Pony Polemics
Nazi Mah and Colin Walkden, Mah’s London-born boyfriend, are the kind of couple you might expect to see at the Sunday Farmers’ Market in south Santa Monica. They live on raw food, quote Jello Biafra and drive a car plastered with lefty slogans. The Sunday market has been their shopping ritual for years.
Tawni Angel, 24, is also a regular at the Sunday market. Since 2001, she’s brought in six to eight miniature Shetland horses from her ranch in Moorpark and gives pony rides to the many kids who inevitably get restless tagging along while their parents look at fruits and vegetables.
For a long time, Mah and Walkden took no notice of Angel and her Tawni’s Ponies concession; like the cooked-food vendors, musicians and usual petition gatherers, the ponies were just part of the market’s festival atmosphere.
But last fall, the two started watching the ponies, animals they consider to be “our brothers and sisters,” not servants to man. In an era of spectator malaise, when so many shrug and accept stolen elections and illegal wars while consuming organic tangelos, Mah and Walkden like to think of themselves as the kind of people who fight for their convictions. By November, they decided to fight for the ponies.
They made signs, wrote up petitions and began distributing leaflets every week to the customers of Tawni’s Ponies. Over the last five months, they’ve collected close to 1,000 signatures, which they plan to thrust upon the Santa Monica City Council. But one of their key tactics has been to taunt Tawni Angel.
“Slave owner!” shouted Mah one drizzly February morning as her eyes narrowed on Angel. Even in her baseball cap topped with a stuffed toy horse, Mah, 32, looked fierce.
Other protesters, who along with Mah descended on the market holding signs decrying the evils of pony servitude, chanted and gesticulated toward the parents around the corral, incensed that a miniature horse breed should be shackled for the entertainment of their giddy preschoolers.
“That one’s pregnant!” screamed Walkden.
Angel, used to all kinds of accusations from the protesters, rolled her eyes. “He’s a male,” she said. The parents laughed.
Walkden admits their cause seems frivolous, but says, “Early life lessons lay the foundation for how we live. If there’s any chance for us to live in harmony with our fellow beings, it has to begin with the children, and if one of their first experiences is riding a pony, then they will always remember that animals are here for our use.”
The irony is that Angel considers herself an animal lover too. She originally rented her ranch so she could live and work among horses. What’s more, she says that her ponies work just six hours a week. The rest of the time they roam free on 10 acres. Recently, hurt by the protesters’ accusations, Angel created an informational poster to educate customers about her facility and how she treats her animals.
But Mah and Walkden are unmoved, and some weeks the protests get particularly tense. One Sunday, dozens of protesters shouted, “Shame on you, JJ!” at a mounted, bewildered preschooler, and there have been accusations of assault on both sides. Walkden was even jailed overnight in early January for protesting the market. He insists he won’t stop until the ponies are free.
Last Sunday was calm, with gorgeous weather and a packed market. Mah and Walkden marched alone, gathering signatures and distributing leaflets. One warned of the E. coli risk inherent in pony poop.
Angel said that the claim smacks of desperation: “They’re just plagiarizing the news.”
Although the two sides have grown grudgingly accustomed to one another, Angel is weary, and the protests have affected her business. “Look. There’s no line,” she said, pointing toward the corral. “For the last four years, it was 45 minutes long.” Angel estimates that she loses $600 a week because of the protests but does not plan on quitting. “There are kids who come to see and ride their favorite ponies, and I won’t disappoint them.” With a deep breath she nodded toward her adversaries and said defiantly, “They’ll give up or cross the line and eventually get arrested or banned. I’m not going anywhere.”
—Adam Skolnick
Foot Fetish
After Guruji counts us through a hyper-accelerated version of the primary ashtanga series, a gaggle of eager students rushes to bow at his feet. A rosy-cheeked, San Francisco–based devotee skips toward me with butterflies and hummingbirds dancing above her head. She sings about Guruji’s shakti and the bliss of total thoughtlessness. I smile while wishing her and her oozing happiness away.
I expected an electrifying transmission of shakti from Guruji — an eruption of metaphysical bells and whistles — that would render me instantly enlightened. Instead, I feel heavy and stiff.
My friend Sam sidles up, looking bored and pouty.
“Are you gonna do the foot thing?”
For obvious reasons (it’s weird; it’s gross), some Western students struggle with “the foot thing,” an ancient tradition wherein the student wipes the ignorance of maya from his or her eyes with the dust from the guru’s feet.
Indeed, I do line up for “the foot thing.” Sweaty, savasana-high yogis wait to bow at the guru’s calloused feet. With an aura of divine reverence and a billion-watt smile, Guruji sits perched on the edge of a banquet chair, receiving foot caresses and eager hugs.
It’s my turn. I bow at Guruji’s feet and offer him the brownies I baked, thinking them a fair trade for eternal liberation. I look deep into his eyes for some sign of recognition.
He has no idea who I am.
Day 2: Guruji shuffles around the banquet hall bending the time-space continuum while counting us through an excruciating lotus-bound balancing pose: “. . . seven . . . eeeeee-eight . . . four . . . ” I receive neither adjustments nor glance and slip out early, having a deadline — with its attendant paycheck — to make. I could feel guilty about not paying my respects, but Guruji reveres money almost as much as he reveres ashtanga yoga, if not more. He’ll understand.
Instant Karma — I come down with an acute case of writer’s block and blow my deadline.
Day 3: As partial penance, I take a different tack. I approach the mat with genuine reverence and appreciation for Guruji and this practice he has worked his entire life to master and to share. I inhale Guruji’s wisdom and I exhale my deepest and most heartfelt thanks. It does little to loosen my hamstrings, but helps block out the mind chatter.
Afterward, I shoot the shit with Katie, a hometown yoga friend. We tease a fellow student who had been on the receiving end of one of Guruji’s few and far-between, highly coveted adjustments.
“Did you feel his shakti?”
“No, but I saw the light of a thousand suns in the face of his gold watch.”
Katie and I rationalize being ignored by the Guru.
“Guruji only adjusts you if you’re doing it wrong.”
“No, he only adjusts you if your ego is desperate and crying out for the attention.”
But, my ego was crying out for attention. My every vinyasa, inhale and forward-bend screamed “Guruji! Over here! Remember me!?! Come touch me with your shakti-infused hands and save me from the dull, boring, material horror of this sleepy and illusory realm! Goo-roo-geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!”
I guess my ego wasn’t whining loud enough.
Day 4: Not only are gravity and I at odds, rendering my practice unsteady and spastic, but the flatulent woman to my left is in grave need of a colonic. My mind wanders. Why is he counting so fast? When was the last time the hotel shampooed the carpet? I decide mid-standing poses that I hate yoga. I give up and go through the motions. When it’s over, I leap to the front of the foot-lick line just to avoid conversation.
Day 5: I lay out my mat with resigned indifference. I surrender to the likelihood of a shitty practice. I no longer care whether Guruji notices me. I am over the pageantry and the tour and the Roosevelt hotel and these 6 a.m. sessions.
I drag Sam with me to the foot queue. We crack wise and watch teary-eyed students exchange goodbyes and wonder whether we’ve missed something. My turn is up. I bow down at Guruji’s feet. He looks me in the eye. His energy is overwhelming and sweet. He is completely present and I wonder: Does he see something in me? Does he remember me? Does he know what I’m thinking and how much I practice and how hard I try and how I sometimes skip Sundays and setubandhasanaand that I don’t always do the belly swishy thing before practice, but that I love him and I love this practice — even when I’m bratty and small and it kicks my ass the way it’s done all week?
I hug him and I hold him tight and for some reason, I don’t want to let go.
—Dani Katz
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