Volvos, Trains, and Automobiles

About half-way through my second night in a row of shivering through my sleep, I awaken in a drowsy fog with the sudden realization: I must go South. I've been in Mcleodganj for about a month, during which time I've seen beautiful, eighty-degree days and incredible thunderstorms that covered the ground in marble-sized hail. This weather will pass, I think assuredly, but for now I'll go somewhere warm.

I can't help but think to myself, as I pack my small bag and prepare to leave, that this trip is the definition of self-indulgence: a wanderlust trip in the middle of the ultimate wanderlust trip? What has India done to me?

For the last few nights I've been sharing my beautiful mountain-view porch with the wandering English teacher, Mark, who took to my bumpkin habit of watching the moon rise over the mountains as if it was the most natural pastime imaginable. In these hours, we shared stories of travel and adventure that made the crave  being on the road, the feeling of moving through space and time by train, plane, and automobile.

So when Mark finally swung his backpack over his shoulder and continued on, I was ready to leave. I looked down at his chair, now empty as though he had been a figment of my imagination, and swung my own bag over my back.

The trip down to Delhi from the mountains is only possible by bus or car, so I stopped at one of these many Adventure/Travel Stores (specializing in mountain climbing, horseback riding, and all of your travel needs), and bought a ticket for the next bus down the mountain. This would be a Volvo Bus, the mountaineer assured me, a deluxe AC bus running from 6pm to 6am. A good night's sleep.

As I wait at the bus stop, a local bus whizzes by, revealing in a flash of white letters the phrase “O God Save Me” with an outline image of Shiva above. Thinking of the hairpin turns, the steep ledges, and the awkward boxiness of the bus, I internally repeat the phrase to myself.

Something's wrong. There's no bus to Delhi anywhere near, and it's about time to go. I run back to the Adventure/Travel store, and the mountaineer takes me down the hill a bit to a parking garage with several buses and two old-fashioned, white SUVs. It seems as though there weren't enough passengers to justify using a bus (just twenty of us), so the company has decided to fill up these two SUVs with the 20 passengers. “O God Save Me.”

There are fringes danging from the ceiling of the car and a dome-light that beams bright blue when its turned on. Somehow, nine people (later, ten) with luggage precariously tied to the top (my small bag sitting securely below my feet) manage to fit into this car. In the front, a hippie French couple (for, as Mark says, there's always a French couple), who smoke like chimneys. In the backseat, I share the small space with three other people: two young Tibetan men who appear to be athletes, and a Tibetan teenage girl, who clandestinely cries upon parting with her friends and family. In the “trunk” space are two more Tibetans: a monk and a large, warrior-like tattooed man, who are later joined by a petite American woman hoping to escape the confines of the too-crowded second car.

We dash through the night, tassels swaying from the ceiling, bodies getting somewhat inured to the extreme squeeze. The driver plays loud (and rather out of date) Hindi music, the volume of which continues to increase through the night as he grows more and more tired. Every two hours or so, he stops for a thirty minute break. We ride huddled like the dozen hamsters piled into the tiny plastic house at the pet store; during these breaks, when the bodies are removed from close proximity I feel oddly cold and alone. But eventually we pile back in and continue on.

Sometime in mid-morning, we arrive in Delhi, a few hours behind schedule from the driver's many breaks. He pulls over at one of those tarp-and-garbage slums and begins to pull the luggage off the roof of the car. Last stop? Only stop? I wonder. It seems so. I groggily step out and hail an auto rick. Train station, please.

The vultures are out. They call to me, grab at me, trying to get me to come with them, although to where I do not know. I stop in a travel agency to find the price of trains, where a greasy man tries to sell me a ticket for approximately eight times the cost. His subordinate, a white-haired man with a limp, follows me as I head off in a huff to the station and through it (although he's a rather easy person to lose). On the sidewalk, I stumble a bit when my legs tell me to give pause: there is a man lying on the ground, completely covered with flies and covered with almost no remaining rags. Is he dead? I wonder, looking around at the others, who don't seem to recognize his existence. Should I do something?

I keep moving so that I can lose Limpy behind me, but when I look back I see the corpse has lifted his head and shoulders, zombie-like, dazed. I don't know whether to be relieved or not.

Foreigner Ticket Bureau, upstairs. I enter a room filled with Western backpackers, bohemian travelers of every type, fill out a form and stand in line, trying to politely ward off an aggressive come-on from a soft-spoken Nigerian while one of the curly-blond bohemians repeatedly flashes us from her tank top (accidentally?).

It becomes very evident that the Indian government is not happy about these free-spirited roamers traveling throughout the country. Quotas have been placed on every train, ensuring that only a very few foreigners can ride while the rest spend their money on more expensive means of transport. After many rejections, I manage to find tickets, and move down onto the platform for the train to Gaya.

I'm not sure who are more intent on eating me alive, the flies or the other passengers. As I sit, I'm bitten dozens of times through the holes in the bench (I later find a patch of my bum with no less than two-dozen bites in a 6”x6” square). It's been some time since I was living in Chandigarh, so I'm no longer used to being stared at for no apparent reason. I quickly remember what it's like.

It's mostly men, for only rarely do I see Indian woman about in public, and when they are present they are usually preoccupied with a task or guarded by an escort. The two or three women near me on the platform open their eyes wide, but it ends after only a few (maybe ten) minutes. The men however... the men. Some simply stand in front of me and stare, no disguise. Others are more clever, pretending to be facing the other direction and discreetly looking at me when I turn my head. They don't seem to notice each other, however, in this large semi-circle of three to ten men all surrounding me, pretending to be sly. The face I learned from taking the New York Subway everyday (you know the face), is dissuasion enough for many of them. Others, I have to actually stare at, raising my eyebrow, grimacing, or rolling my eyes, until they walk away, embarrassed that they've been found out. With a little bit of work, I shake away most of them and ignore the rest.

I try not to watch as dozens of people step onto the rails to urinate or defecate. The toilet here costs three rupees, but the rail is free, so they jump down onto the rails, amongst the garbage, rats, and other people's feces, for relief. Some simply hang off the side of the platform to go. A man comes to the drinking fountain next to me and proceeds to wash his beard in it. People are lining up to watch the “Weight and Horoscope” machine light up and sing, then dole out little cardboard cards for those who have paid it two rupees. A man nearby picks his ear with a pen. A woman yells at her children, who have grown anxious for play. Women in worn saris and men in simple shirts still stained with the colors of the Holi celebration walk along the platform, enticing the waiting passengers to pay for a shoe shine, a new pair of socks, a handkerchief, a cup of chai, a slice of coconut. Flies cover everything dark. The train comes.

It's another 16 hours to Gaya, so the train is an overnighter, lined with bunk beds. Seat 52, upper berth. Although inconvenient, upper berth is the way to go: it provides protection from thieves and gropers. My bag makes a nice pillow, and I safely tuck away in my nest. I'm lucky enough to have gotten third class for this trip (vveery classy!) and my berth has a curtain. I hide myself from the prying eyes of the seven Indian men with whom I'm sharing this cabin and enjoy a Indian Railways meal (I hate to admit that I love road food).  I stop a chaiwalla who looks as though he's carrying a trash can and hand him my dinner garbage. He makes a motion for me to throw the garbage out the window, as my fellow passengers have done. I pause, wanting to ask him something like "why do you hate your country so much?" But all it takes is a moment's glance at him, at his tired face, worn clothes, at the way the passengers treat him, and I already know the answer.

Train rocking gently through the Indian countryside, I sleep. Crane 93 adorns my berth, traveling through space and time for who knows how long. 

I relish in the freedom of my small bag, my railways tickets, and my wandering heart.

 

Two hours after we're  scheduled to arrive, I open my eyes from a doze. The first thing I see is a Tibetan Ani (nun) looking at me from the next cabin. “Bodhgaya,” she says knowingly while she folds her blanket, although I have never seen her before.

The sun rises over Gaya as I step out into the light. 36-hours of traveling. Stop one of my two-thousand mile journey across India: Bodhgaya, the home of the Bodhi tree, site of the Buddha's Enlightenment. No onen said pilgrimage was supposed to be easy.

Bodhgaya. 

The Main Temple, Bodhgaya

 

Ramble On

Just a note to say that I'm still alive and kickin' my way through India. Wandering via the Indian rail system with everything I need on my back is... probably the best thing I've ever done.

Bodhgaya, Varanasi, now Sarnath (where the Deer Park is!), then on my way to Agra to see the Taj Mahal (because why else go to Agra?), a quick stop in Delhi, and I'm headed back to the mountains.


I'll be making my way back up to McLeodganj soon enough, ETA early morning March 30.

Be prepared for some crazy road stories.

P.S. trying very hard not to be nervous about the gecko above my head. The hotel staff say it's better not to chase them...

Rise and Shine It's Pilgrimage Time!!

I've been to the Sikh Golden Temple, visited Rishikesh and Haridwar, even totally immersed myself in the Ganges. I've visited the home of the Tibetan Government in Exile, saw His Holiness the Dalai Lama teach.

So what's left for a poor pilgrim to do?

Starting on March 22, I'm off to see Bodhgaya, the site of (a descendant) of the Bodhi tree, under which the Buddha became enlightened, can be found. And while I'm in the area, I'm off to Varanasi (which I must see, as everyone tells me), and Agra (the Taj Mahal...why not).

The bus to Delhi is 12 hours, then wait for a train (when will that be?) which will take me off to Bodhgaya in anywhere from 12-15 hours. Prostrate, Repeat.

This is a bit of a spontaneous trip (okay, an entirely spontaneous trip). After the last two nights of shivering in my sleep, I decided to go where it's warm. Actually, I just sat up in the middle of the night, sleep still in my eyes, freezing, and I thought: must..go...South.

102 degree highs, here I come (40 degree temperature difference in 24 hours? gulp).

Wish me luck.

The Return of the Accidental Mountain Climber: Clumsiness Ensues

1. Hail, Hail Fellow!

I've developed this bumpkin sort of habit here in this small village of Bhagsu of watching the night sky as the moon travels across it. Last night's show was even better: a thunderstorm of epic proportions. My new neighbor, a roaming English teacher for the last eight years, pulls up a chair and joins me as the sky fills with lightening for over an hour. We exchange those stories that are only possible between people who have seen the absurdity presented to travelers: the time he was mugged by a monkey (although to be fair, it was a very tasty cinnamon roll), coming up from a swim in the Ganges to realize that he's completely surrounded by sadhus, learning to drink Tibetan butter tea (try dipping bread in it!). As we sit and watch, rain turns to sleet turns to massive hail balls, bouncing of the metal of our roof with satisfying clings and pings.

2. Holi Invasion, Batman!

After a cold night's sleep, I find the world sunny, the sky bright blue. Little did I know, as I woke up bright and early and began climbing the road (first up, then down) to Mcleodganj, that my status had suddenly changed from tourist to attraction. It's the weekend of Holi, which means that a large portion of the surrounding population have a four-day holiday. The number of cars on the roads have increased exponentially, revealing women in punjabi suits and men in turbans. Behind them follow a dozens of motorcycles. All of the license plates sport the first letters PB. Punjab. We've been invaded.

The place is a madhouse with traffic and curious Indian tourists. In the last few weeks, I've forgotten what it's like to be stared at everywhere I go. Today I remembered.

After about the dozenth “Excuse me, madam. One picture, please?” and a growing annoyance at being stared at, I decide to put on my trekking hat again, escaping these tourists and the fog of pollution they dragged in behind them.

Back up Tipa Road, which is every bit as steep as I remember. I'm seeing fewer and fewer cars, fewer turbans; they're being replaced by tall evergreens and bird songs. The air is getting cleaner as I climb, and I finally sigh a breath of relief.

Stopping at the Himalayan Chai Shop is customary, so I say a quick hello to the friendly chai-man and enjoy a tall glass (much bigger than the first time. Loyalty most definitely pays here in India).

3. Monkeys, and Monkeys, and (more) Monkeys (Oh My!)

This time, like last, I'm determined to find Dal Lake, that big blue blob on my useless map. Every time I imagine the place, an image somewhere between a unnaturally blue watering hole and a heaping bowl of my favorite Indian food, yellow daal with little green chilies, comes to mind. I follow the same path, ignoring the alluring diversion of the slate covered trail I took last time, then the other forks, past the isolated ashram, past the prayer flags, and into an open field filled with dozens of piles of neatly arranged stones.

The six-year-old (or tricky trek guide salesman) who drew my map didn't include this spot, so I decide to take the only path I notice: up and over.

Lush green vegetation lines the way, clashing with the small piles of hail from last night's storm. I leave crane 95 in the blossom of a flowering tree (rhododendron? Where is my flora-loving mom to identify these things when I need her?). Somewhere down the hill, smoke from burning cedar wood climbs up from a cabin, a smell so alluring that I can't help but pause to enjoy it.

Now the footpath looks like it might be more of a migratory path for some sort of animal, but it's beautiful so I mentally shrug and once again unconsciously decide to keep going. Around an enormous boulder, suddenly, I'm faced with a troupe of monkeys.

Brown and grey, most the size of fat house cats to cocker spaniels, these monkeys are casually crossing the path I'm eager to tread. They notice me, but don't change their behaviors too much (one pauses above, perhaps acting as a lookout).

Somewhere between half a second and eternity, this flashes through my head: Okay. So the first time you met a monkey, it tried to bite you. That's okay. Here's what you're doing to do: don't do anything even remotely human.

Somehow that works. I keep my gaze low to avoid looking them in the eye, and I think something along the lines of: I'm a mountain goat. Just walk like a mountain goat.

Calmly, slowly, just like one of those bearded goaty fellows, I walk across the path. My mind strays to mountain goats: an earlier chai-time conversation with the shopkeep Taj led me to be the proud holder of an exorbitant amount of information about fabrics, including pashmina, which is collected by capturing mountain goats and shaving off their beards (I still have a nagging feeling that he was joking, despite his genuine expression). I briefly wonder how much money I could get and if I could even find a way to shave one of these fellows that share the mountain side with me. Then I remember the monkeys; some of them are as close as a foot away. Okay, stop being human.

It's only a few minutes until I'm out of monkey country and can breathe again. That is, until I come to the an opening in the forest,  a panorama that is better than any I've seen so far. Crane 94 stays behind to enjoy the view.

I walk for about another hour, going deeper and deeper into the green of the mountain, when I run into two women in pink punjabi suits carrying large bundles of sticks for firewood. Lake? Dal lake? They point in the direction from which I had come.

Back to whence I had come. This time, there are only a few monkeys left at the boulder, and I carefully snap a picture of one at a distance. Back to the field with the stone piles. Here, I notice three young Tibetans taking a lower path, and decide to follow. The lake is somewhere out here, right?

Before I know it, I'm completely surrounded by monkeys. Now this is monkey country. Dozens and dozens of them line the path, hundreds more in the surrounding forest, and once again I'm a careful mountain goat, feeling a bit better as I see the Tibetans getting through unscathed.

Another half an hour, and there is no lake in sight. An ani (Buddhist nun) from New Jersey and her South-Indian companion pause to greet me. Once again I see a finger pointing in the direction from which I had come. Dal lake, this way.

My mind wanders, as it often does when I'm walking, until a stumble over one of the rocks wakes me back up. I get an eyeful of the sheer drop below me, and have little trouble staying in the moment for the next few miles. Mindfulness, thine name is mountain goat.

They're pleasant company, so I decide to take the path back with the ani and Baby (which is, honestly, his birth name), thinking that I'm somehow safer from the monkeys with these two (although how, I'm not sure. Perhaps it's her bright red robes that are reassuring). I happily relinquish my map when she suggests that she needs to get one; it's caused me nothing but trouble. Tip-toeing back through the monkeys, I step on the only clear space on a trail, two inches from a mother and her (very) newborn infant. She looks at me calmly, as if I really am a mountain goat.

The ani is loving the monkeys, even after a local tells her “No. Monkeys are not good.” She smiles and pauses to admire them. Perhaps these monkeys have better lives here than the ones in Haridwar (or just simply aren't as crazy). Either way, I'm happy to be out of there, my heart pounding in a combination glee and fear.

Ani and Baby tell me about the ashram at which they're staying, about the community (including musicians and a flute maker), and invite me to visit. It's peaceful and beautiful, and I tell the owner I'll come rent a room for a weekend in April. From miles below, at HH the Dalai Lama's temple, monks are chanting in that beautiful  deep-throat way they do. The sound carries all the way up the hill to where we rest. 

As I'm leaving, I ask Baby for directions to Dal Lake.

“Dal Lake?” he says. “It's the way you were going. But no point right now, it's as dry as all this,” he motions to the dirt road, laughing.

I suppose I will have to settle for some daal instead (although all of it is disappointing compared to Aunty's), and be content with my crazy monkeys, gorgeous panorama, and incredible trail. 

One of my favorite sites along Tipa Road, because music is frequently drifting out as they practice.

Prayer flags over the field area

Towers of stones bless the area.

The most perfect vista- click to enlarge :)

A very fun trail

These flowering trees grow everywhere in the mountains.

The snow was such a surprise amongst the green vegetation.

The firewood gathering women, who pointed me in the right direction (despite limited English).

Mindfulness, thine name is mountain goat. (please clumsy Kell, don't fall)

 

Peace. Autonomy. Freedom.

Save Tibet. Free Tibet. Autonomy for Tibet. These are words that I see everywhere I go here in Mcleodganj. Someone has painted on the side of a house, in large white letters, TIBET WILL BE FREE. Words of hope line streets, t-shirts, bags, everything. Images of the missing Panchen Lama, who was just a small boy when he was abducted, can be found around town, along with other signs and notices announcing that the Refugee community has not forgotten, or have they given up hope.

The other night, as I was just being served dinner, I heard chanting in the streets. Hundreds (if not thousands) had gathered for a peace march, carrying candles and chanting a prayer in Tibetan.  It is something that still happens here often, I'm told. I took a video, because it seemed a shame to keep something like this for myself.

On the mountainside near the Tibetan neighborhood, I left crane 96 with the words "Hope for Tibet." 

 

My camera deceptively added light to the twilight of this scene.

The Things You See on the Road

At least an hour of my time each day is spent hiking into (and back from) town; it's a hike that's often more entertaining than a barrel full of monkeys (oh, they're part of this too). 
 

I'm never exactly sure what I'll find on this road. One of the most common scenes is a group of Indian (or other) tourists asking me for a photograph with them. No, not to take a photograph of them, but to be in one with them. I usually laugh and keep walking, imagining them taking the photo home to their friends, exclaiming “look at my American friend!” Luckily for them, there's usually a foreigner or two nearby who are happy to oblige.

Then there are the talkers. You get these a lot in the shops, where the bored salesmen use their time by chatting with foreigners. However, there are also those who seem to be walking just for the sake of this type of chit-chat. They catch up with you and introduce themselves with the magic formula (Namaste! How are you? Which country?). They usually feel the need to add that they're very interested in learning English, and some are as bold as offering to show you around town or just straight-out asking for an English lesson. They're often new Tibetan refugees, often young, and they're quite entertaining on the walk.

Then there are the roadside artists. Thangka painters are the most common; they sit on small pads on the ground next to their finished products, absorbed in the current painting. Musicians are also very common, but are most frequently Indian beggars. Some bring their families, small babies, and one common family has a young boy who plays a rhythm stick and yells “Hullllo!!” if you don't stop. And of course, there are the spontaneous hippies, like the foreign fellow (fairly successfully) playing the didgeridoo next to a Japanese woman holding a cardboard sign saying something about the tsunami. “Arigato,” she says after I put 20 Rs in the singing bowl they're using as a collection plate.

And, of course, there's the ongoing drama between the dogs and the monkeys. Stray dogs here are actually quite wonderful: they're well-treated, well-fed, and loved. People pet them at random, feed them, and children play with them. Thus, they're not the crazy, scared strays you get down in places like Chandigarh. Sometimes they'll follow you home, tail wagging, or come up to your hand, begging to be petted. But along this road, there also live some monkey troops that just won't give up the fight. They screech from the trees as dogs playfully chase them, taking to packs. After almost getting bit by a monkey the first time I saw one up close, it's kind of fun to see.

Religious sprinkles top the treat that is this road. The Tibetan monks and nuns which fill the town also come out here, perhaps for a bit of fresh air, wearing hiking boots under their long crimson robes. Every so often you'll see an old sadhu, usually sitting by one of the roadside shrines that cover this path. Then, every so often, you'll see one chatting casually with a blond woman, without a care in the world. A Muslim man and his daughter make up another common sight; they're always carrying a page of the Koran and asking people to pause so the young girl can read it to them.

Of course, you have the shoe doctor as well. There are many of these shoe repairmen in and around town, offering to fix and polish shoes right on the street. But this one is very popular, an older man who's gathered a little bit of a following. “Hello!” he yells to you as you pass by. “How are your shoes? I'm the shoe doctor!” His followers, presumably friends and others attracted to his personality, call him “doctor.” In some ways, I wish I had shoes for him to fix. 

Chai stands and small restaurants take advantage of the view and line the way, one every few minutes or so. Closer to town, tables are set up, suspended by tall pieces of wood hanging over the ledge of the road (for there really is no "side of the road" here). Most of them I see every day, quite a few of them I've bought presents from, and almost all of them smile and greet me when I approach. Ah, small towns.  

Then, just as you're about to reach Mcleod, you see it. A scenic, colorful little village built right into the steep slope. Prayer flags all around. Beautiful and welcoming.

My pictures aren't very good, but here is a holi celebration in the South (where it is a huge deal).

Today I was especially lucky, because it's holi, the Hindu Festival in which everyone throws colored powder at each other, or men in the street paint your face like eager and unskillful finger painters. Needless to say, it's pretty awesome. As I walked in to town, the number of painted faces began to steadily increase, men on motorcycles hooting at me when they noticed I was smiling at their powdered-covered faces.

On the way home after a relatively powder-free holi, I was ambushed by three young men. "HAPPY HOLI!" they yelled, showering me in green dust as one of them smudged a green thumb print across my forehead. I laugh as they take pictures with me. "Just one kiss? Please? On the cheek?" Still laughing, I escape the (very) friendly arms around my shoulders and head back on the road.

A monkey sits safe atop the Tibetan Institute for Performing Art while beautiful music spills out.

A painter so sweet that I couldn't haggle when I bought a thankha from her.

Crane 98 (lower right- brown on white) on the trip into town, near a chai stand.

 

Tea and Crumpets with His Holiness the Dalai Lama

Just before Losar, Kunchok reminds me: His Holiness is teaching soon. Don't forget to get your ticket. On the morning sales begin, I arrive at the security office to stand in one of those infamous Indian queues, the kind that involve more pushing than queuing. Fill out a form, hand the man two pictures and ten rupees (25 cents), and I receive a small ticket with my information printed neatly in Tibetan and a stamp over my picture. Number 96.

Monday morning, and I'm up bright and early (although the fact that 7am seems so early counters my insistence that this is not just a vacation). I carefully pick out what I'm going to wear, as nervous as if this is a first date, and I'm out the door.

I spy others on the road with me, heading into town, and pick up the pace. No one is going to get my seat. I'm #96, after all.

The trip down to HH's Main Temple is long, and it takes over half an hour for me to get there. I'm not especially worried, however, as I'm arriving about an hour early. Tibetans form one line, monks another (the long, orderly queue of red robes is something to see), and the foreigners take the final entrance, at the very back. Standing in line, getting excited with various Europeans and Russians, I wait to go through security.

Metal detector. Total body frisking. At this point, after having been frisked regularly to get into a cinema in India, I don't bat an eye at this. Bag check. The man rifles through my bag, checking my pen to make sure it's not too pointy, then just as he's about to give it back to me, notices the little black case: my camera. How stupid! The man points me away. “Leave it with a shopkeeper,” he says.

Rushing back out through the Temple periphery, out the gates, and up the hill towards central Mcleodganj, I'm looking for a shopkeeper I know and trust. Unfortunately, I only come to the Temple complex rarely and see no faces that have offered me chai. Store after store is closed at this early hour. All the way back up to the Prayer Wheels that mark the center of the bazaar, I step down a few crumbling stairs to peak into the travel-agency-turned-cell-phone-store. Closed! Drat!

A friendly face, like the supporting male actor in a Bollywood comedy, appears from behind a corner at the back. And I am saved! I stammer out my request, like a young man asking for a girl's attention, and am met by a metaphorical question mark over his head. "Sorry? I didn't get that." Composing myself, I ask, “Can I leave my camera with you?”

By the time I get back to the Temple, it's about 20 minutes until show time. I rush through the periphery, past the beggars and the hawkers on the way to the entrance, dropping a 5 rupee coin in a begging bowl (perhaps this will improve my karma so I can get in at last). Again, I wait in line, this time warning the Europeans and Russians about the camera rule. Again, through the metal detector. Okay, I open my bag, eager to get going.

And he pulls out my cheap Indian cellphone. (NOOooooooooooo!!!!!!)

At this point I don't care about losing my phone, so I hope to keep my phone safe with this unknown salesman with promise of a small bribe (ahem, tip). Either way, the cell phone can go. Temple. Metal detector. Bag search. Frisk. Up the stairs. I can hear it's started, HH's voice is ringing through the loud speakers. The courtyard is absolutely full, mostly with Tibetans, who appear to be arranged as if at a picnic (and are chatting as though they are as well). There are thousands of people in the complex, and the dull roar of hundreds of hushed voices adds white noise to the teaching. A big television at the front of the courtyard shows HH's face, but there's no room near enough to see it. Disappointed, I sit and listen.

After about 30 minutes of  (fairly) solid Tibetan, I'm beating myself up for forgetting my radio (the English translation is being broadcast), and I decide to head back to Bhagsu. If I get my radio now, take back my phone and camera so I know they're safe, then I can make it back to the Temple in time to be one of the first seated for the afternoon session.

All the way back up to Bhagsu, all the way back down, all the way through security (there's an awful lot of groping involved in seeing His Holiness), I'm back in the courtyard. I notice people walking up the staircases which lead to where HH will be sitting, and wonder why they have the privilege. I approach the security officer like a dog approaches the dinner table. “Security Pass?” he asks. I pull out my yellow card as if in apology, a bit unsure if this will work, but he waves me through. I stifle a “woohoo!!” (or clumsy leprechaun leap, with clicking heels) and head up the steps.

The Shrine room is filled with monks, but the main doors and windows are open, leaving a line of sight straight from the teaching chair to an area outside. I sit down next to a German couple, asking if the seat is taken. The woman shoots me a frown, saying “Probably. We just got here.” When I sit, she adds, “we need to respect the people who's religion this is.”

Sigh. What's spiritual tourism without the spirituality? Apparently, it's these Germans, who sit there confused for the teaching, reject the butter tea after a puckered sip, and don't come back the next day. “Oh yes, when I was in India, I saw the Dalai Lama. So wise...what? Oh, no, you don't need to understand what he says. It's nonverbal.”

Up here, the crowd is mostly Tibetans. Those around me greet me warmly, not sharing the German woman's view, and offering me a burlap sack to sit on (rather than the cold ground). They chant in unison before the teaching, a beautiful and subtly echoing sound. And he (He?) appears, with his entourage of security people and VVIPs, stooped over and smiling at the crowd, pausing to greet people. We stand in a bow with our hands before our chests, as if holding a small gem between them.

I'm not going to attempt to summarize HH's teaching, because that would be a bit like taking a bite of a very fine cake and trying to feed the chewed goo to someone else. The subject, however, was the 37 Practices of the Bodhisattva, an important text in Tibetan Buddhism for it's emphasis on spiritual altruism. In storage, I have this text, a little gold book that was a present from Columbus KTC (the Tibetan Buddhist Center back home), and always found it something to be (pardon the pun) further chewed. For me, number three is especially striking to me:

Remaining too long in one place our attraction to loved ones upsets us, we are tossed in its wake.
The flames of our anger towards thus who annoy us consume what good merit we have gained in the past.
The darkness of closed-minded thought dims our outlook, we loose vivid sight of what is right and what is wrong.
We must give up our home and set forth from our country - the Sons of the Buddhas all practice this way.

I have heard numerous interpretations of this verse, but for me it means this: to develop, a student must remove herself from that which she loves, that which she hates, that which she knows. She must fight the “darkness of closed-minded thought,” so that she may develop the clarity of mind to do what is best, to know what is right. This is what it meant to me the first time I read this, a little over a year before I came to India. This is why I have taken this trip, if any single verse can adequately describe my reasons: to fight the “darkness of closed-minded thought.”

During the teaching, we are offered food by the local monks and nuns: a enormous English muffin (about 6” diameter, this thing), and a cup of butter tea. Finally, a cup of butter tea! After studying Tibetan customs for the last four years, I finally get to taste the famous butter tea: salty milk tea with melted butter. Taking my cue from those around me, I dip my bread into it, and it's quite nice. Mmmm, buttery, salty, holy num-nums. HH stops speaking, his Yoda-like voice (and mannerisms) pausing for some butter tea. Note: the Bodhisattva of Compassion and patron saint of Tibet loves his tea.

The crowd is so vast that, for the first fifteen minutes we spend leaving, we're still one whole unit in the street. I'm surrounded by short-haired monks with their distinct monk-smell (it's very pleasant, a smell I can only describe as “clean”) and their soft-looking robes. When I finally have my own “personal bubble” back, after being crowded for so long amongst these many Tibetan refugees, it feels like a bit of a loss.

Something lost, something gained.

_____________________

Beautiful verses from the 37 Practices:

9

Like the dew that remains for a moment or two on the tips of the grass and then melts with the dawn,
The pleasures we find in the course in our lives last only an instant, they cannot endure;
While the freedom we gain becoming a Buddha is a blissful attainment not subject to change.
Aim every effort to this wondrous achievement - the Sons of the Buddhas all practice this way.

15
If in the midst of a large crowd of people someone should single out of abuse,
Exposing our faults before all within hearing and pointing out clearly the flaws we still have;
Then not getting angry or being defensive, just listening in silence and heeding his words,
Bow in respect to this man as our teacher - the Sons of the Buddhas all practice this way.

18

...Never lose courage to take pain from others - the Sons of the Buddhas all practice this way.

36

...Then always possessing alertness and memory, which keep us in focus and ready to serve,
We must work for the welfare of all sentient beings - the Sons of the Buddhas all practice this way

A nun does prostrations next to burning ghee lamps right near my seat for the teaching.

Blocked off after the teaching, HH's seat is in front of a giant Buddha Statue

As you circumnavigate the Temple (an act of practice), views like this are available

Crane 99 waits next to the enormous prayer wheels.

Again, the beautiful prayer wheels.

Seeing the hundreds of ghee lamps, I move crane 99 to this serene location

I sat on the left side for the teaching, although the pads weren't so neatly arranged or empty!

100 Paper Cranes

With one hundred days of journeying before I find my way back to my home and my love, I've decided to start a little tradition. I've started making paper cranes, 100 small paper cranes out of scrap paper, local advertisements and my own notes, one for each day of the rest of my journey. As I travel, I'll leave them in places- beautiful places, memorable places- short-lived pieces of art, pieces of me, sprinkled throughout India.

Crane 100 I leave on the upper deck of the place that I temporarily call home. It is a page from my small spiral notepad, written on it is the address of the Guest House, a note from before I had ever seen it. From chairs made of soft local reeds, I can sit and watch the mountains and the valley, or open my curtains to see them turn a deep red as the sun sets. 

The next sunset, this little crane will be painted red along with the rest of the mountain. 

 

The People Below

Note: I realized I hadn't posted this yet- it's something I wrote about 3 weeks in Chandigarh. Tomorrow, I will tell you all about my adventures with HH the Dalai Lama!

In India, I'm constantly faced with issues of class and social standing everyday, from the moment I go downstairs to have my breakfast, made by Kumal, a servant, to the evening when (if) I take a rickshaw home.

At first, the novelty of being served was stronger than any academic thoughts or moral implications. When the man in the train station carried my 50 pound bag on his head for a pittance, it just seemed unusual and interesting. When I took my first rickshaw ride, I was a bit uncomfortable with the ostentatiousness of it, being pedaled around by someone else, but it still all seemed new and confusing. When I first arrived at my new home in Chandigarh and was greeted by a servant grabbing my baggage, I felt a bit embarrassed.

Roasting peanuts, as they do every day.

But the more time I spend in India, the more that issues of equality and social rights stand out to me. As a girl with academic ambitions from a working-class family, I've spent many hours strained over the social injustice in my own country, the difficulties and horrible tragedies that the poor must endure everyday. I'm the kind of person who weeps during Capitalism: A Love Story (yeah, yeah, I know), wondering how many people I care about will someday be “dead peasants.”

It's a very bleak topic, but one that means a lot to me, which is why my time in India is bittersweet. I'm growing to love this country as if it were my own, and everyday I see thousands of Mother India's children in dire poverty and seeming hopelessness. I work with the poor every day, teaching them works like “sock,” and “monkey,” in English, hoping that it will somehow help them. 

While I was at the wedding in Karnal, the act of being served was really having an effect on me. The drastic contrast between the servants and the rich, fat, happy, and elaborately dressed Indian bourgeois was a bit more than I can take. I'm treated well here because my money is worth a lot, but when it comes down to it my place is closer to the servants than the served. While I was sitting, drinking coffee, I had to stop myself from breaking into tears; in front of me were three servants, one about my age, one fifteen years older, and an old man. It was the lifespan of a poor man before my very eyes.  I could not help but think of the children I am teaching, and wonder if I could ever really do enough.

Everywhere, there are people dying to serve me because my face tells them that I will give them rupees. They sit on the street and roast peanuts, the pedal my rickshaw, they try to sell me bangles on the sidewalk, or they beg me for money. The worst of it is the children; there are so many child beggars. Some of them are coached and governed by parents or others hoping to gain from their begging skills. I try to keep small coins in my pocket, but when I forget it's almost impossible to get them off of you. Only when you give them money, generally, will they stop. 

Even then, they still look so sad. 

On my way home from the bus station, I stopped for a tuk-tuk and agreed to pay 70 rupees for a ride home (a ridiculous price, but I was too tired to haggle).  The drivers actually physically began to fight over who would get my money. I climbed into one of the rickshaws, and the other driver jumped into it and pulled the key out of the ignition, gesturing for me to come with him as the other man fought him off. All of this over $1.50.  

A small colony. Image: Indiadaily.org

And then there are the plastic villages: more or less trash heaps that can extend for kilometers, filled with little tents made of tarps, old billboards, etc. Half-naked children play at the edge, women and men busy themselves inside or nap on the ground. 

Virali told me about her experiences in a local slum, called a Colony, where she was recruiting poor children for the free catch-up class.  They met a half-naked little boy who told them that he wasn't allowed to go to school. When asked to, he took them to his mother, who was breast feeding and surrounded by small children. "No," she said, "I don't want to send him to school because it's almost time for him to start working." 

One of thousands of strays.

Domestic animals have it little better. Chandigarh has a huge stray dog population; they're everywhere, often hurt or deranged. They're kicked out of the way; they scrounge through trash for food; their mental state is so bad that they can go from lounging to attacking at a moment's notice. A rather friendly blond dog that seems to live in the schoolyard snapped the other day (without noticeable provocation) and attacked a teacher before being scared away by a field hockey stick.

My purpose here is not to be bleak or depress you, because there is joy in India just as there is pain. But this experience is waking something in me, it's bringing a part of me alive that I need. I wanted to become an anthropologist not just so that I can do what I love and create knowledge, but because I care about the people I study. Everyday I'm here, my thoughts turn to my research: the anthropology of oppression, the anthropology of class struggle, the anthropology of poverty. Everyday I see more that I want to show to the world. 

2. Yet There is Hope

No matter how desensitized that Indians may seem to the poverty around them, there are moments in which my faith in the goodness of humanity is restored. This is times when I hear about an old man who left everything not to his children, but to the faithful servant who stayed by his side. Or when my hostess shares that she bought her servant of 20+ years a piece of land, which had been his dream. Or when I see the eyes of one of my students flash with a cleverness and life that gives me faith that they will rise out of the dust from which they came.

Full-Funding to UCSB

I just got my award offer from University of California, Santa Barbara, and they've offered me full funding! $60,000 a year from a school system that's supposedly "broke" is quite an honor.

The stipend is still a little low for living in Santa Barbara, so waiting to hear back about supplementing it with Pell Grants and Stafford Loans. We'll see.

Now I actually have to make a decision... :(

Adventures in Chai and Knick-Knacks

1. River of Spiritual Tourism

Sometime after His Holiness the 14^th Dalai Lama set up residence in this small village in the Himalayas, the place ceased to be what it once was and began to take on a new facade. This was caused not only by the influx of Tibetan refugees, fleeing in the hundreds of thousands to India or by the tentative relationships between populations. What has largely shaped this area is the flow of foreigners attracted to HHDL and the Tibetan Government in Exile. They rush in every year like a rapid river, inevitably shaping all through which they flow.

There are some days when, walking through a street crowded with free-spirited Westerners and hippies (of various generations), I want to stop and stomp my foot like a spoiled child: I came here to see Tibetans! Get out, hippies! Mine!

Despite my mental tantrum, however, Mcleodganj's economic system is very much dependent upon these fresh faces, and it may be the support of these (super) hippies that allows the town to take in and help the refugees still arriving everyday. So, for the moment, I'll gladly share my little Himalayan paradise.

2. The Bizarre and the Bazaar

Thanka Shop

Thus the end result is a town which is centered upon two things: spirituality and tourism. Monasteries and temples are around nearly every bend, and you can't walk a dozen steps without bumping elbows with monks and nuns in their long crimson robes. This may be doubly true for salesmen. They line every road, setting up tables when they can't afford shops.

The largest part of Mcleodganj is the gigantic central bazaar, the hub of spiritual materialism (and, I might add, the best place on Earth to buy presents for Buddhists). Here, one can find restaurants of various ethnic cuisines (try Tibetan! Punjabi! Indian! Israeli!), discotechs, and accommodation ranging from guest houses (for those brave free-spirits) to fine hotels (for those retired hippies).

But mostly, one can find things to buy. Religious items like prayer wheels, singing bowls, thankas (paintings), malas, prayer flags, deity statues, etc, etc, etc. If you've dreamed of something for your Buddhist shrine, they have it here. Then there are the textiles, ranging from massively embroidered items, Tibetan Yak wool, Tibetan hand-woven rugs, traditional Tibetan (and Indian) clothing, fuzzy hats of leather and fur, and many, many knitted items. Crystal and gem shops are very common, with carved jewelry, statues, etc, all beautiful and terrible expensive. Every so often there is a stand with men selling post-cards and pictures of HHDL, ten rupees only, madam. Metalworkers intricately bend and twist jewelry, statues, the like for you. Shops and shops are devoted entirely to Tibetan paintings (thankas). Knick-knacks. Bric-a-Brak. For you, I give a special price. Shopkeepers look delighted when you haggle.

Now the shopkeepers are something I've never seen before. The Tibetan shopkeepers which I've seen are generally reserved and serious, wanting very much to help you, and thanking you while waving your money over the rest of their merchandise as you leave. This seems to me like a gesture that's something between blessing the items and scolding them, like children who didn't behave well. Why didn't you sell? Why can't you be more like your brother? Look, he's just been sold. You see !!??

In general, it's the Indian shopkeepers, however, that are more entertaining. You see, it's difficult to walk down the street in Mcleodganj without several people seeking your attention at once. These salesmen will stop you as you walk, ask you where you're from, how you are, if you want a cup of chai.

Yes, chai. If you talk to a salesman for more than, say, five minutes, you will be offered chai regardless of whether or not you make a purchase (and don't worry, it's usually chai from the same stands where I normally stop for my own). After my first week in Dharamsala, I already have over a dozen shopkeepers I have to wave to on my way to dinner, and quite a few more who get offended if I don't stop.

Part of the central market from above

You see, these shopkeepers, as well as the others around here, seem absolutely obsessed with Westerners (especially, it seems, Americans). Walking down just about any street here, I'm regularly asked by Indian tourists if I'll pose for a picture with them. When I laugh and say no, they grab the next Westerner. Similarly, the shopkeepers, bored and waiting for sales, simply eat up talking to you.

I was on my way to the post office to mail some post cards, when one young, long-haired Indian began asking me the usual questions (Namaste, how are you? Which country?) I pause, because why just shuffle past? I'm not in a rush. After about two minutes of chatting, one of them is so determined to keep talking to me that he guides me to the post office, offering to pay for my postage when the postman can't make change.

“Are they all to the US? I love that you're sending those. How retro. Nobody sends postcards anymore! When I was young, my father used to travel a lot, so he'd send me one from everywhere...” (their English, you see, is often quite good here).

It goes on like this for a while, as it usually does. I take a peak in his shop, because it's polite, and tell him I'm too tired for chai today (although I frequently accept) after climbing up the mountain.

“I don't want you to get the wrong impression of me,” he apologizes, “I'm not some salesman trying to sell something. I just love talking to Americans... you'll come back another day?”

It's very common. The other day, I had chai with another shopkeeper who, after about twenty minutes of conversation, was repeatedly inviting me to a family wedding up in Kashmir. “Really, I want to take you up to this wedding. I could show you where I come from. Kashmir is very beautiful.”

Oh, India.