All the Roadrunning

Here is a photo of the view from the balcony of my room.  It is the location where I write, where I study my Hindi, where I chase monkeys away from my carrot cake.  For some reason up here in the mountains, the body craves sweets all the time.  At home I might have some ice cream or a piece of chocolate every now and then, but here I eat brownies and apple tarts in the afternoon, milkshakes with dinner and my carrot cake at night.   

After a much needed weekend break, I resumed my Hindi classes again today, finding that the two days of rest allowed the prior week´s intense overload of information to finally settle into my brain.  I can speak a little now, without having to take five seconds to recall every single word of a sentence.  My interactions throughout the day are quite smooth and somewhat natural now, as long as the person I am speaking to does not start speaking back.  I have four more classes left, by which time I should  have a decent base to build upon when I leave to go hopping around the northern plains for a couple of weeks.     

Friday night I will once again be on the overnight sleeper bus, this time on my way down the mountains and back to Delhi to have my dental work finished and pick up my friend who is coming to visit for a month.  I plan to stay in Delhi for only a few days if all goes well, especially since today´s temperature there was 116 degrees!   

I already bought the 650 rupee bus ticket, wanting to ensure that I would have a sleeper compartment reserved.  I simply could not repeat the suffering endured on my bus trip here, when the 14 hour journey was passed in a narrow, non-reclining seat, next to a family of four sprawled out on the bus floor next to me, using my lap as a pillow, my feet as a toy and my window to vomit out of.  No thank you. 

This second photo is from my weekend outing to the ´swimming pool´ in the nearby village of Bhagsu.  I spent an afternoon there with some Tibetans and foreigners, drinking chai, listening to some local Tibetan folk music and taking a quick dip in the absolutely frigid mountain waters.  Notice the Calvin Kl ‘A’ in underwear.  It was almost as precious as the dozens of Indian males flapping their arms around in fear of drowning while wearing miniature (and consequently very tight around their bulging bellies) inflatable tubes around their waists.   

I must return to my balcony now to continue studying.  I actually have to make a pit stop first at the Registration Office to find out if the Dalai Lama, who just arrived home two days ago from overseas, will be giving a public audience at some point this week.  And of course I will have to make another detour to my favorite bakery, leaving me about twenty minutes to do my homework, which involves mastering how to read and write 54 letters and vowels in the Hindi script!

350 words, three tenses, post positions (not prepositions here),  imperatives, possessives, verbs, irregular verbs, singular plurals, pronunciation and writing of the Devanagari script – all in my first four Hindi lessons by Sunil.

Each class is only one and a half hours – with half the time spent learning something new and the other half with me eeking out barely comprehensible sentences at a pace of one word per minute.  Intense indeed.  My brain twitches and overheats often, my muscles tense and my eyes itch from extreme concentration – but, I am progressing, somewhat.   “I sometimes watch Hindi films in India” is becoming natural – “Main kabhi kabhi hindi filmen dekhta hun.”  It is the “Your older sister is not cooking food now because she is washing her expensive clothes in the room outside of the house behind the lake” where I begin to have some difficulties. 

The classroom is a tiny concrete room in a small, crumbling yellow building on the side of a hill.  From the one window I can stare down across the massive valley below all the way to Dharamsala, the scenery dotted with colorful Tibetan houses and prayer flags.  It would be an inspiring place to learn, if I could only take a second every now and then to glance out at this magnificent view.  Unfortunately, even a millisecond of not focusing on Sunil’s small whiteboard results in a serious interruption of the flow.  As time presses on and my brain starts to reach its absolute limit of information intake, my entire body relaxes in one great wave of calm when I finally hear the words, “Bahut accha, Derek.  Kal milenge.” – “Very good Derek, see you tomorrow.” 

I am then forced to spend several hours decompressing completely, usually by roaming aimlessly around the village and its surroundings with the awareness of a cucumber. 

When my brain begins to function yet again, I stroll along the scenic and peaceful mountainside path that loops around the Dalai Lama’s temple.  It ends at the entrance to the temple where I join the daily candlelight vigils taking place each evening.  Hundreds of local Tibetans and foreigners take an hour to listen to the chants of the monks and offer their prayers of peace for the people inside of Tibet and for all living beings around the world.   Twenty-five monks, ranging in age from 12 to 70, on an indefinite hunger strike in order to draw attention to the Tibetan cause, chant quietly in the background. 

Upon its conclusion, I follow the procession along the mile-long route back into the village.  It is now time for me to go to my favorite Indian restaurant, eat some korma, dal and rice and practice my Hindi. 

As I try my best to order a cup of tea (“Ek chai dijiega”) and ask the ten-year old waiter if he plays the guitar (“Kya ap guitar bajate hain?”), Air Supply’s “Making Love Out of Nothing At All” suddenly blasts out from the restaurant’s speakers and I find myself humming to the tune instead, my overworked brain trying desperately to cling to something familiar.    

Apka din accha ha (Have a nice day!) 

I had my first Hindi class yesterday, here in the mountain village of McLeod Ganj.  Within thirty minutes my ‘teacher’ was rattling off questions in full speed, difficult questions such as “Is your house dirty?” or “Is this your sick dog?”, expecting immediate answers.  I was sweating profusely in his tiny concrete classroom, much more the result of the pressure than the heat inside.  I filled up 21 pages of a notebook in only 1 hour and 15 minutes!  My second class is today at 2pm, I signed up for a week, quite a silly thing to do, I now realize, before even sitting through the first class.  But at this rate, I should be completely fluent by Thursday afternoon.

I was feeling a little under the weather the past couple of days, a result of the root canal healing I assume.  But today I feel healthy again and am ready to resume eating large amounts of Tibetan bread, momos (Tibetan vegetable dumplings) and tasty noodle soups.  It is an intriguing time to be up here.  Apart from there being only an average amount of tourists, the beautiful weather and the snow-capped mountains towering above, the atmosphere is energized like I have never seen before in this village.  This is due to the current worldwide surge for the Tibetan cause.

This is where the Dalai Lama lives, where the Tibetan government-in-exile is located and where thousands of Tibetans have settled.  As a result, it is the focal point of the cause.  Posters with actual photographs of torn apart Tibetan bodies and other heinous crimes taking place by the Chinese in Tibet hang all over the village, petitions are circulated,  lectures are plentiful, conversations with locals are deep and troubling.  Tibetan monks are eager to find foreigners to share their stories with, many being ex-political prisoners and many having escaped through the Himalayas to reach India. 

Yet the villagers here are still smiling, albeit with hints of pain in thier faces.  Tibetans must be the saddest happiest people on the planet.  Their religion and culture cultivates pure happiness, yet the destruction of their homeland has led to inevitable sadness.  

On that note, it is time to go for a hike through the pine forests of the mountainside, dotted with Buddhist temples and stupas, home to monkeys and waterfalls, and offering a most ideal location to seek some clarity.   

At noon yesterday, I spooned up the last bits of my beans and rice and chugged down a mango shake from my favorite roadside food vendor before heading over to Janpath to join the Tibetan mock torch relay. The Olympic torch was scheduled for its run through Delhi and as a result India´s large Tibetan community had planned a parallel protest.

Despite the 100+ degree temperatures, some 3000 Tibetans, Indians and foreigners marched along the roads, the massive crowd centered around a mock Olympic torch. Tibetan flags of all sizes waved above the heads as passionate anti-China and Free Tibet slogans were shouted in unison. Pro-Tibet t-shirts, face paint, posters and banners created a powerful sense of unity and urgency for their genuine cause. The procession was definitely peaceful but it certainly did not lack in intensity, strong enough to undoubtedly leave most participants and observers inspired and sympathetic.

Several hundred stick-wielding Indian police accompanied this march, although most seemed to be curious onlookers rather than officers of the law. When the procession finished at a cordoned off section of road just south of Jantar Mantar, the crowds swelled even more to listen to the endless series of speeches, given by a range of activists from Tibetan monks to Hindus to Sikhs.

The sense of community encompassed even the strangers and foreigners who were made to feel at ease and most welcome by the hospitable and often chatty Tibetans. The Tibetan greeting of ´Tashi Delek’ passed among the crowds along with flyers depicting the current human rights abuses taking place within Tibet. Older Tibetans in traditional dress wept and prayed, while the youth, sporting afros and wearing designer jeans, shouted with passionate anger. Others sat quietly, prayer beads in hand, pleading softly for justice and compassion.

This impressive display of solidarity and the clear message of struggle was covered extensively by dozens of media organizations, highlighted by interviews in Tibetan, Hindi and English of face-painted youth, saffron-robed monks and Indian activists.

By 4pm, as the event began to slow and with many Tibetans making their way to the path of the actual torch relay, I decided to return to my hotel. As I walked through Connaught Place towards the main bazaar of Paharganj, thinking of ways to get out of the heat, out of the polluted air, out of the routine of 6 hour daytime naps, it was no coincidence when my next destination became so clear. I am now off to the north, to the mountain village of McLeod Ganj, home to the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile.

A combination of the toasty nighttime air (to which even the mighty fan in my room has ceded defeat) and my daytime naps (due to my body´s inability to function for very long in the absolute searing temperatures) has resulted in three sleepless nights so far.   

Some might suggest that I seek out another location, after all, India is a massive country, home to an entire region of cooler mountains.  Unfortunately I am not yet able to leave this city, a restriction placed on me not by any parole officer, but by Dr. Kathuria, the dentist I visited yesterday.   

Here´s the story:Upon arrival at Dr Kathuria´s clinic, whom I had found on the internet, the receptionist was at first adamant that I must be Akash, a man who had a 9:30am appointment.  When I informed her that I was in fact Derek, with a 10:00am appointment, she looked at me as if I were playing a practical joke, repeating several times in disbelief, ¨So you are definitely not Akash?¨  

Apart from the usual peeling paint, empty electrical sockets and crumbing plaster that is to be expected inside of any building in India, the cleanliness, state-of-the-art equipment and procession of other foreigners coming in and out, did give the impression that these people knew what they were doing.  Flipping through the binder full of positive ´report cards’ on the coffee table, I most certainly felt in good hands, as long as they didn´t perform the tooth extraction that poor Akash required. 

Was it odd that a young girl came around the waiting room offering cups of the sweetest chai in the city to those about to be examined for cavities?  Certainly.  But even the dentist must maintain that standard India gesture of hospitality in order to succeed.   

My appointment was mainly for a simple replacement crown.  But this is India and nothing goes according to plan of course.  Therefore, after a quick round of x-rays and a confusing lesson on tooth decay and nerve infection, I unsurprisingly found my face shot up with two vials worth of novocaine and in the midst of a root canal.  The doctor´s logic seemed sound, and besides, it only cost another $50 bucks!   

The doctor drilled away, removing the nerve bit by bit while a swarm of teenage male ´dental hygienists´dressed in navy blue wool lab coats assisted, each responsible for a different aspect.  One boy held the light, one sucked the saliva from my mouth (with a suction instrument!), one pushed the ‘execute’ button on the x-ray machine.  One boy had been given the duty of handing me a napkin at the start of the procedure and then replacing it every few minutes.  I never actually used the napkin and in fact, had no idea what it was for.  But nevertheless, this boy stood by my side, keeping the napkin in my hand fresh throughout my appointment.  

So, the early stages of my stay in India have now been dictated by my required dental work. Two more appointments later in the week to finish the root canal and then a final visit early next week to finish the crown.  But due to my extended stay in Delhi, I will be changing hotels this morning after discovering a massive room with an air cooler at a hotel down the alley.  It is an absolute steal at 300 rupees ($7.50 USD) and will hopefully allow me to enjoy some much needed sleep.   

Well, the cows have begun to moo outside my window and the banana vendors have started screaming.  Although I will never understand why they need to scream so loud at 5:00 in the morning, instead of waiting until a more reasonable hour, I can´t really complain since there is no sleep for them to wake me from this time.     

After a 10-hour midday nap, I have finally ventured into the Delhi streets this evening. Only seconds upon stepping out of the hotel, I found myself in the midst of a massive procession taking place through the narrow market streets. There were out of tune brass bands, costumed men on horses and dozens of brightly illuminated floats driven my tractors in front with small boys pushing the generators behind. It was a celebration of Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god. As a result, there were dozens of ‘Hanumans’ dancing on the floats in wild monkey-like movements, pausing every now and then to hand advertising flyers for a local dentist to the crowds gathering around. The three policemen at the front of the parade, whose duty was to ensure the roads were clear ahead, were quite busy purchasing underwear and electronic items from roadside vendors instead.

In the thirty minutes I spent observing this celebration, I am happy to report that my feet were only spat on twice (although one was of the thick red betel nut concoction type), rolled over by only one bicycle wheel and only stepped in one small collection of fresh cow feces. That is definitely a successful night out on the town!

But my true re-introduction to India this time occurred on the flight from Paris to Delhi, where I met Vikas Kumar.

Before I had even fully sat down in my seat on the airplane, Mr Kumar introduced himself. A small, bubbly man in his mid-twenties, with the requisite thin moustache, dark jeans and navy blazer associated with the growing middle class of young entrepreneurs, he immediately asked me for my good name. Within seconds of our introduction, I was treated to a moment of that typically backwards, yet infinitely lovable, Indian way of conducting human interactions. Vikas handed me his business card, along with some sincere words: “This is my mobile number, you call me anytime if you need anything at all during your stay. Call me next Sunday, we spend the day together, you can meet my wife and friends.” I had not even had time to buckle my seat belt, read the list of in-flight movies or even learn a single thing about this man. More amazingly, since he was the one offering his friendship, he had not even learned a single thing about me.

I loved it! It was the final confirmation I needed that yes indeed I was on my way back to India! What an honorable and beautiful natural instinct – to assume that all people are worthy of friendship upon introduction. “Let me first offer my friendship, my home, my service. Later I will get to know you.”

And now I say goodnight from this fine city. Regardless of the black exhaust that fills each breath, the migraine-inducing honking of horns, the garbage burning in the middle of the street, the constant smell of urine mixing with the scent of freshly baked sweets…there is no place like it, and I believe that the appeal of that fact alone draws people like me to this country year after year.

I know this is a long post, but I had to start with some closure before I begin my upcoming journey:

My bedroom no longer sways in the night and I no longer work to the melodies of a three-piece Latvian orchestra in the background. Oddly enough, I now seem to wake up each morning in the same location where I fell asleep the night before. Nobody is cleaning my room every day, washing my windows (which have now transformed from round to square shaped), dictating what clothes I need to wear. If I am going to be late for something, I no longer have to make an announcement throughout the entire community where I live, informing thousands of people to expect some delays in my arrival.

‘Ship life’ is the term used by all the thousands of cruise ship crewmembers worldwide to describe the unique lifestyle that defines the entire essence of our existence. Whether working onboard a 150,000 ton, 3000 passenger ocean liner or a 500 passenger ultra-luxury ship, ‘ship life’ involves the rules, both written and unwritten, the interactions of several hundred crewmembers representing over fifty nationalities, the late nights in the crew bar, the fish head soup, the fake smiles and ‘good afternoon madams’, the cabin inspections, the obnoxious guests, the ‘Chinese laundry’, the security screenings, the consistently failing relationships. Nepalese security guards, Ukrainian dancers, Filipino deck hands, South African hair stylists, Moldovan bartenders – everyone survives in an unfathomable underworld that rules every second of how we live and work.

Ship life is also what I have just left behind. Do I miss it? Of course I do. It is a sense of community that I do not think is possible to experience any where else on this planet. But, just like many of those who live in the real underworlds that exist on land, I had to leave it behind before ‘ship life’ became the ‘only life’ I would know.

I will admit that as a crewmember I was spoiled. I would fall asleep in Barcelona and wake up in Athens, with the process simply repeating itself over and over again while the destinations constantly shifted from St. Lucia to Curacao to Hawaii to Quebec City to Rome to Dubai, Malta, Norway, Kuala Lumpur, Samoa and on and on.

My actual job was that of Tour Manager, responsible for the shore excursions we offered our guests in the various ports of call. I dealt with hundreds of local tour operators all over the world who taught me much and many of whom became my friends. As head of the department that sold their tours, and therefore put money into their pockets, I was constantly treated well, almost too well. Whenever I wanted (or perhaps a friend or someone I needed to impress wanted!) to swim with the dolphins in the Caribbean, ride a helicopter over the active volcano in Hawaii, visit the ruins of Petra or sail to a secluded island in the Mediterranean, I simply asked and instantly received.

In addition, my team and I were treated to gourmet meals, beach parties, private tours and unlimited rental cars, surfboards, resort passes and more, the cost of which was always taken care of by these tour operators. Seldom was it even discussed, it simply was the norm. During the Christmas holiday season we were truly spoiled, much to the envy of the other crewmembers, as we would return to the ship in the afternoon carrying endless bottles of champagne and wine, gift certificates, even iPods and $300 Maui Jim sunglasses.

Some would say that my team of five staff and I had the best positions on the ship. I would not for an instant disagree.

I did earn my salary, having to work extremely hard, seldom less than 10 hours a day and every now and then up to 16 hours, without a day off for the entire six month contract. The pressure bordered on extreme in regards to both exceeding revenue goals and ensuring the thousands of guests on tour remained happy. As a result, in between my paperwork, constant emailing and handling of guest issues, I usually only managed a couple of hours off in each port, a quick stroll or swim, a bike ride or some surfing, simple activities to maintain the last remnants of my sanity.

Crewmembers always joke to each other that the best times off the ship are simply when the ship itself is not in sight. A day spent on a beach with the ship still in view, is pointless, and better spent on ‘metal beach’, the crew sunbathing area on the topmost deck. For those that can get far enough away in order to truly release the day’s frustrations, they undoubtedly enjoy an extremely valuable period of time. But once you re-enter the port gates at the end of your day, and you wipe the sand from between your toes, that first glimpse of the ship forces a dreaded yet necessary alteration in mindset. Back to the routine, back to the ‘ship life.’

As time passed onboard and one six month contract became another six month contract and then another, it began to wear me down. My brain began to numb, I questioned my reasons for being onboard more frequently, I dreamt of going to the movies, having a normal relationship or standing in a bathroom bigger than the toilet it holds. When a new contract commenced, I would be fueled by a fierce motivation to make it my most productive and rewarding contract ever. But once the first two months would pass, this fire always began to wane, as I realized once again that this contract would be just like all the others. I then suffered through the final two months, cursing and vowing that I will never return, counting the days until vacation time, that moment when I can finally send my uniforms back down to the linen keeper for storage.

I always ran down the gangway when vacation arrived, as we all do, away from the impossibly long days and the unhappy guests screaming and demanding refunds for boring tour guides or rainy weather. I yearned to put the lack of social life that drove me to stare at the walls of my bland cabin in a state of comatose boredom, behind me. No more late arrivals to port, no more tasteless food, no more mandatory life boat drills that seemed to always take place on the mornings when I finally had time to go to the beach.

For the first two weeks of vacation I relaxed at home, adjusting to a new world where I had absolutely nothing to do at all. But then, after visiting family and friends, taking a short trip to Mexico or India, I suddenly always found myself less than a week away from my return date to the ship and without having found another job.

At this point, I am quite predictably no longer able to recall the frustrations, the boredom, the angry passengers or the life-draining intensity of my work onboard. I can now only remember the good times, leading me to the inevitable process of convincing myself, ‘The days were not so long, I had plenty of free time. I can handle the screaming passengers, it was not so bad. What a wonderful social life! The wine & cheese nights, the crew parties, the movie nights, the open-deck crew barbeques. Besides, this contract I will go to the gym and go to the crew bar more often and finally write that book I always wanted to write. I will not be bored at all.’

One week later I am walking up the gangway again, under a stupor of self-deceit, shouting my ‘Namastes’ and ‘Ciaos’ and ‘Hola chicas’ to those I recognize.

After this process repeated itself for four years, the notion of sinking deeper and deeper into this extended life at sea, causing me to be ever more distant from my friends and family, grew more intolerable. When viewed realistically, apart from the steady income, this job was leading me nowhere, except to more and more future contracts on a floating world of isolation. The balance of what I enjoyed versus what I missed had begun to change drastically.

Gathering up all of my courage, I recently resigned from my position, following that strong inner urge to head in a new direction.

In one phone call to the head office, I left behind the ‘coneheads’ (crewmember slang for ‘passengers’ – referring to the movie ‘Coneheads’ where the aliens left their brains at home before going on vacation). I left behind the management meetings that discussed such pressing and stimulating topics as the need for special technicians to remove the semen and blood stains from the sheets and the severe shortage of lamb and salmon for the upcoming voyage. I left behind the constant intestinal illness notification emails from the duty nurse, informing me of which crew members had a case of the uncontrollable shits and were now confined to their cabins for twenty-four hours.

Now that six weeks has passed since my resignation, and I remain confident that this was a sound decision, I can admit that I do miss certain aspects. But ship life does not allow you to have one foot at sea and one foot on land; you must definitively choose one or the other. For years I was unable to decide and so ‘ship life’ chose for me, as it does for most of those working onboard.

What I do miss has nothing to do with my position or the tour operators that gave me such a royal treatment wherever I went around the globe. Instead, I long for the underworld that ‘ship life’ represents. For months at a time, hard work and hard fun is intermixed with allegiances and alliances, secret lives and special favors. Nothing would be accomplished without them. The onboard crew mafias operate vital black markets that trade in a wide range of items, from printing services to drycleaning to alcohol to sushi platters to snorkeling expeditions and sex. Constant challenges to power and battles for control keep everyone alert and fighting to maintain their dignity and respect.

In such an environment, the appeal is great; everyone has a chance to be a superstar, to live the life of a gangster. I traveled the world, building bonds on many continents and within the vessel itself, both friendships and enemies alike. In some places and circles I found protection and safety, in others I faced danger and uncertainty. I had the power to make miracles happen and likewise to destroy lives within our confined and unique community. The potential rewards of such a lifestyle are immense – the money, the status, the fantasy – but the risks are numerous and powerful too. It starts out as honest work, but the essence of ‘ship life’ reverberates throughout your being, so effectively igniting that innate instinct to not only look after yourself and your interests but to improve the conditions of your life. Working onboard a cruise ship you can choose to hide in the background or try your hand at ruling the world.

Now when I try to fall asleep each night, the strong winds cause the maple trees outside my window to sway, leaving my room itself completely unaffected by its gusts. Although I no longer wish to float upon the seven seas, I still close my eyes in the hopes of fading into some sort of familiar dream, perhaps one in which the white sands stretch forever, the money flows and the world is my home. Or perhaps a dream in which I simply continue to rule the world.