on a life journey that embraced Morocco and Tibet, to meeting the Dalai Lama, and to connecting with performers, such as Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen and John Lee Hooker, before they were recognised as legends. Nomad Girl is her account of this remarkable story.Described as 'one of the most interesting people I have ever met' by Chicken Soup for the Soul author, Jack Canfield, Ash looks back to her teenage years when she met her first husband, South African musician, Shimon Ash, on a trip to Israel. Together they set off on a hitch-hiking adventure through East Africa, which was cut short when Niema discovered she was pregnant. Many might have accepted pregnancy as a call to settle down into conventional domesticity. But not Niema Ash.Moving to her home city of Montreal, the couple opened The Finjan - a coffee house and folk and blues music club that came to embody the beating heart of the new, emerging culture of the sixties. Most of the musicians who performed at the Finjan stayed at Niema's home to save on expenses. And it was there, in her kitchen, talking into the wee hours, that she got to know them. "A few became lifelong friends, a few became lovers and a few became famous."

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Nueva York
• Marruecos
• New York City
• Memoir
• Morocco
• New York

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juin 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838596071
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

By the same author
Touching Tibet
Travels with My Daughter
Travels With Loreena McKennitt
Connecting Dors



Copyright © 2020 Niema Ash

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a memoir based on real events. Only two names have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals.


Matador
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ISBN 978 1838596 071

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Shimon Ash
and
Ronit Corry
Contents
Part One
The Finjan
The Party
In the Beginning
The Birth
Motherhood
The Finjan – the Long-Stay Oasis
Opening Night
Phase Two
Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee
The Musicians
Bob Dylan
Cedric Smith and Lucy in the Sky
Casey Anderson
Amora’s Game
Josh White and John Lee Hooker

Part Two
In Search of a New Oasis
Jesse Winchester
The Healing of Leonard Cohen
The Man Who Wouldn’t Talk
Victoria
The Prince
An Oasis without Shelter and without Fruit
The Gnaoua Musicians
Tibet – Oasis of My Dreams
The Sky Burial
Tashi
The Mani Stone
‘The Brothers’ – A Tibetan Tale
Meeting The Dalai Lama
The Bee Gees
Diana Dors and Jason
Addy and the Desert

Acknowledgements

Part One
The Finjan
1
The Party
My phone said 3.15 a.m. Everyone had left and I was putting the finishing touches to the clearing up. I hate waking to a mess – wine stains, sticky plates, soggy napkins. Better to clean up while still in the glow of party mode than in the harsh light of sobriety. Not that I had been drinking much. Actually, I had hardly been drinking at all, but I felt intoxicated – delightfully light-headed from all the laughing.
It had been one of those special nights when laughter just happens and becomes infectious. The party had been in its mellow moments. The wine bottles were almost empty. Only a few carrot and celery sticks remained from the bowls of crudités, the Japanese hot and cold delicacies were no more, the small pots of crème brulee were licked clean and the candles were burning low. We were laying back among the cushions in aftermath content when Irina, who had been sprawled on the living room floor, suddenly stood up, turned off the music and began enacting her latest adventure. With Russian passion enhanced by vignettes of mime, the exuberant fling of waist-length hair and the odd pelvic thrust, she began demonstrating how she had been belly-dancing on a table in Ramsgate’s Belgian Bar, in protest at the substandard belly-dancing being performed on stage. She would show those excuse-for-belly-dancers what belly dancing was all about. But the excuse-for-belly-dancers were in no mood to be upstaged by a belly-dancer fundamentalist, and called the manager. The manager asked her to get off the table. When she refused, he called the police. By now we were hanging on every word.
The police made no pretence at niceties. One of the officers grabbed Irina’s arm, not only pulling her off the table but gruffly escorting her out the door. Irina was scandalized. She was accustomed to only the most respectful, even adoring treatment from the male sex. Struggling to free herself and in a voice riddled with scorn she said, ‘Sure, go ahead, push me around. That’s what guys with small dicks do.’
The police were not amused. And, in the line of duty, had hardened their hearts, if not any other organ, undersized or otherwise, against the effects of chestnut hair with red gold flecks and astonishing sapphire eyes. Irina was handcuffed, bundled into a police van and taken to the nearest jail. There, she was locked into a police cell and handed over to a female officer to be strip-searched.
‘Down to your underwear,’ the officer instructed, handing Irina a prison uniform.
But Irina wasn’t wearing underwear. And no way was she going to put on prison clothes.
She refused to undress. The officer, realizing she was no match for a Russian refusnick called for help. All hell broke loose as two policewomen wrestled Irina to the ground while a third forcibly removed her red gypsy dress and embroidered boots. Irina became a caged tigress. She kicked, she screamed, she cursed, she shouted obscenities. She created such havoc that several male officers rushed to the scene to prevent meltdown. As they burst into the cell, Irina jumped up, stark naked. Flushed with struggle, her hair wild, her eyes blazing, she raised her arms, spread her legs and thrust her hips forward: ‘There, have a good look!’
We were all spellbound. That is, all except Mark, known intimately as Marky-Mark. Marky-Mark had been around the Irina block one time too many. She could no longer do anything that would faze him. His long-time exposure had created immunity. He was buried in his phone, seriously immersed in cyber space – not a laugh, not a giggle. He was deaf to the suspense, to the humour; blind to Irina’s fascinating rendition. Then, suddenly, he interrupted the story, just like that – no apology, no by-your-leave – and in deadpan tones, said: ‘Did anyone know that the female kangaroo has three vaginas and the male has a two-pronged penis to accommodate her?’
That gem of information was so dazzling and the juxtaposition so off the wall that even Irina, who was in the throes of resisting arrest, abandoned her story – police brutality being unable to compete with three vaginas and a two-pronged penis. Comments from left field followed.
Tamar: ‘A two-pronged penis? Does that mean one vagina gets left out?’
Peter: ‘Perhaps there’s a rotation system, a vagina-in-waiting list.’
Claire: ‘I could do with two vaginas, it would give one a bit of recovery time.’
My stomach ached from laughing.
I was on automatic with the washing-up, conjuring up remnants of the hilarious banter, knowing it wouldn’t be that funny next day.
I jumped when I heard the phone ring putting both Irina’s insurgency and the kangaroo’s sexual prowess on hold. It was after 3 am. Who could be calling at that hour?
It was Ronit. My heart sank. She was aware how late it was in England, eight hours ahead of Santa Barbara. I braced myself for the bad news.
‘Don’t worry, Mum, nothing’s wrong.’ She knew my anxieties. ‘I’m so excited, I just had to tell you even if it meant waking you up. You’ll love this.’
‘Tell me what?’ Curiosity replaced anxiety. What could be so important that it couldn’t wait until morning, I wondered.
‘Dad just phoned. There’s a new CD out called Bob Dylan at the Finjan Club. He said it’s the hottest bootleg around.’
‘Bob Dylan at the Finjan Club!’ The words were like gold. I forgot the party. I forgot the clearing up. I even forgot the kangaroos. Ronit knew what information couldn’t wait until morning.
I was too excited to sleep, and before the sun was up I had ordered a copy of the CD. A few days later, before I was fully awake, the doorbell rang. I opened the door just a crack. ‘Delivery!’ I swung the door open, suddenly entirely awake. Although I instantly knew what it was, I turned the package over and over again, inspecting the label, examining the postage, lingering over the return address. I was holding in my hands a small miracle packaged in brown wrapping paper and ink stained tape, the opportunity to relive a treasured experience resurrected from the distant past. I needed time to be ready for it. And there it was. BOB DYLAN FINJAN CLUB, a recording of that night when Dylan had performed at the Finjan. I listened to it over and over, remembering every detail; how Dylan had looked, how he had played, how the audience had disappointed him, and especially remembering what happened after his performance. For the memory of that night was the kind of memory that shines through a lifetime.
Then I read the liner notes. There was something about the Finjan, a little about my former partner Shimon, even a mention of me. However, it was obvious that whoever wrote the notes had never been to the Finjan. And it suddenly occurred to me: I had not only been there, the Finjan was a fundamental part of my coming of age, even part of my DNA. Finjan memories were so indelibly inscribed on my psyche I conjured them up even when I didn’t try. They had no regard for space or time because they lived within me and were as vivid now in London, as they were all those years ago in Montreal. And, after all, I was a writer. Why didn’t I write about the Finjan days, about the musicians, about my experiences with them? And so it was.
2
In the Beginning
It all began in the sixties, ‘the decade that wanted to change the world’ – and it did: a time of exuberant happenings, of overflowing optimism; a time when the dams of convention were beginning to open a