Opportunity Knocks

“In the boundless panorama of the existing and visible universe, whatever shapes appear, whatever sounds vibrate, whatever radiances illuminate, or whatever consciousnesses cognize, all are the play or manifestation of the Tri-Kaya…Impenetrating all, is the All-Pervading Essence of Spirit, which is Mind.  It is uncreated, impersonal, self-existing, immaterial, and indestructible.”  -Lama Kazi Dawa-Samdup

After Bundi, Amme headed to the desert for the camel safaris and I was north bound to the Pakistani border. I had two reasons: first to see the Golden Temple, holy capital and hub of Sikhdom, and second to go to the actual India/Pakistan border and watch the closing of the border which I’d heard was quite a sight. And so it was. I arrived in Amritsa (home to Golden Temple) in the morning after an overnight train on which I actually slept for once. I was put in the same compartment as a family with three hyper-active children, one very small who said nothing but laughed and stared, one chubby little guy who kept insisting I eat his food and share my cookies, and one girl who spoke English just well enough to be at first cute and then aggravating.  Mostly, she just asked about what I was doing as she saw me do it.  Questions to the effect of, “You read your book?”  “You take dinner?”  “You sleep now?”  But asking each many times.  Eventually, she sleeps.

The Golden Temple had a really good vibe.  It’s a giant complex that is buzzing with activity 24 hours a day, and as a pilgrimage site, pretty much everything is based on donation-accomidation AND food.  Not that it’s living the high life, the free bed was basically a plank of wood with a dirty sheet and the food, though delicious was the same every meal of the day.  Still, I really enjoyed the spiritual and welcoming atmosphere of the Sikh community, and the temple was a shining beacon of gold set on a clear bed of water with Punjabi music always floating in the background.  Around the back of the temple was a food stand which smelled delicious.  Assuming it was free food like I’d had for lunch, I stood in line, gave a donation, and got a bowl of wonderful wonderful hot and fresh hallwa, which I ate immediately.  Turns out I was supposed to take it into the temple as an offering.  Oops.

The border closing ceremony was extravagant to the point of hilarity.  There are stands set up on either side, and each are filled with thousands of people who have come to cheer for their home country.  Beforehand, there are people out in front dancing and leading cheers to which the crowd responds “Hindustan!”  After this, there is a shouting match between one guard on each side, basically boiling down to who can yell ‘hey-o’ the longest without taking a breath.  Then, the guards on either side march really proudly up to the gate (I’ll put a video up), Indian and Pakistani, only inches between them, and perform what can only be categorized as a spectacularly choreographed dance around each other as the gates are open and the guards proceed to their flag  pole.  This is followed by the painstakingly slow reigning in of the flags, so no one country’s is ever above the others’. (Did I punctuate that correctly?)

I took a taxi from the temple to the border with an Indian family visiting from Bombay.  We stopped at a small temple on the way out, and a “water park” on the way back.  I was not expecting these excursions, and was perplexed by the excitement garnered on the trip to the water park in particular.  It was literally a park in water…just as if someone took a playground and set it in a pool.  It was also apparently closed, but the family thought it was awesome and made me pose for several pictures with them in front of it.

In the temple, I stayed in a room with a couple of people who were also headed to Dharamsala, so the next day we make for the bus together, picking up more travelers as we go.  Although we arrive at night, Dharamsala has such an exquisite and peaceful ambiance to it, that I believe I might stay the rest of my time in India.  Set in the Himalayas, the village of Mcleodganj is like stepping into Tibet.  With all that’s going on  right now, there are daily marches and vigils and a constant awareness of the injustices in  Tibet proper.  One morning, I went out for breakfast and ended up following a line of monks through the streets.  I didn’t know where they were going, but when I got there, someone told me that the Dali Lama was going to make an impromptu appearance shortly.  I waited a while, and finally a car drove up.  He stepped out and was immediately surrounded by security personnel, but he took a few steps towards the crowd and smiled out at everyone.  I was about 6 feet away from him and of course, OF COURSE, the day I accidentally bump into the Dali Lama is also the only morning I decide that I won’t be out of my room long, I can leave my camera to charge.  But maybe it’s better to experience that sort of thing as fully as you can and not through a lens.  He never said a word.  People were shaking and crying and chanting, and he just stood there smiling and very calm.  I was expecting him to make a speech, but this was arguably more poignant.  Then he went inside.  I will never wash these eyes again.

The rest of my time in Dharamsala was relaxing and full of friendly people and western amenities.  But I couldn’t stay.  I don’t know why.  In fairness to my initial impulse to stay long term, I was there 4 nights, which is more than anywhere else I’ve visited in the last 2 months.  I’d been traveling with a fellow I met in Amritsa, but we both booked tickets onward to other cities, I was headed out to a lake and tall, dark and Spanish was going to Delhi one day before me.  With my last day, I joined a few of the other people I’d met on the bus to Mcleodganj on a hike.  Canadian Eric and Swedes Hanna and Jonathan.  We set off into the unknown, following signs leading us to the “Waterfall Cafe”.  4 hours later, we are clinging to a little used mountain goat path through the mountains, praying to see the occasional white arrow painted on a rock or tree, and there’s a storm a-brewin.  The trek becomes treacherous when it begins to rain, and treacherous and uncomfortable when it begins to sleet.  There is thunder and lightning directly above, but we keep heading upwards hoping to find the cafe, because we know how far civilization is behind us.  I am dressed for summertime and absolutely freezing.  We do finally find the cafe.  It is a hut, covered by a tarp.  The one lone boy operating it serves tea.  We seek what shelter and warmth there is to be had there until the rain stops.  Then, for some reason, we decide it’s a good idea to climb the waterfall up to the glacier.  There is no real path anymore, and we’re basically scaling rocks now.  So here is your image:  me, in sandals and shorts, clinging for dear life onto wet rocks on the side of a Himalayan mountain pass in the snow–across the divide is a herd of mountain goats who travel effortlessly in the same direction as me, baaaahing.  I bah back.

My bus is a 10 hour, overnight, local bus.  When I tell people I travel via local bus, they tend to give me looks of awe/concern.  It’s not that bad.  Sure the private tourist buses are a lot more posh and have beds, but as we know, there is no amount of sleep/comfort to be had in a bed with a strange Russian man.  I’m off to a place called Lake Renuka, a splendid and serene place that I may lay my head for a time and gather my thoughts.  23 hours and no meals later I’m using what’s left of my energy to drag my bag 2km in the dark, hoping there is a room open in Rishikesh.  There are few things worse than spending 23 hours on a bus, but one of those things must certainly be spending 23 hours on 6 busses.  Allow me the breakdown:

Bus #1:  From Dharamsala to a town called Nahan, this is the overnight portion and I spend the evening trying to sleep bent over my knees with a Tibetan man who has fallen asleep on my shoulder.

Bus #2:  From Nahan to Lake Renuka, this is the 2 hour ride on a narrow road in a big bus with an over-confident driver.  Terrifying.

Bus#3:  From Lake Renuka to Nahan, this is the bus I get on when I get to Lake Renuka and find it has completely dried up.  This time I have a more cautious driver and the knowledge that I’d made it one direction in one piece and I actually fall asleep.

Bus#4:  From Nahan to some town that starts with a P, this is the bus where hungry/sleepy Blair becomes aggressive/angry Blair and yells at 3 boys in limited Hindi, “NO!  DO NOT TAKE MY PICTURE!”

Bus #5:  From P-town to Duri Dun, this is the bus that I waited an hour at the station for because they told me it hadn’t arrived yet.  It had arrived and was PACKED by the time I got on it.  I climbed to the roof to secure my big bag (apparently an odd sight) and then got on board the mosh pit at the B.O. concert.  After a while, one man is nice enough to offer me his seat.  It is a seat meant for 3 people, but I sit in it with an Indian couple and their 5 children.  I doubt I would have been able to fit in the seat had I not been hemmed in by a sea of groin.

Bus # 6:  From Deri Dun to Rishikesh, this is the bus where I finally admit I don’t know where I am going and will stop in Rishikesh, I don’t care if I have to sleep on the banks of the Ganges in cow excrement.

When I finally arrive, I find that all the ashrams are a 2 km walk from where the bus drops me, and there are no rickshaws, so I walk in the dark, stub my toe on a small stone, and go down–hard.  A nice Italian guy circles around to ask if I’m ok.  We walk to the living area together and I bombard him with questions like where is he staying or what kind of yoga he’s doing/where.  He seems a mildly frightened, but helpful nonetheless.  At this point, I think I should cool my heels in Rishikesh and do a yoga retreat.  The next day, he introduces me to his yoga instructor who offers a 5 day course.  Perfect.  But for some reason as I’m walking to do my first class that night, I stop halfway up the hill, turn around and walk back.

I guess my main problem was Nepal.  From the beginning it was my plan to spend at least two weeks there in this part of my trip.  But see, there are slated for April 10th now the first democratic elections, and the Maoists in the region aren’t happy and are threatening to derail them with violence if necessary.  Of course this makes me want to go even more.  Of course I want to be there when it happens.  But I am influenced by anonymous parties (ack!) and my sense of daughterly obligation not to lie to my parents.  I spent all yesterday in a toss-up.  I really wanted to go, and didn’t know where to go if I wasn’t headed there, and though it may sound trite to you, I really had something of a crisis which spilled over into bigger questions in my life like why am I so indecisive and maybe that’s the best way to live or maybe I’m psychologically incapable of commitment or impossible to love or why am I doing this anyway and why don’t I get a job and where do I go next and what’s the point of going anywhere after all, well I’m here, aren’t I, so I must attach some amount of importance to it, but what about the underlying reason we do things, can’t I figure it out, aren’t I here to learn, isn’t the mind really the only adventure there is can’t I figure out a cause to stand for already?  And so on and so forth.  I guess the crisis is not yet fully averted.

Needless to say, my trip to the travel agent today was arduous because it is impossible to purchase a ticket if you do not know where you are going.  Lesson.  I waste 1 1/2 hours of his time trying to get him to solve my life’s problems before I finally book an overnight bus to Pushkar.  I wanted to go to Nepal, but I phyched myself out.  I wanted to go to Sikkim, but it’s too far for my bus-laden mind to comprehend right now.  I miss my dog, but all the trains to Goa are booked solid.  So I’ll just go south.

“Was it a credible future? Was it an incredible past? Whatever the answer, it was an immense escape from the actual.” -Henry James, The Alter of the Dead

Hello Friends. Happy Holi. I’ll get to it, don’t worry; you look older when you worry.

Keap and I had a nice pretend life in Goa. Eventually I decided it was highly impractical to cart a puppy around India, and had to leave her with a shelter there. It was terribly hard for me to drop her off. I cried in public. Twice. Before this, I posted a bulletin on an online Goan community board, and then I went to Mumbai immediately to put some distance between me and the situation/unstable emotional territory I’d wandered into. Another bus ride, another early arrival, another opportunity to be cheated out of a bunch of rupees by the rickshaw driver. I checked into the Salvation Army hostel, the first hostel in India I’ve stayed in yet. There, I met a mah fellow American Amme, who I found out was headed in the same direction as me. We decide to head to the train station to get tickets to Udaipur. They’re all sold out, but she gets on the waiting list while I opt for the considerably cheaper bus option.

I would have liked to spend more time in Bombay, maybe be an extra in Bollywood, but my timing was such that I could only stay two days max because I wanted to be in Udaipur for the big Holi celebration. So not too much to speak of in Mumbai except that I received a reply to the puppy posting, which told me the shelter I’d left her at practiced euthanasia because they had so many dogs coming through, up to 30 a day. Obviously, I panicked. I wrote the shelter and told them if it came down to her not getting adopted and having to be put down, I’d come back and take her. I was worried I was already too late. Bad day. I got an email back from the main office in the UK from a guy who promised me he’d call them at first light and see if she was ok.

I had a bus to catch. Amme was getting nervous about being able to board the train, so she came with me to take her chances on getting a bus ticket. We were told it was a 16 hour journey from one source and 27 from another. And we have seats, not a sleeper. It was a wonderful and much less stressful turn of events to ride with a buddy. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it “fun filled”, but it went by pretty quickly and it was really super to laugh with another American. It was a government bus, which meant we were the only westerners aboard and they set us up in the front seats in a kind of glass enclosure. It was a lot like being in the zoo. A bunch of strange looks and mysterious conversation you know is about you and probably something to the effect of, “look honey, they scratch themselves just like we do!”.

In Udaipur, I got another email telling me Keap was not only fine, but “very cute” and will most likely be adopted. If for some reason she is not, they have agreed to hold on to her for me until the end of April. So that’s just great. Amme and I set up at a hostel in Udaipur where we met a guy Gary from London and Jason from CA. It’s really nice to have friends around, but at the same time a strange feeling because I’ve been on my own for so long and only in the last week or two have had constant human contact. I almost feel less like I’m in India, but I don’t so much mind the break.

Then Holi begins. Holi is the India-wide hindu celebration of the beginning of spring. I’ve been looking forward to it since I arrived and planned very carefully exactly where I wanted to be when it happened. I didn’t know too much about it except that it involved throwing bright and various colors all over other people in the streets and is celebrated virtually all over India. Despite my brewing excitement, I was warned a number of times by locals to stay indoors on the big day to avoid certain dangers inherent to big drunken public holidays. But I was not to be deterred, this was what I’d been waiting for. Besides, I wasn’t going out alone, I was traveling in a pack with Amme and 4 guys from the hostel, so I didn’t anticipate anything I couldn’t handle. The night before the paint, there was a big party in the center of town, at the main temple. That day there’d been bundles of hay all over the roads and I’ve never sneezed so much in my life. That night, they set fire to the bundles and bonfires seemed to lurk in turned corners where you least expected them. There was a massive bonfire set up in the middle of town, but not yet ablaze. When we showed up, people were crowded around the hay and a stage upon which were two types of dancers: western and tranny. In India, though it is the norm for grown men to hold hands in public out of friendship, it is not acceptable to be gay…unless you are also a transvestite. Then no one bats an eye. So onstage were two lovely ladies accompanied by a few poor tourists who seemed to be there of their own accord. One of them looked like Gandolf. Hat and beard and everything. Amazing.

Eventually the time came to light the bonfire. There were a lot of people packed into the space, so the cops came around with sticks waving and warned everyone to move back. Then they laid out a perimeter of firecrackers around the hay and down the street. I was standing in the front, about 2 meters from the firecrackers, unafraid. I couldn’t see when they set off the train, but I heard it loud and clear, and this was confirmed by the large amounts of people and mayhem running out of the streets into the center. Of course when the fireworks started getting closer, I panicked like everyone else and tried to push back, back in the crowd, screaming and yipping like a little girl as the explosions nipped my ankles. But this was not enough. Once that danger had passed, I had to go around to see the point where the fireworks met the hay. I should also add that there were further fireworks taped to the hay pile. I had my camera out to take a picture, but the moment I aimed, there was a huge explosion and I jumped back once again. The setting was accidentally on video, so I captured that moment pretty effectively. I should post it in the next few days, with any luck.

Next day, we gather our forces and ammunition, don our white clothing and head out into the streets. All is full of “Happy Holi!”, and color color color. The nice people walk up to you, dip their hand into their paint dust and smudge it nicely on your face, and maybe give you a little hug. The mean people and children throw it in your eyes and up your nose and down your shirt and the really mean ones try to nonchelantly grab you as they hug. Then you yell and a policeman comes with a giant stick and chases and beats the offender. Unfortunately, they beat a few people who weren’t causing trouble as well, but at least I felt like they were looking out for us. Basically, the danger people had warned me about boiled down to the attempts of groping by drunken men to whom women, especially western, are taboo. And while this was very disrespectful and terribly annoying, I never felt myself in any mortal danger, and overall enjoyed myself. By the end of the day, I was absolutely covered in paint. It still stains some parts of my body, and I think it might be a few days to really get it all off.

I was all set to leave Udaipur for my next destination and say a sad goodbye to Amme, but because I’m such a good time, she decided to go where I was going.  Yay!  So we head to a charming little place called Bundi.  My plan was to first visit the biggest fort in Rajastan in a town called Chittor that was on the way.  Our bus from Udaipur arrived early in the morning and the bus to Bundi left later that night, so we had plenty of time to see the fort.

However, as we tried to leave the bus station, we were met by armed police officers who denied us entry to the road.  It was strange, and we couldn’t understand why, but ok, we’ll take another exit.  On the other side of the station, we tried to hail a rickshaw, but the driver informed us that both the road and fort were closed.  We misunderstood him to explain that the closure was a result of a hindu/muslim holiday.  Of course, this makes no sense and does not explain the presence of the entire police force, and we finally find out that in actuality the fort and road are closed due to hindu/muslim fighting that broke out the day before, leaving over 30 shops on fire.  Today, there was a curfew and nothing was open.  And there were no buses out until the evening, so we had some time to kill.  We found one restaurant that was open and set ourselves up there, ordering a ton of food, watching Battlestar Galactica on Amme’s iPod and playing card games on a deck we made ourselves out of index cards.  So there, ill fated fort expedition.  So there.

Bundi is small and covered in pale blue.  It’s a beautiful, quiet little town where the people are friendly and the mattress squishy.  There’s a massive palace and fort complex on the hill overlooking the city, and we took a small part of today climbing  up there to see what we could.  The palace was impressive, but we were mostly concerned with the monkeys, which had virtually overrun the entire complex.  The guidebook warned to bring a stick, but we had no idea what we were in for.  They were everywhere, that house was theirs.  They growled and shook their ears at us.  We threw rocks and hissed at them, but eventually made a run for it.

“She stayed long enough only to miss things, not half long enough to deserve them.”

-Henry James, What Maisie Knew

Ah. All anyone ever needs to unlock their full intuitive potential in this lifetime is a little meditation and a little Henry James. You know, I didn’t write for a while because nothing too exciting was going on, and then I became too busy to write at all and before I knew it, what has it been, two weeks? It’s a good sign, believe me. India is opening her arms to me and it’s a nice warm hug…today…

Kochi held up its end of the bargain in being island-like and relaxing and I held up mine in renting a bicycle and gorging myself on Indian sweets. Aside from being severely overcharged for a load of laundry, my time there was positive. I rode all around the area in which I was staying and then up to an area called Jew Town, where the streets are filled with the smell of spices and incense and the architecture is pure Dutch Colonial goodness. After this comes Hampi, arguably my favorite place in India so far. I’ve never seen anything like it, there are boulders everywhere; mountains old and crumbly, now just piles as far as the eye can see like crumbs under the table where God was eating a giant peanut butter cookie. Throughout the last couple of thousand years, people have used the rocks to chisel temples everywhere. The landscape is practically littered with them-some glorious testaments to man’s ability to work and some of man’s ability to realize “There’s no way I’m going to move another boulder for King fancy pants. No way.” I spent a whopping 3 nights here meandering around, mostly captivated by the natural landscape. I’ve got a question: can someone please explain boulders to me? I know as mountains grow old, they crack and deteriorate, but what is it with these groups of just 2 or 3 giant boulders in the middle of a flat plain? How did they get there? This I do not understand. Look at the pictures to see what I’m talking about, it makes absolutely no sense to me. Aside from rocks, Hampi was green and lush and hosts a river to boot. To cross this river, you have to catch a ferry. To catch this ferry you have to hike up your skirt and go into the river. Go figure. My last day there I decide I’ll check out this “Monkey Temple” everyone keeps taking about. I cycle out there, which is hot enough, but when I arrive I am informed that the temple is on the hill, and only accessible through the 600 step pathway. It is the dead of the afternoon heat, I am wearing a long skirt, there is no shade…ah, why not? The temple was unimpressive and the monkeys were scarce, but the view was incredible, so no regrets there. I bought another overnight bus ticket onward to my next destination. I thought this time would be better because it was a “sleeper bus” with bedesque structures. I get on and all situated in my compartment when two guys–one Indian, one traveler–stick their heads in.

“Just one?” Asks the man who runs the bus.
“Yes”.

“Ok. You take one more, no problem.”

Ehh, the compartments might qualify as the size of a small twin bed. It’s not a huge problem, but I wouldn’t call it no problem at all. I look at the other guy who is to be my “roommate” and this is an awkward moment where I

1) Don’t want to seem rude or to imply that he is in any manner indecent

2) Know we have both been sold the ticket and thus have an equal claim of the seat and

3) Don’t want to say “no” only to have no choice and then have to spend the entire time with a person who knows how little I appreciate their presence.

We just stare. For some reason, they go away, and I intuit the other traveler is sitting with someone else in the bunk below mine. I believe I have won, though I am not cerain how or what. Then the bus conductor comes back. He leans in an lowers his voice and offers me the chance to make him a bribe to get the bunk all to myself. His generous offer is too much and I decline.

“Then you will have other person!” he says

“Fine!” I say, “but it has to be a woman.”

“No woman!” he returns. “Indian people coming! It will be man! Indian man!”

“Are you threatening me with an Indian man?”

It’s a ridiculous idea and I pretend that it doesn’t make any difference to me, but we both know it does, a little. He goes. The other traveler poke his head up again and asks if the guy just asked me for a bribe too. Then he says he’ll sit down there, but if more people do get on the bus, he’ll move up, so I feel a little better. Besides, I imagine the conductor was bluffing. It is obviously a tourist oriented sleeper bus, and I can’t imagine them picking up more people. Buuuuut they do.

Welcome. Welcome to an 8 hour overnight journey with a Russian stranger in a twin sized bed in the bus that never missed a pothole. Welcome to the longest awkward moment of my life.

We’re not going to the same place, so I get off the bus in the morning and bid him adieu. Most of the people on the bus are headed to Goa, but I’m aiming for a place called Gokarna, literally, “cow’s ear”. It’s earlier than the sun, and there are only a few other people now standing on the platform of an abandoned bus stop in the middle of nowhere. There’s a group of Israeli’s traveling together, myself, and two other independents, an Irishman and a Canadian guy with positively the coolest game I’ve ever heard of. He had it on his GPS system/tracker/thingy. Other people who have similar devices can hide treasure all over the world, and anyone with this thing can go and look for it. Mom, Dad: This is what I want for my birthday. The three of us decide to form a merry little band and head down to find a beach and somewhere to sleep. We find it and spend the next three days lounging around the beach, playing guitar, and sipping lassis. All very calming minus the one day we tried to find our way into town over the mountains and ended up missing the track and doing quadruple the distance via climbing up and over jagged rocks and through many thorns. As great as the beach was and as good of a time as I was having, that little voice was nagging me, reminding me my time here is half over, and maybe I’ll find something better even if I keep moving. The boys were more susceptible and stayed behind. I took a tuk tuk and a number of buses and walked down a long dirt road and found myself at a train station in the middle of absolutely nowhere with no train coming for the next 5 hours. I decide to stick it out and wait rather than turn back.

Have I mentioned anything about the Indian dogs? They pretty much run wild around here. They’re everywhere you turn, and not really concerned with humans, but usually in towns because that’s where the food is. They all sort of look the same: thin, bleak-eyed, short haired, kind of mangy looking. It is exceedingly rare here for people to keep pets. Having a dog as a pet is virtually unheard of. I don’t pay them a lot of mind, I just sort of got used to them as I did the cows.

At the train station, I see a puppy. Cute one. Being the ONLY customer at the station, I’ve been bothering the station manager all morning with mundane questions about routes and times and lunch. Still, I think he was at least a little surprised/annoyed when I walked over with a puppy in my arms and asked if I could take it on the train. At the time, I wasn’t all that sure of what I wanted to do with it, just that it had spent the afternoon sleeping on my lap and was small. At least half of me was dedicated to keeping it and bringing it back with me to the US. The other half was allergic. In a spectacularly serendipitous turn of events, another traveler eventually showed up who had also found a dog, but she’d had hers for 3 months and had gone the length of getting it vaccinated and all the paperwork and everything, so she had both supplies and advice. I intended to go to Mumbai that night, but now with the dog in tow, I turned my sights for a region of Goa where the girl gave me the address of the Animal Rescue Center there that could help me and answer my questions. So right now I have a puppy. Her name is Keap and at present she’s asleep in my lap. Last night she slept curled up in my armpit. It was really cute up to the point where she wet the bed and then it was still cute but kinda gross. Again today I took a series of buses, no questions asked. Just hand people the address of the place and they tell me what bus to get on. When the bus lets me off, I am once again in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The bus driver gives me a weird “you’re pretty far from home, aren’t you” look and points me down a dirt road. I walk with my big 20k bag on my back, my smaller 10k on my front, and a little dog in a box. When I finally reach the place, it is closed and isn’t open till monday. A really friendly Swedish girl offers us a ride into town on her scooter, so we’re all set up there for now. Got my own scooter and everything. I made a caller out of some nylon rope I carry around, and I bought a little shoulder bag to carry Keap in, because all the cool kids ride around on motorbikes with dogs in their bags. Monday I’ll have more information and maybe even a decision, but until then I’m pretending I live here and this is my life and my dog. And for now it is.

“However, if we aren’t learning something from a new experience, it’s usually because we aren’t paying attention.”-Tom Robbins, Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas
Ah, Puri. I guess there’s good and bad in everything–I didn’t get on the train because it was full, so I did have to wait another day…but then I was assured a seat…so that was nice. Also, I met some good people in Puri, so ok if I had to extend a little. One evening I was sitting on the beach and a German girl came up to me and asked me to watch her things while she took a dip in the ocean. Then, she took out a sketchbook and said, “and this is you”. I had seen her out of the corner of my eye, but I didn’t realize she was drawing me. We talked a while and then a philosophy teacher I’d met from Singapore, Chau, came and joined us. Chau and I grabbed dinner and spoke for a long time, the most philosophical banter I’ve had on my trip yet, very refreshing. On my way back to my guesthouse that evening, a cycle rickshaw driver came up to me on the street and, laughing maniacally, swatted me with a towel before passing on in to the night. I’m…not really sure what that was about.

My next move was a stopover in Chennai. I’d read there wasn’t much to see or do there, but Biu, a girl on the train who was a student there convinced me to stay overnight. Can’t say it was that exciting, but no harm in looking around. Next morning, I took a bus to Pondicherry. Now here was a place I’d heard was great, so I was expecting a lot. This enthusiasm was quickly dashed upon the hot rocks of the high season–all the guesthouses were full. Drenched in sweat, I carried my home through the streets and finally had to settle on a room that was too expensive, but apparently the last in town. Pondicherry and I were off on a bad foot. I sought in vain a way to plan my next move, but for reasons unknown the train station (which I walked 1-2 km to) wouldn’t sell me a ticket, and the bus station (same distance, other direction) was having technical difficulties. But I’m told the bus to Kochi is rarely full, so I shouldn’t need to reserve. Pooped, I hired an auto rickshaw back to my hotel.

“30 rupees!” the guy tells me.

“No thanks, I walked here for free.”

“No! No! It’s too far, impossible to walk.”

“I’m telling you: I. Just. Did. 20 rupees.”

“No, no. Too far.”

So I go to leave and another man comes up and says quietly, “20 rupees OK.”  I go with him. As we walk to his tuk-tuk, another pulls alongside us and the driver and smiling, yells, “Do not go with him! He is cheating his fellow!”
“Cheating his fellow?” I say, “He agreed to 20 and his fellow wouldn’t. That isn’t cheating, that’s capitalism, baby.” My spirits are suddenly lifted, bringing to full light a certain me-ism that is my inability to really relax in a place unless my exit is absolutely assured.

It should here be noted that I am at present writing this in my notebook (thanks Kerri) in a park, and a bird has just pooped on me.

Onward. Pondicherry has a distinctly French colonial flare to it, which is a welcomed change of pace insofar as that brings with it easily navigable (albeit numerous) streets. I rented a bike for a few hours one day and decided it was not an objectionable way to get around. I was afraid of the lawless, take no prisoners attitude of Indian trafic, but I daresay I fit in well. It gave me a more thorough look at Pondicherry than I would have had otherwise, and finally a better impression of the mid-sized town. Small towns are one thing, peaceful and charmingly personable, and big cities-I love big cities- are vibrant and full of curiosity, but something about a medium sized town, I don’t know, always seems like it’s mocking me.

That said, it’s a nice walk down the promenade with fresh pineapple stands abundant and the wind-thinned waves vaulting themselves onto land and taking you by surprise if you’re not paying attention, standing too close to the rocks. Nearby is a lovely park of the green and clean variety that everyone seems to agree is a nice way to spend the afternoon. Crow excrement aside, I have to concur. In one corner, there’s a slow and heavy wind chime providing a constant undercurrent of melodies as people sit, talk, play, or stare at the curious white girl who refuses to move from her bench even though the sprinklers have come on.

I do manage to catch the bus to Kochi, an overnighter, and it is not a pleasant experience. Initially I was excited because I had two seats to myself, so I thought for sure I would sleep soundly. Turns out, I couldn’t sleep a wink. Another meism, or maybe this is true of people at large, is that it’s easier to get physically comfortable in smaller spaces. Or I guess more specifically, if options are limited.

In fact, I’d like to see a study to that end, maybe, with prison inmates. If the setup is an empty concrete room in both cases, who would fall asleep first: the person in the 15×20 foot room, or the one in the 3×5? And would the person in the bigger room sleep against the wall? These are the questions I keep myself company with. Doesn’t that sound like a good time?

After hours of contorting my body into positions that would put a yoga master to shame, I discover the best way to go is sitting bolt upright with a scarf tied around my eyes like a bandit to keep the light out. When we reach Kochi, I stumble into the light bleary eyed and sleepy like a child in my refusal to bring myself around to full consciousness; I kind of float off the bus and slosh about looking for my sunglasses, batting my hands at the sun. First order of business is to eat followed by bicycle rentary. I got plugged into a homestay by the driver of my rickshaw, and it’s more than I usually shell out for accommodation, but it’s got a homey feel to it and I have full use of a kitchen, so that should help cut costs. Besides that, I’ve spent today napping. Kochi (Conchin) is actually an island only accessible by ferry, so I’m feeling right pleasant and may stay here a few days.

And in other news, my own heart Dominick Mach left for his Peace Corps staging in Morocco yesterday. He’ll be there for two years, and you can keep up with him by following the bouncing blog link here and read all about his travels and how inspiring I am. Furthermore, my other darling daring friend Emily Clyne leaves for her El Salvadorian Peace Corps adventure in 3 days, and she’s got a spiffy website here, complete with travel blog.

 “The phenomena of life may be likened unto a dream, a phantasm, a bubble, a shadow, the glistening dew, or lightning flash, and thus they ought to be contemplated.”

-Buddha, The Immutable Sutra

 Leaving Kolkata was kind of hard.  I ended up going to volunteer for Mother Theresa’s outfit with my roommates.  They’re all going to school to become doctors, so they worked in the medical ward.  I had no idea what to expect.  What I found out was that the medical ward is not so much there to provide treatment in hopes of rehabilitation, but rather the sisters bring in men and women from the streets on the verge of death so that they can treat the ailments and pain, allowing these people to pass on with peace and dignity. 

I worked in the woman’s ward, where the women lived side by side on cots, most unable to move due to mal-nutrition, many also suffering from diseases from Tuberculosis to painful bedsores to Hepatitis to a slew of unidentified bacterial infections and worse.  The volunteers walked around and took care of them, bringing food and water as requested, helping them to the toilet, bathing, and putting lotion on their skin.  We also assisted the nurses in giving medical attention.  For those who could walk, we did a short stretch and “exercise” program to strengthen their muscles.  The patients ranged from despondent to exuberant.  One woman didn’t realize she’d been taken in and every time someone passed, she put out her hand and asked for money and food.  Of course the atmosphere had its encouraging aspects to be found in the untiring efforts and a kind of bleached optimism in the volunteers, some of whom had been working there for years on end.  I wasn’t there long enough to get a real sense of it, but it certainly made an impact.

Aside from this experience, I’d really grown quite attached to my roommates, and it was sad, even difficult to say goodbye.  But as my dad so correctly put it, the important thing is that they were worth missing.  And in traveling and in life, the inevitability of impermanence is well worth remembering and appreciating; and so far as I can tell, provides greater meaning and a richer experience than the things that linger too long then peter out.  In truth, I imagine I’d rather have it this way, so that if I have the occasion to be sad, it’s only because I was at one time so happy.

 The train ride to my next destination was largely uneventful, with the exception of being awoken in the middle of the night to terrifying screams coming from the berth across and down a little from me.  I tried looking over the side, and as much as I could ascertain from the situation was that the poor fellow was having a nightmare.  Someone across from him had woken him up and was talking to him, but he appeared still pretty shaken.  However, it was hard to get a good look because the guy across from me was concerned that I might be scared and kept repeating, “He ok, miss.  You sleep.” to the point that I felt obligated to turn around an commence my slumber.

Now I’m trapped in Puri, a beach town (poor me) on the eastern coast.  It’s not really such a great beach, and I wouldn’t really swim in it as it’s used as public toilet for the locals, but if you can ignore the beach hawkers with real pear necklaces for cheap! it’s nice to sit on the sand close your eyes, hedging your senses to intake ocean and sun in full.

Yesterday I did this for a while, and then went back to get something from my room.  Getting there, I realized that what I really wanted were bangs –a decidedly challenging task with a swiss army knife, something I unfortunately learned only after having begun.  Though they’re mabe a cm shorter than I envisioned, I am overall pleased with the outcome.  I’d been tossing the idea around for a bit, believing it would make me look sassy, possibly european, and also a little like a secret agent.  I had my reasons, ok?

 Currently, in my attempt to leave Puri, I’ve booked a waitlisted ticket South.  All the trains are full.  This leaves a real possibility that tomorrow I will embark on a 24 hour crowded train ride without a bed, so the next entry might contain a story of woe.  Or whoa.

It’s a pretty awesome feeling to just sit under the bodhi tree. It’s unfortunate that the original one was chopped down, but it’s nice to know that what you sit under now is a relative of that original tree, specifically a grandchild. I could probably pass hours there if it weren’t for having to eat and sleep and all that. On my final day in Bodh Gaya, I’m sitting next to a monk from Myanmar who is taking classes at the university there and we get to talking. We spend the rest of the afternoon together visiting various monasteries around and he shows me the giant stone Buddha at the Japanese monastery, which is quite impressive size-wise but notably lacking in character and warmth. But he’s made of stone, the poor guy, I guess he can’t really help it.

The night before at the much appreciated Belgium fritte fest, I met a guy who’d done a Reiki course in Guatamala. The more we talked about it, I decided it was something I wanted to do, and this, right now! was the time to do it. So I called ahead to Kolkata and arranged to study with a private master there for a couple of days. Reiki’s a bit hard to explain, and in a lot of ways it’s probably better not to try, but suffice it to say it’s a form of alternative healing, using the energy all around us. It acquires an “attunement” by a master to get all your chakras whirling in order, and then you are a channel for the energy and can direct it at will. I was attuned to Reiki II, and I think that’s enough for me, I won’t be going after a mastership. Reiki II allows me to practice not only on myself and others hands on, but I can also do distance healing. From what I’ve experienced, it’s some pretty powerful stuff, so I’ve picked up some literature from other philosophies, and I’m looking farther into what I’m dealing with here. Maybe I’ll let you know about it, or maybe I’ll let you know about it.

Having the structure of a “class” was nice not just for normality’s sake, but to get to know the city and feel just a little like I lived here. Surprisingly there’s a subway, which I came to understand after getting terribly lost only once. One fine morning on my way to class, I grabbed some breakfast on the street. When I got to the subway entrance, there were two guards who denied me entry, on account of my still eating. So, I finished, but when I tried to go in, they still wouldn’t let me, apparantly because I had yet to wash my hands. I take out my hand sanitizer and do so before them. I’m still holding on to the paper from breakfast, and am looking for a trashcan (rare), and they advise me to throw it on the ground.

In the Kolkata metro system, you may spit, hack, cough, piss, burp (surprisingly popular here amongst men and the ladies) and litter…but God help you if you don’t wash your hands.

When I got off the train the morning of my arrival from Bodhgaya I went immediately to my teacher’s house, so I had all my bags with me still and nowhere to sleep that night. After class, I took a cab to Sutter St, where all the backpackers in Kolkata live. I’d gotten advice to go to a particular guesthouse, and was headed there through the courtyard (ish) when someone grabbed me from behind. My fist thought was that I was being asked for money or pens or chocolate, but it turned out to be a girl who was staying there, traveling with 2 other girls, all from Spain. They needed a 4th person in their room and wondered if I’d like to join. Why not? It’s a good chance for me to practice my spanish and for them to practice their laughter at my pathetic attempts at spanish, so ok, everyone wins. They’re here volunteering for Mother Theresa’s organization, and I’ll probably go with them tomorrow. As I’ve spent the entire 3 previous days doing Reiki, this leaves really only today to see Kolkata, so what am I doing here?

I arrive in Vanarasi with the sun.  Though I had a guesthouse in mind, my driver insists on one called the Elvis Guesthouse.  It’s too early and I don’t feel like arguing, so I let him take me there.  My first move is to see the Ganges.  Right now, it hasn’t rained in a while, so the river is pretty low, but it’s still something to behold, especially so early in the morning.  I have breakfast on the rooftop of the hotel, where I meet several other travelers and the hotel proprietor, Lala…like the teletubby.  There’s a festival going on which start that weekend, so a group of us arrange to head down to the Main Ghat to see them make a special puja.  Afterward we go out to eat at a place that serves wonderful western food, including real cheese!  The group consists of myself, Lala, an Israeli woman Sharon, two men from Toulouse and another guy from Germany.  The streets of Vanarasi are small and windy, something about them reminds me of Venice, but I can’t put my finger on what it is exactly besides the cozy yet energetic feeling you get walking around.  Everything (like in much of India) is painted in bright pastels and smells like incense, exhaust, street food, and dung. 

 It’s strange to sit at a table where everyone is communicating in English, but you’re the only one to whom it is a native language.  Especially because I don’t talk that much in small groups I don’t know, so my contributions were largely grammatical.  On the way home a kid comes up trying to sell us something.  One of the French guys whisks him up on his shoulders and runs down the street, letting him go to chase him and then pretending to run away with whatever he was selling.  There’s music in the streets due to the festival and the men in the group stop to dance briefly with the children.  All I want is to dance to, but it would attract a lot of unwanted attention, so I refrain.  The next day I run into Sharon at the same restaurant and we talk for a while–she’s been all around India, and practically lives here, so she’s good for advice.

I do a lot of walking.  One of the most sobering things I’ve seen, I imagine in my lifetime, is the burning ghats.  This is where families go to pay their last respects before burning the bodies of loved ones on pyres along the Ganges.  The smell is overwhelming, and the sight and feeling you get from the place is such that it can only be witnessed, any descriptions here would somehow cheapen it.  As I was standing and watching, I started speaking with an Indian boy there about the ritual and accompanying beliefs.  After a while, he invites me to his family’s silk factory.  I don’t intend on buying any sarees until the end of my trip, and I tell him as much, but Varanasi is famous for its silk, so I agree to go with him.  Tourists here get these sort of invitations dozens of times a day, and for the most part I ignore the people and just keep walking, but for whatever reason, I was that day in the mood to go see a silk shop.  When I get there, I’m given tea and meet the man who owns it.  No sooner has he found out I’m from New York than he asks me if I know Manhattan College.  Why yes, quite well.  How strange.  I assume he’s mistaking it for NYU, and just throwing some names out there, but then he tells me he knows a professor there.  “Stephen?” he says, but I don’t understand his accent until he says he’s a professor of Religion, and then I realize I know exactly who he’s talking about, quite well.  The odds of this happening in a country this size, in a city this size, are so small it’s mind boggling.  I promise to come back and buy my sarees from him on my way out of town in April.

Most of my time in Vanarasi is spent walking around and relaxing.  I didn’t stay long because I plan on coming back en route to Nepal.  It’s an amazing place, my favorite I’ve seen so far.  My next stop is Bodh Gaya, where it is said Buddha gained enlightenment.  I already have my guesthouse picked out on recommendation from one of the French guys, who has also sent a note with me to give someone who is a chef there.

 My first day is spent lounging around and fighting off the resurgence of whatever bacteria is eating away at my vital organs.  I do eventually have the wherewithal to eat, and this gives me a chance to go to the temple and bodhi tree where it all went down.  I sit for a while under it with numerous others who’ve come from all over the world, as it is the holiest of Buddhist pilgrimages.  Also just so happens there’s an international chanting conference going on till the 22nd here, so there are monks galore.  Paranoid as it may seem, I found myself worrying that they knew who I was, the girl who f’ed up the radio back in Chang Mai.  Something about the way they looked at me.  Maybe it’s the guilt.

Today as I was walking down the street, I was stopped by two Belgium guys who invite me to a dinner party they’re having (of all places) on the roof of my guest house.  Though I’m no where near my guest house at the time, I know exactly who they are and tell them I’ve got a letter for them from someone I met in Varanasi.  Again, what are the odds?

“The thousand times he had proved it meant nothing. Now he was proving it again. Each time was a new time and he never thought about the past when he was doing it.” -Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

 India is a place that takes some getting used to. I don’t know if it was overcoming the physical aspects of my arrival (cold, sleepy, stomach ache) or the culture shock (a new experience for me) or just my own needing to adjust back into the lifestyle nomadic, but it took me a while to get comfortable here. And I use the term “comfortable” loosely, really it’s more getting used to being uncomfortable most of the time. In a good way. It’s hard to explain. Anyhow, I am feeling much better about things. I made it to Khajuraho, which offers much more than temples. The 7.5 hour bus ride there was rather taxing, but it was perhaps made up for by the brief experience preceding it. I had to take a tuk-tuk to the bus station, and I opted for the cheaper, shared version. I got in one with an elderly couple and we waited for two more people before taking off. Mind you, a tuk-tuk is roughly the size of a golf cart, so not much space, especially after putting my mammoth backback in the back. As we rode, people flagged us down, and we picked them up until we were finally at full capacity at a whopping 13, including two teenage boys who clung to the sides for dear life as we putted heavily down the road. We pass two men and a small cow. They yell. We start to slow. No, I think. No, it is impossible. But it is not. We pull over, they subdue the bovine, put it in the back and sit on top of it, bringing the grand total to my giant house-bag, 15 people, and one surprisingly well mannered cow. It defied all laws of physics and humanity. I am still confused.

 I meet a guy on the bus who owns a guest house in Khajuraho and offers me a price I cannot refuse, so I go with him. He’s a quirky fellow, think: Indian Chris Kattan. But the place is nice enough, and everyone’s friendly, so I stay. I went to the temples, but the best part of walking around there was the quiet. I sat on a bench for the better part of an hour convincing a group of chipmonks it was safe to take trail mix from my hand. I stayed a couple more days there, mostly because there were no trains to where I wanted to go, but also I enjoyed the company at the guest house. The owner’s young cousin took me to his home by motorbike, and I got to meet his family and see the inside of where local people live. He took me to meet “the crazy man’s son, a very naughty boy”.  As promised, I was sitting taking tea with the owners wife, when a two year old marches in, immediately throws a water bottle at my face, then tries to stand on his head, then falls over, and then licks a rock. His poor mother seems largely unperturbed by all this, interfering only when he is in danger of cracking his head open on the dresser from spinning too much. They just laugh and shake their heads and say, “very naughty boy”.

I finally board an overnight train to Varanasi, there is simply no where else to go given the train schedules. When I reach my assigned berth, I find someone already in my bed. I show them my ticket, but they refuse to move. Other people start to get involved, no one’s speaking English, so I’m not sure what’s going on, but there seem to be two sides emerging-with me or against me-though no one seems to be speaking to me specifically, like the whole car is having a heated but theoretical discussion about who’s in the right. I sit down with a man and his family as they try to suss it out. He tells me that the person in my berth has paid a bribe to the railway official, so they won’t move him. I’m not sure where this leaves me, but I’m not too worried because certainly no one on board has forgotten my plight. The big mama of the family I’m sitting with says very little the whole time I’m there, but at one point stands up, says something matter of factly in Hindi, and goes. The man tells me she’s going to ‘fix it’, and I’m reminded of my MeMa who would have done the same thing if she were there. Eventually it works out in my favor, I am moved free of charge to a nicer class of car. There, I am placed amongst a group of former strangers now friends traveling some 40 hours from Mumbai. It is one of their birthdays, and they invite me to the party. They proclaim me the guest of honor, fill me with the best sweets I’ve had here, and demand a speech. Then they request we hold a lengthy discussion on the topic of marriage. It’s a good time, but I get tired and finally go to bed. Now I’m in Varanasi. I was supposed to leave today, but the battery in my alarm clock is apparently running out, so my time was off by 30 minutes and I missed the train. There’s quite a bit to say about Varanasi, so much so I think I’ll call it a day here and devote an entire blog to it later.

And I apologize I never really justified the title of this blog, but it felt like a nice name, and though my stomach is once again up in arms, I am hopefull that this too shall, uh, pass.

Here’s the link for a few of the pictures I’ve been taking. It takes longer to upload them here than it would to kill an elephant with a sewing needle, and it’s almost as painful, so bear with me if I take a while to catch up the photos with where I am location-wise. Also, there’s an album on there called “Travels 2006” that really just consists of 3 videos I took in…you guessed it…2006, at the Thaipusum festival in K. Lumpur. Yes, they’ve been sitting on my camera this whole time. It took me that long.

“Imagine if each day a man must try to kill the moon, he thought. The moon runs away. But imagine if a man each day should have to kill the sun? We were born lucky, he thought.”
-Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

First off, let me just say how amused/perplexed I am by the apparent need of ALL of my friends who chose to comment here to do so in relative anonymity under such magnificent pseudonyms as The Engine, Darth, and Nick Cage. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me that I have the strangest group of friends in the world and for confusing the hell out of everybody else.

Currently, I am holed up in a lovely little town called Orchha, where I’ve been fighting for 3 days now to regain my composure from catching what is here lovingly referred to as “Delhi Belly.” It’s certainly no picnic. But then it wouldn’t be, because picnics involve food, and at this point, the thought of a mere M&M sends waves of nausea rushing over me like the cool ocean mist on the warm tropical beaches of DEATH. I took the liberty of investing in some antibiotics yesterdy which, thank you India, cost a whopping 2USD. Maybe that’s what Alanis was talking about.

But let’s back up. I did before falling ill have the great fortune of visiting Agra and seeing with my own eyes the Taj Mahal. It was a little like meeting a celebrity- someone who you’ve watched, seen pictures of, known private details about their life-to finally meet face to face, I was for lack of a better word, starstruck. It is not just the immensity of it, (which is considerable to the point that it seems a living entity all it’s own) but the real trick is that the impact is in no way lessened by the mystique that surrounds it from what one may have previously heard. The entire time I was in Agra, it remained shrouded in a fog, elusive to the last. And speaking of celebrities, who else was visiting the Taj Mahal at the same breakback early hour as I but DA Alex Cabbot herself, my SVU hero.

I hired a tuk-tuk to escort me around Agra to see some of the lesser known sights as well. I should at this time say that in Delhi I took the liberty of purchasing a few distinctly Indian salwar-kameezes in order to stick out less. It’s not a sari, rather it involves pants, so closer to what I’m used to wearing. I was on this day of sightseeing wearing said garb. When first I stepped into the tuk-tuk, however, I distinctly heard a rip. I quickly assessed the situation and decided that the placement of the tear…crotch…combined with the length of the kameez…sub-crotch…would be undetectable to anyone but myself and thus I struck out to see what I could see. Fastforward to an hour or so later, when I disembark a particularly jarring tuk-tuk ride to find that Swadeshi! the seams have opened down to my knees. It is panic time. As my driver has surely noticed, he suggests we shop. He takes me to a place where the cheapest price I am offered on a skirt is completely exorbitant, and obviously an exploitation of my predicament. Not to be outdone, I use my remaining pride to wrap my over sized shawl around my midsection and tell them no thank you, I’m just fine like this. Mentos, the freshmaker.

From Agra, I take a train to Orchha via Jansai, where I meet another lone lady from Mexico. We grab a shared tuk-tuk together and go barrelling down the road, local music blasting in our ears. There’s a really magnificent looking fort here, as well as an old, old Hindu temple, but I haven’t had the energy to explore either, being mostly confined to my room or the terrace. Though this should be the makings of an incident-free few days, of course it is not. There are mosquitoes in my room. I bought mosquito coils which have proven efficient, but I can help but be concerned that I am fumigating myself with a substance meant to kill things. I use them as little as possible and otherwise depend on the pages of Mr. Keruac to snap out one life at a time, a skill I have honed nearly to perfection. Yesterday, I ventured a shower. I had just turned on the water when I spotted my enemy on the wall above my head. I reached for my killing device, jumped, destroyed him, and was immediately filled with a sense of triumph followed by panic and confusion. It appeared on my way down, I’d nudged the faucet in the wall, about hip-level. And by nudge, I mean knock off completely, unleashing a cold and furious jet of water that reached the other wall of the bathroom. Undoubtedly my attempts to fix it failed, as there was no way to turn the water off, and I needed to see what I was doing-an impossible feat because when I tried to put the nozzle back on, the water mercilessly bombarded my face. Finally I was forced to seek help from the management, who did not have the fortuity of tackling the problem au natural, as I had. Both men who tackled the bathroom emerged sopping wet from head to toe, all in their work clothes. India seems like a nice enough place, but I’m not sure I’m making a lot of friends here.

When I get my strength back, my next move is to head to the temples of Kujaraho, dubbed the Kama Sutra temples. Mama didn’t raise no fool, but she did raise a pervert. I’ll let you know how that goes.