INDIA, INDIA, INDIA... THANK YOU MOTHER INDIA!
I love you India. Thank you for sending the most amazing people my way; for the incredible places I've seen and the experiences that I won't ever forget... I have felt the exhilaration, the happiness, the joy. Like an alarm clock, India has woken me up, introduced to me a new level of consciousness and awareness while illustrating to me and teaching me of the exasperation, the sadness, the misery, the frustration, the anger, the unfairness, the bureaucracy, the exploitation, the despicable elite, the pitiable poor, the bribes and the baksheesh. It's easy to lose the plot yet over time, I've learnt to roll with it and laugh instead both at and with the trains, the crowds, the noise, the cows, the monkeys, the autos, the rickshaws, the chaos, the hassles, the touts, the anarchy! Thank you too for the Bollywood nights, blinged-up Delhi-ites and the contrasts of life as seen amongst the humble and hardworking people of the mountains, the deserts, the arid landscapes, the jungles and the Himalayan horizons. Magical moments abound everywhere I looked with camels, elephants, holy rivers, freaky babas, spooky sadhus, mesmerising mosques, and the wonderful serenity of those incredible temples! Thank you for showing me the shanti, for giving me full power to continue this journey with positive energy...
It's another world is India and not one that we can all adjust to so easily, so thankyou for teaching me to love and accept at times, the way of the world, because India is a world unto itself and if you can live through India, you will feel armed with the love of the Motherland for life.
So there is no doubt that I will miss the decrepit hotels, annoying mosquitos, sweltering heat, three-legged dogs, the invalids, lepers, hermaphrodites and eunuchs. Himalaya skin products and Ayurvedic beauty treatments rock by the way, although excruciating leg waxes and Shilpa Shetty obsessed Delhi hairdressers do not! The random justice system is laughable yet the decriminalisation of gay relationships was a feat in the history of Indian political rule. What a kaleidoscopic vista of the colours of life! And as Mark Tully has already said, in India, there are no fullstops.
Indian anecdotes and useful vocabulary
Which way is the post office?
“yes!”
Left or right?
“Yes!”
Black or white?
“Yes!”
curry or rice?
“Yes!”
24 hour, no power no shower!
What to do? (always spoken with Indian accent)
Come my shop!
Chillum, chai, chapati, chalo Parvati!
Same same but different!
Full power!
Two chapati, five rupee!
Chapal kao? (want to eat my flip-flop?)
haramzadhe! (bastard!)
Behan chaudh (sister fucker)
Ma chaudh (mother fucker)
Izat seh baul (speak with respect)
Mazaak kartey hu, na? (you are joking, no?)
kitna hai? (how much?)
Meri pathni (my wife)
Mera pathi (my husband)
Kya baath hai! (wow!)
Kya baath hai? (what's the matter? / what's up?)
kya koobsurat hai! (how beautiful!)
acha hai (it's good)
acha nahin (it's not good)
acha (okay or I agree)
a-chaaaa! (oh right! I see!)
hum tourist nahin, traveller hoo (I'm not a tourist, I'm a traveller)
tourist price muth bathao (don't give me tourist price)
Namaste, salam-a-lekum, sat-sri-akal! (hello in Hindi, Arabic and Punjabi)
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Return to Samsara...
It's taken me a good while to come to terms with the fact that I will soon have to leave India and return to Samsara. My opinions about the new world order and the state of the west were already fairly potent before I had even stepped into the Motherland. Now, they are stronger than ever. Micro-chipped by the microsofts, the cocacolas, the mcdonalds, the glaxosmithklines and the tiffanys, people in the west tend to forget that they do actually have hearts and souls. And if there is no meaning to life or existence, then they have been conditioned to represent the epitome of that fact.
The seeds of consciousness have already been planted which means that people will one day wake up for themselves. Right now, people do not want to know the truth, even when it is staring them in the face. They do not have the strength to absorb the enormity of what the world is facing. Nevertheless, changes are happening. More and more people are waking up to the reality of the world and to the people who are responsible for that reality. Others, who fail to take note of what is going on, are more aware than they think, because like I said, the seeds of consciousness have already been planted in the backs of their subconscious minds because one day, something will happen and they will wake up and that tiny seed that had been planted there by something that they had seen somewhere during a fleeting split second of their lives, will trigger the awakening, consciousness and awareness within them.
India is not like the west. No shit, I hear you say. But it is trying to be. India's elite are ashamed of its people, land, culture and traditions, so much so, that it is responsible for continuing the dictatorship of its own people in pretty much the same way as its colonial predecessors. They are desperate, and I mean desperate, to ape the western way of life. They want to be like the very people who raped and pillaged them. India, however, is too strong, too powerful, it's spirit too potent to be converted into a Babylonian state just like that. There are 1.2 billion people here. However, on the downside, the ninety plus percent of that population that lives below the poverty line, is consistently bombarded with billboard and television advertising, by Bollywood movies and soap operas, by xyz, and are brainwashed into aspiring to a certain way of life. It's like showing candy to a baby and not allowing it to have any. Most of India's population is dark skinned and its millions conditioned to believe that fair skin is beautiful. Garnier, L'Oreal, Ponds, Oil of Olay and every other petrochemical product company that you can think of, has re-marketed its products in India using the “fair and lovely” game card. It works wonders. On the television, there is not a single celebrity that possesses dark skin. The same can be said of every Bollywood actor. The level of brainwashing instigated by the Indian elite is incredulously disturbing to the point where they have succeeded in making their own people feel ashamed of the colour of their own skin - creating on a national scale, mass levels of low self esteem in their own country. They are no different to the British that ruled here. It's that same style of leadership that continues today – only today, they are indulging in killing their own people softly: guns have been replaced with consumer culture.
Gandhi and Nehru
Nehru was exceptionally good friends with Mountbatten, in particular with his wife, Edwina. A hypocrite who worked with the British boasted of winning the biggest war of the century by dividing the country into three parts - India, Pakistan and Bangladesh - his improvidence planting the seeds of hatred between Hindus and Muslims forever. Divide, conquer, rule - a British strategy from which he learned well. He is also known for giving birth to the problem of Kashmir and China.
Gandhi, the so-called “Mahatma”, should not even have been born, let alone killed like a so-called martyr by Nathuram Godse, who in the eyes of many people, is the real hero of India. Gandhi appeared to display pro-Indian, pro-freedom philosophies, yet his words, as my aunty likes to phrase, were nothing more than “sweet poison” for the masses. He was an informer for the British government, a man of malice and deceit because he deceived non other than his own people when he reported of protests and rallies to senior officials who would then send in the armed forces to repress the voice of the people. In effect, his hunger strike did the opposite: It cost the country for him to starve himself so that like a stubborn old goat he could give the bullshit that he was trying to feed us, some substance. Gandhi allowed the division of India and killed it economically with his corrupt principles. He was the real culprit of India, an impractical leader who taught a whole nation to be submissive in the face of violence. He was a shrewd and cunning man with double standards towards untouchability, promoting the hierarchical structure while showing sympathy to untouchables. Gandhi helped divide the nation on the grounds of religion – an arrogant man. Nehru and Gandhi were one and the same: two evil spirits that danced to the same rhythm but in different forms. Fuck Gandhi and fuck Nehru too.
India is the safest haven in which to be before the complete annihilation of the world
So the Indian elite continue to dance in the footsteps of Nehru, using Gandhi as their weapon of morality. Babylon is what they wanted. They are looking to create a samsara in the spiritual motherland. Yet one thing I won't ever forget, is something that a friend of mine had told me earlier this year. He said that India is the safest haven in the world before the complete annihilation of the world. I think he is right, because no matter how hard the elite try to change India, it will not change to their satisfaction. The harder they try to change the country, the more difficulties they will face in the process. They don't seem to realise what they are dealing with here. This is India baby, Mother India, the land of love, spirituality, hope, freedom, anarchy, autonomy and belief! The collective belief of 1.2 billion people make it a powerful country - regardless of the deprivation and levels of poverty that exist here. They cannot change India. It will not succumb to the forces of Babylonia. It will never become samsara, because India is too naïve to even understand! India cannot understand that world even if it wanted to! And it wants to understand, yet continues to fail in doing so! That's the funny thing about the place, and that's the very thing that makes me love India so much. I love you India, with my heart and soul. There is no place in this world like you, no civilization on earth that could mimic you if it tried.
Fuck the British too
The egalitarian society spawned by the British changed many things in India, including same-sex love and nudity. Gay and lesbian relationships were “normal” in India, that was of course, until the British turned up. In ancient mythologies and Sanskrit texts such as the Mahabharata, there are countless stories of same sex love between the Gods. Women wore their saris, revealing their breasts, this too was normal, until Queen Victoria introduced the sari blouse and the bra and women were commanded they cover up. Today, it is difficult to imagine India as the land of Kama Sutra and sexual liberation for which it had once been known. Indoctrination by the British Empire has made us forget the true substance of Indian society, breeding instead its prudish nature and leaving the prospects of a sexual cultural revolution, looming in the far distant future.
It is also the place where ancestral traditions and tribal living still continues. India is big. Too big for any one world authority or any new world order, to touch it. They are trying to pollute the country with consumer culture, trying to change the mentality of the people with promises of power and money, attempting to water down its culture with western values and inspiring people with materialistic attitudes.
The caste system
The caste system is something that the government have tried to abolish, but it is also something that gives people a sense of identity. If you belong to a certain caste, then you are more or less protected by the community of that caste and regardless of your social status or level of poverty, you will always have an identity. People try to rubbish the caste system of India, but to me, it has many positive values and it is a system that has worked for centuries. Intercaste and inter-race marriages in India are now on the rise, however this can also be seen as a positive thing because it balances things out in terms of preserving culture whilst encouraging acceptance, regardless of your caste, colour or creed.
Screw the Indian elite
India's elite have also caused mass disturbance on a social and moral level. They corrupt their own people with landowners and factory owners employing individuals that owe a lifetime of debt. Those individuals that manage to break out of the vicious cycle of trying to survive and paying obscene debt, become just like the very people by whom they were abused. The Indian elite have been responsible for breeding greed for money, material things and slave labour. The very people that were abused, break the cycle to become abusers themselves. Peasant farm workers that by chance fall on lucky times, continue the very same cycle of abuse that they themselves suffered at the hands of their own manipulating, corrupt employers. The Indian elite is forever trying to transform Indian society into a pen-pushing, bureaucratic, power abusing nation of people. Yet one thing they fail to realise is the sheer size of the Indian population. One point two billion. The figure speaks for itself and is a statement in its own right.
Power of a People
Many people lament that the growth of India's population is to the detriment of the nation. Yet despite this, one thing that prevails in India, is the power of the people. India is about people and the power lies in the sheer size of that people. The depth and breadth of that people is so expansive that the Indian elite could not even dream of manipulating India in the way that they would like. The power of the people resides over the petty values that the elite have tried to penetrate in India. Mainstream and commercial culture exists, just like it does in every other country in the world. Such is the nature of the new world order. Yet the shallow substance of such values is not strong enough to overcome the strength of the traditions, religions, values, virtues and the ways of life that are embedded so deep into Indian society. The power of the people overrides any pathetic attempts made by the Indian elite, to ape their colonial predecessors.
The poison that is “civilization”
The power of a nation has spawned a people that is free. A people that is free from a corrupt system built on greed power and money because most people in India are free to live their lives in the only way they know how. Where else in the world do you get a slum stuck next to a five star hotel? Where else in the world are lepers and the impoverished allowed to beg wherever they want? Where else but in India, is it possible for hermaphrodites and eunuchs to just be and do whatever it is they do? Only in India!
The substance of sheer existence in India is worlds apart to the existence of any other so-called civilization in the world. It made me realise how in our so-called “civilized” world, we suffocate in the vomit of an egalitarian society. In our contemptuous minds, we have tried to penetrate the beauty that lies in the simplicity of life, with the poison we term as “civilization”. As they try to ape their British colonial predecessors, the Indian elite continue to impose their so-called world view, feeling ashamed enough in the face of western ideals to pollute their own people and land – like the suffocating effect of a man tied to the noose of a horse running wild through a colossal of unforgiving thorns, shredding them to pieces.
I have imagined walking through the doors of a parallel world, visualizing the contemptuous, condescending and barbaric nature of a so-called superior civilization that succumbs to the expectations of an egotistical society with its brain-dead disposition to wasting away, replacing the necessity of returning to nature to realise ourselves, with washed out, faded dreams that aspire to a material world. We try and fail, left to be scraped up as garbage and dumped into the pile for losers. We succeed and forget who we are. The people that I met in India, will never forget who they are.
Back to base
It's time for some family time, this time with my massi ji, my mum's sister, who lives in Abohar, a south western town situated in the province of Punjab, and which touches the borders of Rajasthan and Haryana. I've been here numerous times over the last year, so it's just like coming home. My cousin, Appu, is home. She's just finished university and is teaching chemistry at the local college. She just got her admission onto a Post Grad in Pharmacy. Appu should be heading to Canada early next year and is looking forwards to the culture shock that awaits her.
It's good to be home. I've spent time preparing myself mentally for the flight back to London. When I get my flight, I still don't know. The ticket has been booked, but I'm going to try and stretch it out for just another 12 days. Whether this works out or not, I have no idea, however I have prepared myself to get on that plane earlier than I would really like to. I've also spent time pampering myself, relaxing and writing this blog. Exciting times abound.
Acceptance is Freedom
I feel sad. But I am trying not to be. I am ready to go back to Babylon, ready to return to Samsara. Fully armed with the love of the Motherland, I feel ready to take on the world. Yet 12 precious days is all that I asked for. Once again though, I can see how Mother India will never stop teaching me the lessons in life that I need to learn. Including: that you can't always get what you want. I accept the fact and feel free as a result.
The seeds of consciousness have already been planted which means that people will one day wake up for themselves. Right now, people do not want to know the truth, even when it is staring them in the face. They do not have the strength to absorb the enormity of what the world is facing. Nevertheless, changes are happening. More and more people are waking up to the reality of the world and to the people who are responsible for that reality. Others, who fail to take note of what is going on, are more aware than they think, because like I said, the seeds of consciousness have already been planted in the backs of their subconscious minds because one day, something will happen and they will wake up and that tiny seed that had been planted there by something that they had seen somewhere during a fleeting split second of their lives, will trigger the awakening, consciousness and awareness within them.
India is not like the west. No shit, I hear you say. But it is trying to be. India's elite are ashamed of its people, land, culture and traditions, so much so, that it is responsible for continuing the dictatorship of its own people in pretty much the same way as its colonial predecessors. They are desperate, and I mean desperate, to ape the western way of life. They want to be like the very people who raped and pillaged them. India, however, is too strong, too powerful, it's spirit too potent to be converted into a Babylonian state just like that. There are 1.2 billion people here. However, on the downside, the ninety plus percent of that population that lives below the poverty line, is consistently bombarded with billboard and television advertising, by Bollywood movies and soap operas, by xyz, and are brainwashed into aspiring to a certain way of life. It's like showing candy to a baby and not allowing it to have any. Most of India's population is dark skinned and its millions conditioned to believe that fair skin is beautiful. Garnier, L'Oreal, Ponds, Oil of Olay and every other petrochemical product company that you can think of, has re-marketed its products in India using the “fair and lovely” game card. It works wonders. On the television, there is not a single celebrity that possesses dark skin. The same can be said of every Bollywood actor. The level of brainwashing instigated by the Indian elite is incredulously disturbing to the point where they have succeeded in making their own people feel ashamed of the colour of their own skin - creating on a national scale, mass levels of low self esteem in their own country. They are no different to the British that ruled here. It's that same style of leadership that continues today – only today, they are indulging in killing their own people softly: guns have been replaced with consumer culture.
Gandhi and Nehru
Nehru was exceptionally good friends with Mountbatten, in particular with his wife, Edwina. A hypocrite who worked with the British boasted of winning the biggest war of the century by dividing the country into three parts - India, Pakistan and Bangladesh - his improvidence planting the seeds of hatred between Hindus and Muslims forever. Divide, conquer, rule - a British strategy from which he learned well. He is also known for giving birth to the problem of Kashmir and China.
Gandhi, the so-called “Mahatma”, should not even have been born, let alone killed like a so-called martyr by Nathuram Godse, who in the eyes of many people, is the real hero of India. Gandhi appeared to display pro-Indian, pro-freedom philosophies, yet his words, as my aunty likes to phrase, were nothing more than “sweet poison” for the masses. He was an informer for the British government, a man of malice and deceit because he deceived non other than his own people when he reported of protests and rallies to senior officials who would then send in the armed forces to repress the voice of the people. In effect, his hunger strike did the opposite: It cost the country for him to starve himself so that like a stubborn old goat he could give the bullshit that he was trying to feed us, some substance. Gandhi allowed the division of India and killed it economically with his corrupt principles. He was the real culprit of India, an impractical leader who taught a whole nation to be submissive in the face of violence. He was a shrewd and cunning man with double standards towards untouchability, promoting the hierarchical structure while showing sympathy to untouchables. Gandhi helped divide the nation on the grounds of religion – an arrogant man. Nehru and Gandhi were one and the same: two evil spirits that danced to the same rhythm but in different forms. Fuck Gandhi and fuck Nehru too.
India is the safest haven in which to be before the complete annihilation of the world
So the Indian elite continue to dance in the footsteps of Nehru, using Gandhi as their weapon of morality. Babylon is what they wanted. They are looking to create a samsara in the spiritual motherland. Yet one thing I won't ever forget, is something that a friend of mine had told me earlier this year. He said that India is the safest haven in the world before the complete annihilation of the world. I think he is right, because no matter how hard the elite try to change India, it will not change to their satisfaction. The harder they try to change the country, the more difficulties they will face in the process. They don't seem to realise what they are dealing with here. This is India baby, Mother India, the land of love, spirituality, hope, freedom, anarchy, autonomy and belief! The collective belief of 1.2 billion people make it a powerful country - regardless of the deprivation and levels of poverty that exist here. They cannot change India. It will not succumb to the forces of Babylonia. It will never become samsara, because India is too naïve to even understand! India cannot understand that world even if it wanted to! And it wants to understand, yet continues to fail in doing so! That's the funny thing about the place, and that's the very thing that makes me love India so much. I love you India, with my heart and soul. There is no place in this world like you, no civilization on earth that could mimic you if it tried.
Fuck the British too
The egalitarian society spawned by the British changed many things in India, including same-sex love and nudity. Gay and lesbian relationships were “normal” in India, that was of course, until the British turned up. In ancient mythologies and Sanskrit texts such as the Mahabharata, there are countless stories of same sex love between the Gods. Women wore their saris, revealing their breasts, this too was normal, until Queen Victoria introduced the sari blouse and the bra and women were commanded they cover up. Today, it is difficult to imagine India as the land of Kama Sutra and sexual liberation for which it had once been known. Indoctrination by the British Empire has made us forget the true substance of Indian society, breeding instead its prudish nature and leaving the prospects of a sexual cultural revolution, looming in the far distant future.
It is also the place where ancestral traditions and tribal living still continues. India is big. Too big for any one world authority or any new world order, to touch it. They are trying to pollute the country with consumer culture, trying to change the mentality of the people with promises of power and money, attempting to water down its culture with western values and inspiring people with materialistic attitudes.
The caste system
The caste system is something that the government have tried to abolish, but it is also something that gives people a sense of identity. If you belong to a certain caste, then you are more or less protected by the community of that caste and regardless of your social status or level of poverty, you will always have an identity. People try to rubbish the caste system of India, but to me, it has many positive values and it is a system that has worked for centuries. Intercaste and inter-race marriages in India are now on the rise, however this can also be seen as a positive thing because it balances things out in terms of preserving culture whilst encouraging acceptance, regardless of your caste, colour or creed.
Screw the Indian elite
India's elite have also caused mass disturbance on a social and moral level. They corrupt their own people with landowners and factory owners employing individuals that owe a lifetime of debt. Those individuals that manage to break out of the vicious cycle of trying to survive and paying obscene debt, become just like the very people by whom they were abused. The Indian elite have been responsible for breeding greed for money, material things and slave labour. The very people that were abused, break the cycle to become abusers themselves. Peasant farm workers that by chance fall on lucky times, continue the very same cycle of abuse that they themselves suffered at the hands of their own manipulating, corrupt employers. The Indian elite is forever trying to transform Indian society into a pen-pushing, bureaucratic, power abusing nation of people. Yet one thing they fail to realise is the sheer size of the Indian population. One point two billion. The figure speaks for itself and is a statement in its own right.
Power of a People
Many people lament that the growth of India's population is to the detriment of the nation. Yet despite this, one thing that prevails in India, is the power of the people. India is about people and the power lies in the sheer size of that people. The depth and breadth of that people is so expansive that the Indian elite could not even dream of manipulating India in the way that they would like. The power of the people resides over the petty values that the elite have tried to penetrate in India. Mainstream and commercial culture exists, just like it does in every other country in the world. Such is the nature of the new world order. Yet the shallow substance of such values is not strong enough to overcome the strength of the traditions, religions, values, virtues and the ways of life that are embedded so deep into Indian society. The power of the people overrides any pathetic attempts made by the Indian elite, to ape their colonial predecessors.
The poison that is “civilization”
The power of a nation has spawned a people that is free. A people that is free from a corrupt system built on greed power and money because most people in India are free to live their lives in the only way they know how. Where else in the world do you get a slum stuck next to a five star hotel? Where else in the world are lepers and the impoverished allowed to beg wherever they want? Where else but in India, is it possible for hermaphrodites and eunuchs to just be and do whatever it is they do? Only in India!
The substance of sheer existence in India is worlds apart to the existence of any other so-called civilization in the world. It made me realise how in our so-called “civilized” world, we suffocate in the vomit of an egalitarian society. In our contemptuous minds, we have tried to penetrate the beauty that lies in the simplicity of life, with the poison we term as “civilization”. As they try to ape their British colonial predecessors, the Indian elite continue to impose their so-called world view, feeling ashamed enough in the face of western ideals to pollute their own people and land – like the suffocating effect of a man tied to the noose of a horse running wild through a colossal of unforgiving thorns, shredding them to pieces.
I have imagined walking through the doors of a parallel world, visualizing the contemptuous, condescending and barbaric nature of a so-called superior civilization that succumbs to the expectations of an egotistical society with its brain-dead disposition to wasting away, replacing the necessity of returning to nature to realise ourselves, with washed out, faded dreams that aspire to a material world. We try and fail, left to be scraped up as garbage and dumped into the pile for losers. We succeed and forget who we are. The people that I met in India, will never forget who they are.
Back to base
It's time for some family time, this time with my massi ji, my mum's sister, who lives in Abohar, a south western town situated in the province of Punjab, and which touches the borders of Rajasthan and Haryana. I've been here numerous times over the last year, so it's just like coming home. My cousin, Appu, is home. She's just finished university and is teaching chemistry at the local college. She just got her admission onto a Post Grad in Pharmacy. Appu should be heading to Canada early next year and is looking forwards to the culture shock that awaits her.
It's good to be home. I've spent time preparing myself mentally for the flight back to London. When I get my flight, I still don't know. The ticket has been booked, but I'm going to try and stretch it out for just another 12 days. Whether this works out or not, I have no idea, however I have prepared myself to get on that plane earlier than I would really like to. I've also spent time pampering myself, relaxing and writing this blog. Exciting times abound.
Acceptance is Freedom
I feel sad. But I am trying not to be. I am ready to go back to Babylon, ready to return to Samsara. Fully armed with the love of the Motherland, I feel ready to take on the world. Yet 12 precious days is all that I asked for. Once again though, I can see how Mother India will never stop teaching me the lessons in life that I need to learn. Including: that you can't always get what you want. I accept the fact and feel free as a result.
From Rajasthan with Love...
This is my third trip to Rajasthan. This time, one of the main reasons to go back is non other than family. “You've been in India a whole year and you still haven't been to see your uncle!” I could hear my dad's voice. “It doesn't look nice, you should go, at least before you get on the plane!”
Churu
He's my grandfather's brother and he lives in Churu, a dusty north-western town in Rajasthan. I decided to take Yifang and Eri with me for the ride. I warned them that both my great aunt and uncle are strict. That means: No smoking, no shouting, not swearing, no revealing clothes. It also means no wondering off for hours on your own and returning to the house on the back of some guy's back. That's what Eri did and I didn't hear the end of it until the moment we left. “Where has she gone? A girl on her own doesn't wonder around like this! What will the neighbours say? Why isn't she back yet? Who is she with? How could she go off on her own like that?” When Eri did finally get back, my great aunt was livid: “your uncle has said the final word: that this is the first and last time.” As we went to leave the following morning, she refused to give me a hug, and refused to even acknowledge the apology that a whimpering Eri had tried to offer.
Apart from that slight mishap at the end of our three day trip to my great uncle's town, we had a relatively relaxed experience, smoking on the rooftop, browsing through the shops and visiting the temple. It's a typical Indian village-town with a busy bazaar and lots of shops. I was happy that I had accomplished my duty (to an extent). At least dad would be happy that I paid them a visit. Hopefully he won't hear the full story...
Jaipur
It was back to Jaipur if we were to get the connecting bus onwards and westwards to the Jaisalmer desert. I had visions of the three of us riding humongous camels and sleeping under the stars. It was to be a short trip, but one that was well worth the journey. We spent the day walking around the shops in Jaipur, paying a visit to the infamous Lassi Wallah. Lassi is an Indian yoghurt drink that arrives in plain, salty, sweet, mango, banana and a range of of other flavours. There are a number of Lassi Wallahs on the MI Road. We opted for one of the best. I think it was one of the highlights of the day. Yifang was a little taken aback by the speed at which the city moves. Cows, rickshaws, autos, bicycles, street kids, beggers, hustlers, hermaphrodites all come hurtling at you at once as you walk down any of the city's main streets. People grab you, try to talk to you, try to sell you everything under the sun - bus and train tickets, dancing Indian puppets, colourful bedsheets, umbrellas, clothes, bindis, bangles the works. Yifang learnt that it is better not to walk through Jaipur as if you are strolling through the park when she despaired at the beggars that mercilessly clawed at her and pleaded with their undernourished faces, to give them money.
Our bus was due to leave in the evening, so we spent our last few hours at the Evergreen Hotel on MI Road, the place I had stayed the last time I was in Jaipur. Amongst the speckling of backpackers and students, it's the kind of hotel that attracts predominantly jewellery traders. As we sat at the restaurant, I spotted a few familiar faces, including Misako from Japan, who I had met just last year. We were joined by Ricky, a sprightly fifty-something from Israel.
Jaislamer
It was a tough journey. We've done twenty-plus hour bus journeys through the Himalaya, so what was 12? It was not very nice. Sleepless, my mind spilled with thoughts of what may or may not unfold over the weeks ahead. As the bus pulled into Jaisalmer bus station, hotel touts were at the ready, waiting like sharks to pounce on every white face. “I have good hotel sir! Only 100 rupees per night! You will enjoy! Come this way, free taxi to hotel!” I had had enough of the constant voices that hammered through my head and it became one of the few occasions that I nearly lost the plot. I raised the Lonely Planet in my hands and motioned the way I would smash it in the head of the guy who stood blabbering in my face despite the fact I had told him to calm down and wait until we had taken our luggage from the back. He responded angrily. I ignored him and picked out the quietest tout in the group and cornering him, arranged a flat rate of 100 rupees for a room for the three of us. A German guy and his Thai girlfriend decided to join us and we made for the so-called Artist Hotel.
I say “so-called” because it was not the Artist Hotel, but the Jaisal View Hotel. The tout had used the name as it was listed in the Lonely Planet. We're not the kind of travelers to go by the book, but as we happened to be in a situation where we were being hounded by what felt like a hundred dogs, it was the only feasible solution at that split-second in time.
We took breakfast and showered before scouring the town for camel safaris. We had just another two days in Jaisalmer so the least we could achieve was a desert adventure with a bunch of camels. We found what we wanted at a reasonable price, yet we all knew the guys from our hotel would be annoyed with us for not booking the safari with them. This is the way the cookie crumbles, making Jaisalmer one of the most difficult places to experience without any hassles. The mood of the two guys running the hotel changed distinctly as we reveled that we'd be leaving the following day.
Camel Adventure!
Sweetheart was the name of my camel. Eri's was called Forjee, meaning soldier, as he once worked with the Indian army and had been shot. Yifang became Desert Queen, as she opened her umbrella to shield her sensitive skin from the sun. We stopped at a number of temples, including a 1400 year old Jain temple. We were told stories of the 1971 Indo-Pakistan war, including the time when seven shells had been shot into Jaisalmer, not a single one of them detonating as a mysterious serpent arched itself high up above one of the city's ancient temples. No one to this day has been able to explain the mysticism of the snakes of Jaisalmer, or the reason why the shells that day, had failed to detonate. Snakes in India are worshipped like deities, mainly because they are known for their strong association with Shiva, the creator and destroyer of the universe. Jaisalmer is known for its cobra snakes, especially in the desert and seeing one is meant to bring the onlooker good luck.
That night we camped out under the stars. I spotted two shooting stars and made my wish. We had been to a number of temples, including the Rama-Krishna and Ganesh temple. The Ganesh had been uncovered from the earth some centuries ago, apparently it arose from the ground. I looked at the orange coloured statue and it looked knowingly back at me.
That was the desert. It was time to head to Pushkar. It must be the fastest trip that I have experienced in the entire time that I have been in India. My usual method of traveling involves a much more shanti (peaceful) approach. However, on this occasion, I have to admit, that time is of the essence.
It's all coming to an end...
I can't believe that it's all coming to an end. I arrived in India in November last year. I return to Europe, November this year. My visa expires. My ticket is booked. I've changed it twice already. British Airways will not allow me to change it again. I could go to Nepal and get another six months, but that means losing my ticket and having to buy a new one. All good things must come to an end. It's something that I am coming to terms with. Slowly but surely. India will still be here. I can come back again in the near future. There are things that must be dealt with if I want to return. Enjoy the moment, appreciate the time that I have had here and go back with a heart full of joy.
Pushkar
Despite the feeling of deja-vous, it felt good to be back in Pushkar. We arrived at silly O clock in the morning. Om Baba opened the door to the original Sai Baba guesthouse that he is running for his friend. It was late, we were tired, and soon enough, found myself sleeping soundly.
I said it before and I'll say it again. You don't walk through Pushkar, you float through it. I floated. As Eri and I made our way towards the ghats, a baba took on his usual sales pitch and began praying for love, light, peace and happiness in my life. Eri had been nabbed by a younger baba, a Brahmin draped in white. The younger man joined us for a chai at our usual chai stall. He offered us a chillum. We went along. “All the Brahmins smoke chillum!” he thinks that his statement is going to impress us. I feel boredom coming on. I could also feel the sleaze oozing from his pores as he made an attempt to come sit right next to me. I move away from him. “I like my space, don't sit next to me,” I tell him. He apologises and moves back to his original place at the table. Eventually, we make our excuses and leave. He tried to speak to us on a number of other occasions, but I had nothing to say to him and slowly, slowly, he drifted away.
Pushkar is spilling with charming people. They include the beautiful Rajasthani women who work wonders on your hands with their henna designs, they also include the street kids, many of which recognised me from my previous two visits to the town. Then there are the local businesses, many friendly enough not to hassle you until you feel numb in the brain. “One chai, give me one chai please” or “five rupees please”, or, “buy my CD, it's very good, you will like!” You end up giving your money away to little monsters almost everyday, however, I have learned now not to do that. The smaller gypsy kids are very clever. They like to get to know you, familiarise themselves with you, and then feel that it is their God-given right to demand chai, food or money every time they see you. But you learn to joke with them, re-direct them to the other tourists and make them understand that you live here, here in Pushkar, that you are not a tourist and that this is your home, so they'd better hassle someone else today. Alternatively, ask them to buy you a chai instead, and watch them burst into a fit of giggles!
Pushkar Lake
The supreme God-head, Brahma placed a lotus flower in Pushkar and it became a lake. However in recent years, the lake has not only been drying out as a result of little rainfall, but it has also been getting heavily polluted, killing off many of the fish. The government has taken on the “job” of draining the lake completely and digging it deeper. They aim to clean it and refill it. It's a job that I would term in Hindi as “satya-naas” - meaning, a catastrophe. They've dug too deep and it has been rumoured that however they re-fill it, the water will seep into the cracks and continue to drain away. They just keep digging and digging and digging. What they are trying to achieve, no one is sure. Pushkar without its lake is tragic. We are all hoping that someone will see sense and salvage the situation.
We also experienced a rather strange situation with Om Baba. He's a different person to the smiling, happy and jolly man that I had first met back in March this year. He's changed. Especially when he is around the woman that he is dating. With her face like a smacked arse, moody temperament and silent treatment, she has created a frosty atmosphere in the house. It's not comfortable to be there any more. She complains about the fact we use the kitchen and snarls when we walk around the house. I asked Om Baba, “what the fuck are you doing with this woman?” I think he's in it for the money. She's from New Zealand and fairly well off. He's known her for years. Om Baba has a tendency to attract crazy women. He doesn't take much care of himself either, and as David, a gentle elderly American man who is paralysed from the waist down, rightfully pointed out, he does not love his wheel chair or take care of it. Om Baba had Polio at a young age and has been walking on his hands since the age of three. I can sympathise with Om Baba, but I have to admit that I saw a different side to the man that I met all those months ago.
I decided not to stay at Om Baba's place again. Apart from the intense situation within the guesthouse, I floated rather happily through the streets of Pushkar, and loved hanging out at the chai shop in the centre of the main square. Countless travelers from around the world converge here to indulge in all types of random conversation. I made many a friend here and loved sitting around, drinking five rupee chai and talking to a medley of travelers from all four corners of the world. It was the highlight of my time in magical Pushkar.
Churu
He's my grandfather's brother and he lives in Churu, a dusty north-western town in Rajasthan. I decided to take Yifang and Eri with me for the ride. I warned them that both my great aunt and uncle are strict. That means: No smoking, no shouting, not swearing, no revealing clothes. It also means no wondering off for hours on your own and returning to the house on the back of some guy's back. That's what Eri did and I didn't hear the end of it until the moment we left. “Where has she gone? A girl on her own doesn't wonder around like this! What will the neighbours say? Why isn't she back yet? Who is she with? How could she go off on her own like that?” When Eri did finally get back, my great aunt was livid: “your uncle has said the final word: that this is the first and last time.” As we went to leave the following morning, she refused to give me a hug, and refused to even acknowledge the apology that a whimpering Eri had tried to offer.
Apart from that slight mishap at the end of our three day trip to my great uncle's town, we had a relatively relaxed experience, smoking on the rooftop, browsing through the shops and visiting the temple. It's a typical Indian village-town with a busy bazaar and lots of shops. I was happy that I had accomplished my duty (to an extent). At least dad would be happy that I paid them a visit. Hopefully he won't hear the full story...
Jaipur
It was back to Jaipur if we were to get the connecting bus onwards and westwards to the Jaisalmer desert. I had visions of the three of us riding humongous camels and sleeping under the stars. It was to be a short trip, but one that was well worth the journey. We spent the day walking around the shops in Jaipur, paying a visit to the infamous Lassi Wallah. Lassi is an Indian yoghurt drink that arrives in plain, salty, sweet, mango, banana and a range of of other flavours. There are a number of Lassi Wallahs on the MI Road. We opted for one of the best. I think it was one of the highlights of the day. Yifang was a little taken aback by the speed at which the city moves. Cows, rickshaws, autos, bicycles, street kids, beggers, hustlers, hermaphrodites all come hurtling at you at once as you walk down any of the city's main streets. People grab you, try to talk to you, try to sell you everything under the sun - bus and train tickets, dancing Indian puppets, colourful bedsheets, umbrellas, clothes, bindis, bangles the works. Yifang learnt that it is better not to walk through Jaipur as if you are strolling through the park when she despaired at the beggars that mercilessly clawed at her and pleaded with their undernourished faces, to give them money.
Our bus was due to leave in the evening, so we spent our last few hours at the Evergreen Hotel on MI Road, the place I had stayed the last time I was in Jaipur. Amongst the speckling of backpackers and students, it's the kind of hotel that attracts predominantly jewellery traders. As we sat at the restaurant, I spotted a few familiar faces, including Misako from Japan, who I had met just last year. We were joined by Ricky, a sprightly fifty-something from Israel.
Jaislamer
It was a tough journey. We've done twenty-plus hour bus journeys through the Himalaya, so what was 12? It was not very nice. Sleepless, my mind spilled with thoughts of what may or may not unfold over the weeks ahead. As the bus pulled into Jaisalmer bus station, hotel touts were at the ready, waiting like sharks to pounce on every white face. “I have good hotel sir! Only 100 rupees per night! You will enjoy! Come this way, free taxi to hotel!” I had had enough of the constant voices that hammered through my head and it became one of the few occasions that I nearly lost the plot. I raised the Lonely Planet in my hands and motioned the way I would smash it in the head of the guy who stood blabbering in my face despite the fact I had told him to calm down and wait until we had taken our luggage from the back. He responded angrily. I ignored him and picked out the quietest tout in the group and cornering him, arranged a flat rate of 100 rupees for a room for the three of us. A German guy and his Thai girlfriend decided to join us and we made for the so-called Artist Hotel.
I say “so-called” because it was not the Artist Hotel, but the Jaisal View Hotel. The tout had used the name as it was listed in the Lonely Planet. We're not the kind of travelers to go by the book, but as we happened to be in a situation where we were being hounded by what felt like a hundred dogs, it was the only feasible solution at that split-second in time.
We took breakfast and showered before scouring the town for camel safaris. We had just another two days in Jaisalmer so the least we could achieve was a desert adventure with a bunch of camels. We found what we wanted at a reasonable price, yet we all knew the guys from our hotel would be annoyed with us for not booking the safari with them. This is the way the cookie crumbles, making Jaisalmer one of the most difficult places to experience without any hassles. The mood of the two guys running the hotel changed distinctly as we reveled that we'd be leaving the following day.
Camel Adventure!
Sweetheart was the name of my camel. Eri's was called Forjee, meaning soldier, as he once worked with the Indian army and had been shot. Yifang became Desert Queen, as she opened her umbrella to shield her sensitive skin from the sun. We stopped at a number of temples, including a 1400 year old Jain temple. We were told stories of the 1971 Indo-Pakistan war, including the time when seven shells had been shot into Jaisalmer, not a single one of them detonating as a mysterious serpent arched itself high up above one of the city's ancient temples. No one to this day has been able to explain the mysticism of the snakes of Jaisalmer, or the reason why the shells that day, had failed to detonate. Snakes in India are worshipped like deities, mainly because they are known for their strong association with Shiva, the creator and destroyer of the universe. Jaisalmer is known for its cobra snakes, especially in the desert and seeing one is meant to bring the onlooker good luck.
That night we camped out under the stars. I spotted two shooting stars and made my wish. We had been to a number of temples, including the Rama-Krishna and Ganesh temple. The Ganesh had been uncovered from the earth some centuries ago, apparently it arose from the ground. I looked at the orange coloured statue and it looked knowingly back at me.
That was the desert. It was time to head to Pushkar. It must be the fastest trip that I have experienced in the entire time that I have been in India. My usual method of traveling involves a much more shanti (peaceful) approach. However, on this occasion, I have to admit, that time is of the essence.
It's all coming to an end...
I can't believe that it's all coming to an end. I arrived in India in November last year. I return to Europe, November this year. My visa expires. My ticket is booked. I've changed it twice already. British Airways will not allow me to change it again. I could go to Nepal and get another six months, but that means losing my ticket and having to buy a new one. All good things must come to an end. It's something that I am coming to terms with. Slowly but surely. India will still be here. I can come back again in the near future. There are things that must be dealt with if I want to return. Enjoy the moment, appreciate the time that I have had here and go back with a heart full of joy.
Pushkar
Despite the feeling of deja-vous, it felt good to be back in Pushkar. We arrived at silly O clock in the morning. Om Baba opened the door to the original Sai Baba guesthouse that he is running for his friend. It was late, we were tired, and soon enough, found myself sleeping soundly.
I said it before and I'll say it again. You don't walk through Pushkar, you float through it. I floated. As Eri and I made our way towards the ghats, a baba took on his usual sales pitch and began praying for love, light, peace and happiness in my life. Eri had been nabbed by a younger baba, a Brahmin draped in white. The younger man joined us for a chai at our usual chai stall. He offered us a chillum. We went along. “All the Brahmins smoke chillum!” he thinks that his statement is going to impress us. I feel boredom coming on. I could also feel the sleaze oozing from his pores as he made an attempt to come sit right next to me. I move away from him. “I like my space, don't sit next to me,” I tell him. He apologises and moves back to his original place at the table. Eventually, we make our excuses and leave. He tried to speak to us on a number of other occasions, but I had nothing to say to him and slowly, slowly, he drifted away.
Pushkar is spilling with charming people. They include the beautiful Rajasthani women who work wonders on your hands with their henna designs, they also include the street kids, many of which recognised me from my previous two visits to the town. Then there are the local businesses, many friendly enough not to hassle you until you feel numb in the brain. “One chai, give me one chai please” or “five rupees please”, or, “buy my CD, it's very good, you will like!” You end up giving your money away to little monsters almost everyday, however, I have learned now not to do that. The smaller gypsy kids are very clever. They like to get to know you, familiarise themselves with you, and then feel that it is their God-given right to demand chai, food or money every time they see you. But you learn to joke with them, re-direct them to the other tourists and make them understand that you live here, here in Pushkar, that you are not a tourist and that this is your home, so they'd better hassle someone else today. Alternatively, ask them to buy you a chai instead, and watch them burst into a fit of giggles!
Pushkar Lake
The supreme God-head, Brahma placed a lotus flower in Pushkar and it became a lake. However in recent years, the lake has not only been drying out as a result of little rainfall, but it has also been getting heavily polluted, killing off many of the fish. The government has taken on the “job” of draining the lake completely and digging it deeper. They aim to clean it and refill it. It's a job that I would term in Hindi as “satya-naas” - meaning, a catastrophe. They've dug too deep and it has been rumoured that however they re-fill it, the water will seep into the cracks and continue to drain away. They just keep digging and digging and digging. What they are trying to achieve, no one is sure. Pushkar without its lake is tragic. We are all hoping that someone will see sense and salvage the situation.
We also experienced a rather strange situation with Om Baba. He's a different person to the smiling, happy and jolly man that I had first met back in March this year. He's changed. Especially when he is around the woman that he is dating. With her face like a smacked arse, moody temperament and silent treatment, she has created a frosty atmosphere in the house. It's not comfortable to be there any more. She complains about the fact we use the kitchen and snarls when we walk around the house. I asked Om Baba, “what the fuck are you doing with this woman?” I think he's in it for the money. She's from New Zealand and fairly well off. He's known her for years. Om Baba has a tendency to attract crazy women. He doesn't take much care of himself either, and as David, a gentle elderly American man who is paralysed from the waist down, rightfully pointed out, he does not love his wheel chair or take care of it. Om Baba had Polio at a young age and has been walking on his hands since the age of three. I can sympathise with Om Baba, but I have to admit that I saw a different side to the man that I met all those months ago.
I decided not to stay at Om Baba's place again. Apart from the intense situation within the guesthouse, I floated rather happily through the streets of Pushkar, and loved hanging out at the chai shop in the centre of the main square. Countless travelers from around the world converge here to indulge in all types of random conversation. I made many a friend here and loved sitting around, drinking five rupee chai and talking to a medley of travelers from all four corners of the world. It was the highlight of my time in magical Pushkar.
Chalo Manali!
It's chalo Manali time! Yeah! Vashisht is the name of the place we are heading, yet another location infamous for its hot springs. Fake babas with their chillums, long beards and dreadlocks abound. It's chillum city. Chillum, chai, chapatti, yeah! Hot springs, shopping, hiring bikes, going on mountain runs, smoking, chilling, eating, sleeping, waking, hot springs again. It's a nice life and Eri, Yifang, Raechel and I were looking forwards to another kind of chill out time after the experience of Leh and the Nubra Valley. It was time to head for another kind of civilization.
Splitting with David... boohoo!
David surprised me earlier this year when he announced on email that he is to leave Spain and join me out here in India. I was over the moon of course because I could imagine the two of us getting up to all kinds of mischief in India and embarking on a number of adventures that only lunatics would consider “normal”. We've been traveling together for the last six months and have been through the mill together. He's picked me up when I've been down, given me the odd reality check, thrown a few harsh words my way, dragged me through the Himalayas, kicked my arse when it needed kicking. I can say I've done more or less the same for him. We haven't had so many arguments, but we have been able to tell each other to piss off whenever required. There's no need to take things personally when it comes to speaking the mind in our friendship, and to me, that's what good friendships are all about.
The freak that he is, David found kinship with two other mountain-goats and decided to jump on a bus with them to Lamayuru before taking on the nine 5000 metre passes to Padum. He was going to trek back to Zanskar, the nutter! From Padum, he was to split with the guys, Gregorio, a Columbian traveler who had spent a year as a monk in Thailand living on alms and who intrinsically crossed the Himalayan range in his flipflops, and Nicola, a French mountain fanatic. The guys were to go on to Srinagar in Kashmir, while David had decided to follow in the footsteps of Lauren and her nun-brigade and cross the range from Padum to Darcha, which is about two or three hours by bus from Vashisht.
David was basically trekking from Leh to Manali and his estimated time to get there was 15 days. There was no way I could wait for him in Vashisht so we said our goodbyes in Leh. Although we had planned to link up somewhere, I had a feeling that this was going to be the last time I would see him for quite some time. I felt sad and teary after he left, the oot (camel). I'm going to miss the bitch.
Vashisht!
We are here! I love going to the hotsprings every morning. The place is a literal hot tub of smiling women from around the world, all bathing together. A beautiful energy! I spoke to Udeni from Sri Lanka, a stunning woman who has been traveling around India for many years and who regularly returns to Vashisht. I met Marci, from Madrid, who has known Udeni for some years now and who cannot help but return to India time and time again; and I met a number of women from many different parts of India, some of them proudly adorning amazing tribal jewellery, including huge nose and lip rings, and multiple silver hoops in their ears. Wise old women, wonderful mothers with their adorable babies, energetic teenagers, traveling hippy girls from across the four corners of the world - everyone was smiling, everyone happy to see each other and loving just to simply be. No questions, no hassles; no one cares how long you have been traveling, where you come from or what you do for a living. The hot springs are there to wash away the mundane of life and this was an opportunity that everyone was making making the most of.
Full moon - full power!
Trouble
Troubles began in the run-up to the full moon. We're talking full power action in the neighbourhood here. Feelings were running high, people were running riot, unsavoury characters were on full charge around us, and at the time, it felt like there was very little we could do about it.
Raechel
Raechel, a smitten kitten, has just learnt to ride a bike. Inspired by her oh-so sweet amor, she became a biker chick overnight. I met Raechel for the very first time in Dharamasala where she balanced my chakras with her healing powers and crystals. A true healer and practitioner of Reiki, we lovingly refer to Racheal as Earth Mother. She was the third person to tell me that my heart chakra was blocked and her sweet healing powers put me on the mend again. A special chica with special powers, she's reminds me of a good witch, a woman that I am privileged to have met. I bumped into Racheal again, this time in Leh. Seeing as she had the same plan as Yifan, Eri and I, we all decided to head down to Manali together.
Boys and Bikes
Full power to Raechel for learning how to ride a bike and having the confidence to do it on her own in Manali! We thought we'd take some inspiration from her, however, our plans to hire bikes, learn how to ride them and to drive off into the sunset through the pristine pine forest valleys of Manali – didn't exactly pay off.
We spent most of the day faffing about in the garage with Ilan (he's Ladakhi, but has been given an Israeli name by his rather sweet and innocent Israeli girlfriend) and a bunch of mechanics. Ilan is a bad boy. We should have sussed this out from the word go. As we sat around drinking coffee that morning, he decided to join us, tapping in on our conversation to hire a bunch of bikes. We'd met Ilan the night before at Aya and Bombaya's place. Bombaya is a baba, or so he says. He's never worked a day in his life, laughs like a silly child and smokes chillum for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He's also the beloved of Aya. She'd met him walking down the street in Kasol some months back. With his dreadlocks and childish charm, he won her heart. So much so that they are now visiting his parents in Bihar.
You meet someone once, spend an evening talking, eating, drinking and smoking with them, and they become a familiar face. Such was the case with Ilan. He decided he could help us with our little bike mission and took us down to his friend's garage. They fix Enfields, of course. I was expecting scooters, but was in for a shock when we discovered the metal monstrosities that lay before us. Raechel went off on her own mission to find a bike while Eri, Yifang and I tried our luck with getting started. I felt a little shakey, and if I was to be brutally honest, hungover from the night before. Eri managed to straddle her bike and figure out the balance and gears. Ilan pushing the back of the bike, ran like a lunatic after her as she took off for the road, driving on the wrong side. It looked like the scene of a dad teaching his daughter to ride a bicycle for the very first time. Yifang decided that this was not for her, and as for me... Well, I thought it might be better if we managed to get ourselves a few chauffeurs. As it happened, we'd taken up the time of the mechanics as well as the bikes, despite the fact we hadn't actually gone anywhere yet and it was already three o'clock in the afternoon.
Ilan suggested we find some boys to go with the bikes, so we went on a mission to find some. First stop was Eric the Norwegian. He and his friend have known Ilan and co for some time. Unfortunately, they cannot ride bikes. We accepted the kind offer of a smoke instead before making our way back to the garage. By this time, it was decided that Ilan would be joined by two others – Tinku from Punjab (who works as a mechanic in the garage) and Sidhi from Nepal (a tuk-tuk driver and good friend of the guys). Sidhi was the most decent of the three. We'd hired bikes and the boys came with them as complimentary accessories. The Manali mountain countryside whizzed past us and I felt the air cut across my face; felt exhilarated at the back of the bike as the wind nearly deafened my ears and the cold numbed my hands. I was on the back of Ilan's bike. He drove like a lunatic and refused to slow down, cutting tight corners at white knuckle speed. I managed to keep it together.
Earlier this year I went on a two month motorcycle adventure on the back of an Enfield with my friend, Wayne. He was exceptionally considerate, drove like a responsible adult and not once did I feel the fear. On this occasion however, I did. In my experience, I have learnt that it is better to trust your instincts about a driver when you are on the back. I did not trust Ilan. Eri, meanwhile, was in much safer hands with Sidhi, a gentle soul who appeared to have a little more respect in general, if you know what I mean.
Troubles begins.
Night begins to fall and Ilan begins to get restless. It's cold, but I am not going to put my hands around his waist. He's starting to piss me off. He decides it's time to stop for a drink so comes to a halt outside a tiny shop and picks up a bottle of rum. He takes a long swig. Raechel passes us by. Probably better for her that she did. We stop another 10 minutes later and go sit inside a dhaba serving local fare and alcohol. By this time, Ilan has convinced Yifang that he will take her on a trek the following day. He wants to take her with him to meet others and discuss the details and uses this as a pretext to swap passengers. I felt a lot safer on the back of Tinku's bike. He confided that he would never sit on the back of Ilan's bike and that he found his friend to be a dangerous rider. A bad feeling began to brew in the pit of my stomach as I thought of Yifang on the back of the bike with this bafoon; with this pathetic excuse of a man.
Where is Yifang?
It's 9pm and there is still no sign of Yifang. We get word an hour or so later that she is in some bar-come-restaurant, sitting with Ilan. As we enter the bar, a look of relief crosses Yifang's face. She looks tired and drunk and is sitting next to the wall, cornered in by Ilan, whose face drops as we walk in. He tries to offer us a drink but we refuse, asking Yifang if she is okay, helping her up and walking out with her. I let Ilan know that his “wife” has been looking for him the entire day and had even sent a search party out after him. He runs out of the bar with his tail between his legs as we leave the joint.
As soon as we get home, Yifang reveals that Ilan had other intentions. No shit. He'd given her something to drink and had kept trying to put his hands and arms all over her. I felt a volcanic surge of anger rising through me. I wanted to throttle the little shit and began putting on my boots so that I could go out, find him and stick at least one foot smack bang into his rear end. She was evidently not comfortable with the situation that she had found herself in, however, had found it difficult to just get up and walk out of the bar. She wasn't sure how to handle the situation plainly because she had never been in a situation like this. In other words, a rather vulnerable young lady who has not seen this scummy side of life before. Yifang comes from Taiwan and is also a stunningly beautiful young woman. Her experience of traveling and people outside her own country has been limited, but growing each day, as it seems, by the minute. She has taken on board how she should deal with a situation like this if it was to ever arise again. I felt guilty about leaving her with Ilan. We should have known better. Still, I explained that there is nothing rude, bad or wrong about telling someone politely that you would now like to go and that you will see them another time. It seems however, that Ilan had seen a vulnerable situation here and was hard pushed if he was to let it go. He had made Yifang extremely uncomfortable and had made it difficult for her to leave.
Hold your ears and apologise you piece of shit
In India, when someone is made to hold their ears, it is a clear sign that they are deeply ashamed and embarrassed. It displays their idiocy and the shame they have brought onto themselves. It is something that children are often made to do when they have done something wrong.
As I sit with my morning coffee the following day, I spot Ilan with Sidhi and Tinku. I summon them to join me. Ilan is looking sheepish. “So did you get a beating from your wife last night?”, I begin. They laugh. “It's no laughing matter.” I try to maintain a sternness in my voice. I am older than him. In India, elders are meant to be respected and I try to throw some authority into my approach. “What do you think you were doing with my friend last night? She tells me that she wasn't very comfortable with the situation. That you tried to put your arms around her, hold on to her.” He tries to defend, “But I hugged you yesterday!” It was a joke. We all knew it. All I wanted him to do was admit that he was wrong and say sorry. He begins apologising to me. “No.” I retort. “You come with me to the house and you apologise to the girl. You hold your ears and you apologise.”
We walk up to the house and Yifang tries to close the door the second she realises he is there. Ilan apologises half heartedly and then tries to shake her hand. “I don't want to shake your hand”, Yifang tells him. I tell them to leave.
That was idiot number one.
Troubles continue
I am looking for shampoo and conditioner on the shelves of the shop. I have been there for the last 10 minutes and have placed a number of items on the shop counter. As I try to find the conditioner for dry hair, I begin to move around some of the bottles on the shelf. He's a skinny runt. Short, skinny, dark with a moustache. He begins to shout at me. Yet his voice does not come to a halt any time soon and I realise that he has not stopped abusing me for moving the bottles around on his shelf. I am staring at him in disbelief and without thinking, throw the bottle of shampoo that I have in my hand, at him. It lands on the floor. He begins to swear at me. “Behan chaudh!” - which basically means, sister fucker. I have a bunch of conditioner sachets in my hand and throw them at him as well. I turn to leave and discover he is right behind me and that he is holding a shoe. According to mi amor, “since Bush has been attacked, shoes became weapons and you have to take care of any Indians not wearing chapals.” I guess you have to laugh about the situation, however, I wasn't quite laughing at the time.
Hold your ears! Take two!
I call the police. The response of the officer? “Why did you throw the shampoo?” - I don't think I need to go into a rant about this, or into the details. It's a waste of energy and another insight into the screwed up bureaucracy of the Indian justice system. I can however, reveal, that Mr ShopKeeper, became the second person in two consecutive days to hold his ears and apologise, this time in front of a crowd of people and the police. The following day he was summoned, as pressured to by me, to the police station, where I made him get down on his knees, hold his ears and then touch my feet. I did tell him that a dog was more worthy. Courts, convictions, investigations – screw the lot of them. I cannot tarnish my time in India with this kind of shit. I did what I could. End of story. Moral of the story? Control your temper. He's an ass, but you don't have to be one too.
Hold your ears – Take Three!
Chotu, the 19 year old village boy works in Little Tibet, our favourite local restaurant in Vashisht. As a result of poor health and safety regulations, he burnt his face and arms when opening the pizza oven door outside. The door of the pizza oven needs to remain open, especially to avoid incidents of hot air blasting out at inexperienced little village boys like Chotu. We sympathised with Chotu and gave him some attention, made conversation and tried to make him feel better. I noticed that he would watch us strangely from a distance and that he began to make frequent visits to our guesthouse, which was situated just a stone's throw from the restaurant in which he worked.
We were out at the waterfall. Yifang had decided to stay home. On our return, we were greeted by a freaked out Yifang. “He came into the room, he close the curtains and went and stood by the bed! Then he try to close the door! I scared! I ran outside! I tell him to leave!” That was it. I had had enough.
Raj, the restaurant manager had become a respectable friend in the time that we had been in Vashisht. We spent many a night hanging out with Raj after hours, when he'd tell us of his past and of his perspectives on life. He's a solemn and intelligent young man much older than his years. He earned our respect to the point that we even made him a friendship band of colourful threads for his wrist. “This is worth more than all the clothes and money I can think of, because it's going to last at least three or four years. I will never take it off!” he exclaimed in happiness when Eri, Yifang, Rachael and I presented it to him.
Raj appeared at our door to say hello. I explained what happened with Chotu. His immediate response was that we inform the chef of the restaurant, Chotu's older brother. He also explained that Chotu was inexperienced when it came to dealing with foreigners and that he comes from a small village, hence his small-town mentality. Throughout villages in India, it is not normal for a guy and girl to even speak to each other. Not unless there is something more going on between them. This is the kind of background from which Chotu has come.
Half an hour later...
Chotu appears at our guesthouse. Raj has evidently warned him that we will be speaking to his brother about his behaviour. I ask him what he wants. He pleads with me not to say anything about the situation to his older brother. I am a lot more lenient with him than I should have been. Yifang suddenly arrives and she re-enacts his behaviour, tracing his exact movements. I stare at him in disbelief. “You did this?” He lowers his head and begins to touch my feet, begging me not to tell his brother. I realise that he is young and inexperienced. “Sauch samaj kar rehana. Izat se rehana: Be mature. Be wise, have respect for others and behave like an adult.” “Ladkhi aap se baath karti, iska mathlab yeh nahin bhi wo aap ko pasand karti: Just because a girl speaks to you, it does not mean she wants to jump into bed with you.” I tell him that he needs to grow up and grow out of his small-minded village mentality because he will not survive another day working in places like this. “Don't do it again.” He holds his ears, apologises to Yifang and I tell him to leave.
All of these events took place over the period of the full moon. We had hoped to get to Kasol for the full moon party, but decided against it. Perhaps something worse could have taken place had we gone there. Overall, we did not want to leave Vashisht with a bad feeling in our hearts, so we lived it out a few more days. Rachael eventually left to join her amor in Dharamsala. We made her a friendship band and took her to the bus station. A few days later, we were on the bus to Delhi. I will be back in Vashisht. It's a very special place. I will never forget the Japanese baba who sits outside the temple that is situated right outside the hot springs. Everyday I would go to see him and he would bless me with a tikka (a saffron based liquid that is thumbed onto the forehead); and every morning he would say, “sookh aur shanti” - meaning happiness and peace, or, “kush raho”, stay happy. It was time to move on now. Rajasthan was calling...
Splitting with David... boohoo!
David surprised me earlier this year when he announced on email that he is to leave Spain and join me out here in India. I was over the moon of course because I could imagine the two of us getting up to all kinds of mischief in India and embarking on a number of adventures that only lunatics would consider “normal”. We've been traveling together for the last six months and have been through the mill together. He's picked me up when I've been down, given me the odd reality check, thrown a few harsh words my way, dragged me through the Himalayas, kicked my arse when it needed kicking. I can say I've done more or less the same for him. We haven't had so many arguments, but we have been able to tell each other to piss off whenever required. There's no need to take things personally when it comes to speaking the mind in our friendship, and to me, that's what good friendships are all about.
The freak that he is, David found kinship with two other mountain-goats and decided to jump on a bus with them to Lamayuru before taking on the nine 5000 metre passes to Padum. He was going to trek back to Zanskar, the nutter! From Padum, he was to split with the guys, Gregorio, a Columbian traveler who had spent a year as a monk in Thailand living on alms and who intrinsically crossed the Himalayan range in his flipflops, and Nicola, a French mountain fanatic. The guys were to go on to Srinagar in Kashmir, while David had decided to follow in the footsteps of Lauren and her nun-brigade and cross the range from Padum to Darcha, which is about two or three hours by bus from Vashisht.
David was basically trekking from Leh to Manali and his estimated time to get there was 15 days. There was no way I could wait for him in Vashisht so we said our goodbyes in Leh. Although we had planned to link up somewhere, I had a feeling that this was going to be the last time I would see him for quite some time. I felt sad and teary after he left, the oot (camel). I'm going to miss the bitch.
Vashisht!
We are here! I love going to the hotsprings every morning. The place is a literal hot tub of smiling women from around the world, all bathing together. A beautiful energy! I spoke to Udeni from Sri Lanka, a stunning woman who has been traveling around India for many years and who regularly returns to Vashisht. I met Marci, from Madrid, who has known Udeni for some years now and who cannot help but return to India time and time again; and I met a number of women from many different parts of India, some of them proudly adorning amazing tribal jewellery, including huge nose and lip rings, and multiple silver hoops in their ears. Wise old women, wonderful mothers with their adorable babies, energetic teenagers, traveling hippy girls from across the four corners of the world - everyone was smiling, everyone happy to see each other and loving just to simply be. No questions, no hassles; no one cares how long you have been traveling, where you come from or what you do for a living. The hot springs are there to wash away the mundane of life and this was an opportunity that everyone was making making the most of.
Full moon - full power!
Trouble
Troubles began in the run-up to the full moon. We're talking full power action in the neighbourhood here. Feelings were running high, people were running riot, unsavoury characters were on full charge around us, and at the time, it felt like there was very little we could do about it.
Raechel
Raechel, a smitten kitten, has just learnt to ride a bike. Inspired by her oh-so sweet amor, she became a biker chick overnight. I met Raechel for the very first time in Dharamasala where she balanced my chakras with her healing powers and crystals. A true healer and practitioner of Reiki, we lovingly refer to Racheal as Earth Mother. She was the third person to tell me that my heart chakra was blocked and her sweet healing powers put me on the mend again. A special chica with special powers, she's reminds me of a good witch, a woman that I am privileged to have met. I bumped into Racheal again, this time in Leh. Seeing as she had the same plan as Yifan, Eri and I, we all decided to head down to Manali together.
Boys and Bikes
Full power to Raechel for learning how to ride a bike and having the confidence to do it on her own in Manali! We thought we'd take some inspiration from her, however, our plans to hire bikes, learn how to ride them and to drive off into the sunset through the pristine pine forest valleys of Manali – didn't exactly pay off.
We spent most of the day faffing about in the garage with Ilan (he's Ladakhi, but has been given an Israeli name by his rather sweet and innocent Israeli girlfriend) and a bunch of mechanics. Ilan is a bad boy. We should have sussed this out from the word go. As we sat around drinking coffee that morning, he decided to join us, tapping in on our conversation to hire a bunch of bikes. We'd met Ilan the night before at Aya and Bombaya's place. Bombaya is a baba, or so he says. He's never worked a day in his life, laughs like a silly child and smokes chillum for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He's also the beloved of Aya. She'd met him walking down the street in Kasol some months back. With his dreadlocks and childish charm, he won her heart. So much so that they are now visiting his parents in Bihar.
You meet someone once, spend an evening talking, eating, drinking and smoking with them, and they become a familiar face. Such was the case with Ilan. He decided he could help us with our little bike mission and took us down to his friend's garage. They fix Enfields, of course. I was expecting scooters, but was in for a shock when we discovered the metal monstrosities that lay before us. Raechel went off on her own mission to find a bike while Eri, Yifang and I tried our luck with getting started. I felt a little shakey, and if I was to be brutally honest, hungover from the night before. Eri managed to straddle her bike and figure out the balance and gears. Ilan pushing the back of the bike, ran like a lunatic after her as she took off for the road, driving on the wrong side. It looked like the scene of a dad teaching his daughter to ride a bicycle for the very first time. Yifang decided that this was not for her, and as for me... Well, I thought it might be better if we managed to get ourselves a few chauffeurs. As it happened, we'd taken up the time of the mechanics as well as the bikes, despite the fact we hadn't actually gone anywhere yet and it was already three o'clock in the afternoon.
Ilan suggested we find some boys to go with the bikes, so we went on a mission to find some. First stop was Eric the Norwegian. He and his friend have known Ilan and co for some time. Unfortunately, they cannot ride bikes. We accepted the kind offer of a smoke instead before making our way back to the garage. By this time, it was decided that Ilan would be joined by two others – Tinku from Punjab (who works as a mechanic in the garage) and Sidhi from Nepal (a tuk-tuk driver and good friend of the guys). Sidhi was the most decent of the three. We'd hired bikes and the boys came with them as complimentary accessories. The Manali mountain countryside whizzed past us and I felt the air cut across my face; felt exhilarated at the back of the bike as the wind nearly deafened my ears and the cold numbed my hands. I was on the back of Ilan's bike. He drove like a lunatic and refused to slow down, cutting tight corners at white knuckle speed. I managed to keep it together.
Earlier this year I went on a two month motorcycle adventure on the back of an Enfield with my friend, Wayne. He was exceptionally considerate, drove like a responsible adult and not once did I feel the fear. On this occasion however, I did. In my experience, I have learnt that it is better to trust your instincts about a driver when you are on the back. I did not trust Ilan. Eri, meanwhile, was in much safer hands with Sidhi, a gentle soul who appeared to have a little more respect in general, if you know what I mean.
Troubles begins.
Night begins to fall and Ilan begins to get restless. It's cold, but I am not going to put my hands around his waist. He's starting to piss me off. He decides it's time to stop for a drink so comes to a halt outside a tiny shop and picks up a bottle of rum. He takes a long swig. Raechel passes us by. Probably better for her that she did. We stop another 10 minutes later and go sit inside a dhaba serving local fare and alcohol. By this time, Ilan has convinced Yifang that he will take her on a trek the following day. He wants to take her with him to meet others and discuss the details and uses this as a pretext to swap passengers. I felt a lot safer on the back of Tinku's bike. He confided that he would never sit on the back of Ilan's bike and that he found his friend to be a dangerous rider. A bad feeling began to brew in the pit of my stomach as I thought of Yifang on the back of the bike with this bafoon; with this pathetic excuse of a man.
Where is Yifang?
It's 9pm and there is still no sign of Yifang. We get word an hour or so later that she is in some bar-come-restaurant, sitting with Ilan. As we enter the bar, a look of relief crosses Yifang's face. She looks tired and drunk and is sitting next to the wall, cornered in by Ilan, whose face drops as we walk in. He tries to offer us a drink but we refuse, asking Yifang if she is okay, helping her up and walking out with her. I let Ilan know that his “wife” has been looking for him the entire day and had even sent a search party out after him. He runs out of the bar with his tail between his legs as we leave the joint.
As soon as we get home, Yifang reveals that Ilan had other intentions. No shit. He'd given her something to drink and had kept trying to put his hands and arms all over her. I felt a volcanic surge of anger rising through me. I wanted to throttle the little shit and began putting on my boots so that I could go out, find him and stick at least one foot smack bang into his rear end. She was evidently not comfortable with the situation that she had found herself in, however, had found it difficult to just get up and walk out of the bar. She wasn't sure how to handle the situation plainly because she had never been in a situation like this. In other words, a rather vulnerable young lady who has not seen this scummy side of life before. Yifang comes from Taiwan and is also a stunningly beautiful young woman. Her experience of traveling and people outside her own country has been limited, but growing each day, as it seems, by the minute. She has taken on board how she should deal with a situation like this if it was to ever arise again. I felt guilty about leaving her with Ilan. We should have known better. Still, I explained that there is nothing rude, bad or wrong about telling someone politely that you would now like to go and that you will see them another time. It seems however, that Ilan had seen a vulnerable situation here and was hard pushed if he was to let it go. He had made Yifang extremely uncomfortable and had made it difficult for her to leave.
Hold your ears and apologise you piece of shit
In India, when someone is made to hold their ears, it is a clear sign that they are deeply ashamed and embarrassed. It displays their idiocy and the shame they have brought onto themselves. It is something that children are often made to do when they have done something wrong.
As I sit with my morning coffee the following day, I spot Ilan with Sidhi and Tinku. I summon them to join me. Ilan is looking sheepish. “So did you get a beating from your wife last night?”, I begin. They laugh. “It's no laughing matter.” I try to maintain a sternness in my voice. I am older than him. In India, elders are meant to be respected and I try to throw some authority into my approach. “What do you think you were doing with my friend last night? She tells me that she wasn't very comfortable with the situation. That you tried to put your arms around her, hold on to her.” He tries to defend, “But I hugged you yesterday!” It was a joke. We all knew it. All I wanted him to do was admit that he was wrong and say sorry. He begins apologising to me. “No.” I retort. “You come with me to the house and you apologise to the girl. You hold your ears and you apologise.”
We walk up to the house and Yifang tries to close the door the second she realises he is there. Ilan apologises half heartedly and then tries to shake her hand. “I don't want to shake your hand”, Yifang tells him. I tell them to leave.
That was idiot number one.
Troubles continue
I am looking for shampoo and conditioner on the shelves of the shop. I have been there for the last 10 minutes and have placed a number of items on the shop counter. As I try to find the conditioner for dry hair, I begin to move around some of the bottles on the shelf. He's a skinny runt. Short, skinny, dark with a moustache. He begins to shout at me. Yet his voice does not come to a halt any time soon and I realise that he has not stopped abusing me for moving the bottles around on his shelf. I am staring at him in disbelief and without thinking, throw the bottle of shampoo that I have in my hand, at him. It lands on the floor. He begins to swear at me. “Behan chaudh!” - which basically means, sister fucker. I have a bunch of conditioner sachets in my hand and throw them at him as well. I turn to leave and discover he is right behind me and that he is holding a shoe. According to mi amor, “since Bush has been attacked, shoes became weapons and you have to take care of any Indians not wearing chapals.” I guess you have to laugh about the situation, however, I wasn't quite laughing at the time.
Hold your ears! Take two!
I call the police. The response of the officer? “Why did you throw the shampoo?” - I don't think I need to go into a rant about this, or into the details. It's a waste of energy and another insight into the screwed up bureaucracy of the Indian justice system. I can however, reveal, that Mr ShopKeeper, became the second person in two consecutive days to hold his ears and apologise, this time in front of a crowd of people and the police. The following day he was summoned, as pressured to by me, to the police station, where I made him get down on his knees, hold his ears and then touch my feet. I did tell him that a dog was more worthy. Courts, convictions, investigations – screw the lot of them. I cannot tarnish my time in India with this kind of shit. I did what I could. End of story. Moral of the story? Control your temper. He's an ass, but you don't have to be one too.
Hold your ears – Take Three!
Chotu, the 19 year old village boy works in Little Tibet, our favourite local restaurant in Vashisht. As a result of poor health and safety regulations, he burnt his face and arms when opening the pizza oven door outside. The door of the pizza oven needs to remain open, especially to avoid incidents of hot air blasting out at inexperienced little village boys like Chotu. We sympathised with Chotu and gave him some attention, made conversation and tried to make him feel better. I noticed that he would watch us strangely from a distance and that he began to make frequent visits to our guesthouse, which was situated just a stone's throw from the restaurant in which he worked.
We were out at the waterfall. Yifang had decided to stay home. On our return, we were greeted by a freaked out Yifang. “He came into the room, he close the curtains and went and stood by the bed! Then he try to close the door! I scared! I ran outside! I tell him to leave!” That was it. I had had enough.
Raj, the restaurant manager had become a respectable friend in the time that we had been in Vashisht. We spent many a night hanging out with Raj after hours, when he'd tell us of his past and of his perspectives on life. He's a solemn and intelligent young man much older than his years. He earned our respect to the point that we even made him a friendship band of colourful threads for his wrist. “This is worth more than all the clothes and money I can think of, because it's going to last at least three or four years. I will never take it off!” he exclaimed in happiness when Eri, Yifang, Rachael and I presented it to him.
Raj appeared at our door to say hello. I explained what happened with Chotu. His immediate response was that we inform the chef of the restaurant, Chotu's older brother. He also explained that Chotu was inexperienced when it came to dealing with foreigners and that he comes from a small village, hence his small-town mentality. Throughout villages in India, it is not normal for a guy and girl to even speak to each other. Not unless there is something more going on between them. This is the kind of background from which Chotu has come.
Half an hour later...
Chotu appears at our guesthouse. Raj has evidently warned him that we will be speaking to his brother about his behaviour. I ask him what he wants. He pleads with me not to say anything about the situation to his older brother. I am a lot more lenient with him than I should have been. Yifang suddenly arrives and she re-enacts his behaviour, tracing his exact movements. I stare at him in disbelief. “You did this?” He lowers his head and begins to touch my feet, begging me not to tell his brother. I realise that he is young and inexperienced. “Sauch samaj kar rehana. Izat se rehana: Be mature. Be wise, have respect for others and behave like an adult.” “Ladkhi aap se baath karti, iska mathlab yeh nahin bhi wo aap ko pasand karti: Just because a girl speaks to you, it does not mean she wants to jump into bed with you.” I tell him that he needs to grow up and grow out of his small-minded village mentality because he will not survive another day working in places like this. “Don't do it again.” He holds his ears, apologises to Yifang and I tell him to leave.
All of these events took place over the period of the full moon. We had hoped to get to Kasol for the full moon party, but decided against it. Perhaps something worse could have taken place had we gone there. Overall, we did not want to leave Vashisht with a bad feeling in our hearts, so we lived it out a few more days. Rachael eventually left to join her amor in Dharamsala. We made her a friendship band and took her to the bus station. A few days later, we were on the bus to Delhi. I will be back in Vashisht. It's a very special place. I will never forget the Japanese baba who sits outside the temple that is situated right outside the hot springs. Everyday I would go to see him and he would bless me with a tikka (a saffron based liquid that is thumbed onto the forehead); and every morning he would say, “sookh aur shanti” - meaning happiness and peace, or, “kush raho”, stay happy. It was time to move on now. Rajasthan was calling...
Mission Leh!
The Japanese connection: Eri and Aya
I'd wondered into their guesthouse looking for an electrician to fix my laptop cable and stumbled upon Japanese duo, Eri and Aya. Eri is a cheeky monkey, a naughty chauti (*shorty), a funky little chica; while Aya, is a beautiful girl with a talent for writing and a dry sense of humour. Both girls had been traveling together since the last year and had been on some crazy road trips around Australia. As a result, they speak exceptionally good English The girls were on their way out of Padum and looking for a lift to Leh. David and I had also decided that it was time to move out of the wilderness and connect with the rest of the world again. We found a lift and this time, I took David with me back to the guesthouse where the girls were staying so that we could all plan the trip together. David, being a good, well-behaved, highly disciplined and responsible adult, left me in a bubble of smoke with the girls. We'd decided on leaving the next day. It was a full power connection and the girls ended up braiding my hair with colourful threads.
Onwards and upwards – Leh here we come!
I felt relieved at leaving Padum. It was time to connect with the world again, speak to my family and friends, indulge in swapping stories with other travelers and generally chill out.
It was a 19 hour jeep ride from Padum to Leh and it was a Saturday. To break up the journey, the driver had initially planned to stop the night in Kargil. However, as we discovered, an army convoy would be taking over the road to Leh the following day so we had no choice but to continue the arduous journey. We arrived in Leh happy, tired and relieved, entering a Buddhist family-run guesthouse where the girls had previously stayed. Didhi (meaning sister in Hindi), was quick off the mark. Welcoming us warmly, she prepared soup, salad and momos and let us choose the rooms we wanted.
Leh
We spent a week in Leh and did absolutely... Nothing. Following almost three months of isolation and insane journeys in the Jammu and Kashmir region, it was time to chill. So we chilled. There are many things to see in Leh, including the Shanti stupa and the Palace, but I just couldn't be bothered to move. We saw Leh, but only from the rooftop terrace of Didhi's guesthouse.
Nubra Valley
It was about the only thing we did during the time we spent in Leh. David and I joined forces with Eri and Andre, sorted out our permits and made for what is apparently, the world's highest motorable pass, Nubra Valley. Eri and I scouted around town and hustled a jeep for 500 rupees each and the following day, at 6am, we were off. As we reached the highest point, the altitude began to hit me. We were at 5,800 metres, the highest point that I'd ever been. It goes without saying that the view was incredible. Like I said before, I'm crap at describing landcapes.
Diskit
We landed in the town of Diskit, Andre and his Golden Retriever, Jason took one room, Eri, David and I, another. It was bliss, heaven, sweetness and light. The rooms were beautiful, didhi (everyone is didhi), was hilarious with her high-pitched, yodelling voice and naughty-girl like twinkle in her eyes. An association within the town had been responsible for building the 90 ft-tall Buddha, facing West towards Pakistan. David, Eri and I explored the monastery first, diving in and out of every nook and cranny we could find, climbing higher and higher and jumping over barbed wire to enter its most dilapidated section. We discovered one of the highest points and climbed up into the crumbling chimney-like house, sitting at its tiny, goblin door, feet dangling down and looking out across the valley. David, as usual, wanted to push things to the limit, so we entered through the door, crouching down before discovering a small light and making our way through the ceiling to sit right at the top. It was a wild and wonderful sight. We could see the Buddha, which is now almost constructed, standing bold across the valley. The school for monks that spread below the structure, was newly built and we could see young boys running around in its yard. We smoked a celebratory cigarette and made our way down so that we could get across to Buddha.
Buddha
The construction of the Buddha was initiated by a local organisation about 15 years ago and headed by Norway, its Ladakhi leader. Norway is just his nickname by the way. It was getting dark, but we crossed the valley and wound through the mountain road anyway. We were not quite sure of the way we should go, however a small black dog appeared out of the blue and took us to Buddha. It was completely dark by now, but we felt the imposing presence of the towering structure as it loomed high up above us. Nepali and Bengali workmen were still milling about the place. They were staying in tents nearby, while the engineers and architects took their place in the building on which the Buddha had been built. We met Norway just as we were about to leave. David had rightfully noted that the structure was facing West towards Pakistan. I asked Norway the reason behind this. His response was simple, “Pakistan is not a good man. We need protection, so we have Buddha facing that way.” Not a very Buddhist way of looking at things.
With Pakistan to the West, China to the East and the Central Asian countries above, Nubra Valley, like Kashmir, is yet another region of India that sits in a rather precarious position. Police and armed forces are discreetly positioned in various parts of the valley, particularly Honda with its bridge guarded by Indian military.
Honda
We took on the 12 to 14 km trek from Diskit to Honda, simply to experience the sand dunes and camels that were said to exist here. Neither of us had never heard of sand dunes or camels in mountain terrain, so it was something that we were excited to experience. Walking in the heat for endless kilometres can take its toll, but this was soon replaced by the vision that lay before us: voluptuous sand dunes. We immediately ran into the dunes, David taking the opportunity to capture some insane photos of both the landscape and of Eri and I running riot like two naughty little school girls. It was a photo-shoot opportunity and he was not going to let it go. He put us in position, lying in the sand, head to head. He captured us running crazily up the dunes, managed to get us jumping as high as we could. Lots of action shots!
Panamik
David fell suddenly ill so he spent the day in bed. He'd been trekking around quite a lot, running up and down mountains, taking photographs at every given opportunity, so I guess he was a little run down. The bus arrived and it was packed. It meant Andre could not get on the bus with Monster (his dog, otherwise known as Jason). That left Eri and I. We jumped on, or rather squeezed onto the bus and waited patiently for an hour and a half until we arrived in Panamik – place of the hotsprings.
Better than I imagined, the hotsprings of Panamik are amazing. We're not talking aesthetics here, but of the volcanic geyser that tumbles down the mountain into a mini man-made dam to irrigate the fat tubes planted into concrete cubicles – a bit like a Roman or Arabic bath. Pure bliss. The water is perfect, if you like it hot, and it's an indulgent feeling as you coerce yourself into embracing the temperature of the powerful gush. Mmmm. So nice!
Israelis again...
I couldn't understand the bullshit that a group of Israelis had tried to feed us earlier on: that it was dirty, the water not nice, the scenery no big deal, that someone is building a house nearby... Israelis love to complain. About absolutely everything. “I don't like this cup, give me a glass.”, “Where is my food?”, “I don't like the people here”, “the sky is not blue enough...” blah. Meeting that group made me realise at an even deeper level why Israelis are so annoying. The fact was confirmed by Tenzin (yes, another one named Tenzin!), our host at the Hotsprings Guesthouse, where Eri and I had been staying.
Tenzin, is the nephew of Didhi, who runs the guesthouse we'd stayed at in Diskit the night before. He's a clued-up, “with-it”, non-judgemental, funky, intelligent kinda guy, and good naturedly charmed Eri and I. He had a love marriage and is open to Buddhist philosophical discussion. Apparently, he was a monk in his last life, however, as he happens to be the only son in his family, his fate in this one is confined to marriage and parents. He too confirms the opinion that I seem to have heard about Israelis everywhere that I have been in India. “They are rude, ignorant, arrogant, disrespectful and noisy. I had a few of them here recently. You have to remember this is a respectable family-run guesthouse. And what were they doing? Sticking their tongues down each others mouths in front of the elders! Are they on this planet?” No, they're not Tenzin. I reckon they're Israe-alians.
Israelies, in other words, are constantly on the defence. I am sorry to go on about Israelis, but it is a subject that cannot be avoided when traveling in India because not are they just everywhere, but everyone, and I mean everyone, complains about them. The effect of a country can be seen upon its nation and the world is able to see clearly from the outside, exactly how the character of that nation has been disturbed.
I'd wondered into their guesthouse looking for an electrician to fix my laptop cable and stumbled upon Japanese duo, Eri and Aya. Eri is a cheeky monkey, a naughty chauti (*shorty), a funky little chica; while Aya, is a beautiful girl with a talent for writing and a dry sense of humour. Both girls had been traveling together since the last year and had been on some crazy road trips around Australia. As a result, they speak exceptionally good English The girls were on their way out of Padum and looking for a lift to Leh. David and I had also decided that it was time to move out of the wilderness and connect with the rest of the world again. We found a lift and this time, I took David with me back to the guesthouse where the girls were staying so that we could all plan the trip together. David, being a good, well-behaved, highly disciplined and responsible adult, left me in a bubble of smoke with the girls. We'd decided on leaving the next day. It was a full power connection and the girls ended up braiding my hair with colourful threads.
Onwards and upwards – Leh here we come!
I felt relieved at leaving Padum. It was time to connect with the world again, speak to my family and friends, indulge in swapping stories with other travelers and generally chill out.
It was a 19 hour jeep ride from Padum to Leh and it was a Saturday. To break up the journey, the driver had initially planned to stop the night in Kargil. However, as we discovered, an army convoy would be taking over the road to Leh the following day so we had no choice but to continue the arduous journey. We arrived in Leh happy, tired and relieved, entering a Buddhist family-run guesthouse where the girls had previously stayed. Didhi (meaning sister in Hindi), was quick off the mark. Welcoming us warmly, she prepared soup, salad and momos and let us choose the rooms we wanted.
Leh
We spent a week in Leh and did absolutely... Nothing. Following almost three months of isolation and insane journeys in the Jammu and Kashmir region, it was time to chill. So we chilled. There are many things to see in Leh, including the Shanti stupa and the Palace, but I just couldn't be bothered to move. We saw Leh, but only from the rooftop terrace of Didhi's guesthouse.
Nubra Valley
It was about the only thing we did during the time we spent in Leh. David and I joined forces with Eri and Andre, sorted out our permits and made for what is apparently, the world's highest motorable pass, Nubra Valley. Eri and I scouted around town and hustled a jeep for 500 rupees each and the following day, at 6am, we were off. As we reached the highest point, the altitude began to hit me. We were at 5,800 metres, the highest point that I'd ever been. It goes without saying that the view was incredible. Like I said before, I'm crap at describing landcapes.
Diskit
We landed in the town of Diskit, Andre and his Golden Retriever, Jason took one room, Eri, David and I, another. It was bliss, heaven, sweetness and light. The rooms were beautiful, didhi (everyone is didhi), was hilarious with her high-pitched, yodelling voice and naughty-girl like twinkle in her eyes. An association within the town had been responsible for building the 90 ft-tall Buddha, facing West towards Pakistan. David, Eri and I explored the monastery first, diving in and out of every nook and cranny we could find, climbing higher and higher and jumping over barbed wire to enter its most dilapidated section. We discovered one of the highest points and climbed up into the crumbling chimney-like house, sitting at its tiny, goblin door, feet dangling down and looking out across the valley. David, as usual, wanted to push things to the limit, so we entered through the door, crouching down before discovering a small light and making our way through the ceiling to sit right at the top. It was a wild and wonderful sight. We could see the Buddha, which is now almost constructed, standing bold across the valley. The school for monks that spread below the structure, was newly built and we could see young boys running around in its yard. We smoked a celebratory cigarette and made our way down so that we could get across to Buddha.
Buddha
The construction of the Buddha was initiated by a local organisation about 15 years ago and headed by Norway, its Ladakhi leader. Norway is just his nickname by the way. It was getting dark, but we crossed the valley and wound through the mountain road anyway. We were not quite sure of the way we should go, however a small black dog appeared out of the blue and took us to Buddha. It was completely dark by now, but we felt the imposing presence of the towering structure as it loomed high up above us. Nepali and Bengali workmen were still milling about the place. They were staying in tents nearby, while the engineers and architects took their place in the building on which the Buddha had been built. We met Norway just as we were about to leave. David had rightfully noted that the structure was facing West towards Pakistan. I asked Norway the reason behind this. His response was simple, “Pakistan is not a good man. We need protection, so we have Buddha facing that way.” Not a very Buddhist way of looking at things.
With Pakistan to the West, China to the East and the Central Asian countries above, Nubra Valley, like Kashmir, is yet another region of India that sits in a rather precarious position. Police and armed forces are discreetly positioned in various parts of the valley, particularly Honda with its bridge guarded by Indian military.
Honda
We took on the 12 to 14 km trek from Diskit to Honda, simply to experience the sand dunes and camels that were said to exist here. Neither of us had never heard of sand dunes or camels in mountain terrain, so it was something that we were excited to experience. Walking in the heat for endless kilometres can take its toll, but this was soon replaced by the vision that lay before us: voluptuous sand dunes. We immediately ran into the dunes, David taking the opportunity to capture some insane photos of both the landscape and of Eri and I running riot like two naughty little school girls. It was a photo-shoot opportunity and he was not going to let it go. He put us in position, lying in the sand, head to head. He captured us running crazily up the dunes, managed to get us jumping as high as we could. Lots of action shots!
Panamik
David fell suddenly ill so he spent the day in bed. He'd been trekking around quite a lot, running up and down mountains, taking photographs at every given opportunity, so I guess he was a little run down. The bus arrived and it was packed. It meant Andre could not get on the bus with Monster (his dog, otherwise known as Jason). That left Eri and I. We jumped on, or rather squeezed onto the bus and waited patiently for an hour and a half until we arrived in Panamik – place of the hotsprings.
Better than I imagined, the hotsprings of Panamik are amazing. We're not talking aesthetics here, but of the volcanic geyser that tumbles down the mountain into a mini man-made dam to irrigate the fat tubes planted into concrete cubicles – a bit like a Roman or Arabic bath. Pure bliss. The water is perfect, if you like it hot, and it's an indulgent feeling as you coerce yourself into embracing the temperature of the powerful gush. Mmmm. So nice!
Israelis again...
I couldn't understand the bullshit that a group of Israelis had tried to feed us earlier on: that it was dirty, the water not nice, the scenery no big deal, that someone is building a house nearby... Israelis love to complain. About absolutely everything. “I don't like this cup, give me a glass.”, “Where is my food?”, “I don't like the people here”, “the sky is not blue enough...” blah. Meeting that group made me realise at an even deeper level why Israelis are so annoying. The fact was confirmed by Tenzin (yes, another one named Tenzin!), our host at the Hotsprings Guesthouse, where Eri and I had been staying.
Tenzin, is the nephew of Didhi, who runs the guesthouse we'd stayed at in Diskit the night before. He's a clued-up, “with-it”, non-judgemental, funky, intelligent kinda guy, and good naturedly charmed Eri and I. He had a love marriage and is open to Buddhist philosophical discussion. Apparently, he was a monk in his last life, however, as he happens to be the only son in his family, his fate in this one is confined to marriage and parents. He too confirms the opinion that I seem to have heard about Israelis everywhere that I have been in India. “They are rude, ignorant, arrogant, disrespectful and noisy. I had a few of them here recently. You have to remember this is a respectable family-run guesthouse. And what were they doing? Sticking their tongues down each others mouths in front of the elders! Are they on this planet?” No, they're not Tenzin. I reckon they're Israe-alians.
Israelies, in other words, are constantly on the defence. I am sorry to go on about Israelis, but it is a subject that cannot be avoided when traveling in India because not are they just everywhere, but everyone, and I mean everyone, complains about them. The effect of a country can be seen upon its nation and the world is able to see clearly from the outside, exactly how the character of that nation has been disturbed.
Buddhist Philosophy
Compassion and forgiveness top the list. It made me question: If compassion is integral to Buddhism, then how is it possible to attain detachment? When love is an emotion, how can we detach from it when it is the very food of our souls?
David and I had met a couple of cheeky 12 year olds who had the key to one of the temples at the top of the monastery. They were boys. Snotty noses, dirty feet, cheeky smiles. Training for monks can begin at an early stage in life, in some cases, they are as young as four, and for a number of reasons: they are sent to the monasteries by impoverished Buddhist families; if there is more than one son in the family, they often feel it is the duty of at least one of them to dedicate his life to Buddhism; or most commonly, it is because the fate of the boy has been written in the “Janam Kundali” - a birth chart that reveals not just the details of the child's previous life, but current and future lives too. I had met Tenzin (they all seem to have this name) in Disksit, just across the Nubra Valley, the world's highest motorable pass. He told me that he had been a monk in his previous life, and because he was an only son in this life, his fate was to take care of his parents, get married and bear children.
I have tried to understand the stoic nature of Buddhism. I appreciate even, the path that can lead to true enlightenment. However, I could not help but question: Isn't it better for a monk to be a monk because he arrived at that conclusion for himself? Shouldn't an individual be entitled to discover the world and life for themselves before making a decision like this? Does it mean that all those who are not monks, are living sinful lives? Is it really wrong to love, be loved, indulge in sex, drugs and rock n' roll? As human beings, do we not have needs? If we deny ourselves of those needs, does this not create unsavoury situations? Isn't repression a dangerous thing for our society? Priests and small boys? Buddhist monks and pregnant nuns?
Square table discussion with David
Padum is cold by night, so following dinner at our local dhaba, a tipple is just the tonic you need to warm you up. David and I went for a drink at our local watering hole and ended up having a square table discussion, on paper.
Me: The world we live in feeds our ego. Loving with our egos gets in the way of our relationships. Unselfish, unconditional love, letting someone go if you love them – whether they are friend, foe, brother, sister or lover. This is Buddhism. So does this mean Buddhism is a supporter of “free love”? Should we not learn to live and love the pleasures of life without ego when the pleasures of life are food for the soul?
David: You are a bad influence on people. Alcohol and narcotics should be consumed with... MODERATION. Fleeing life's problems doesn't work. Meditation, compassion and moderation does. So NEEEUGHHH! You have a sinful devil inside, exorcism is required!
Me: Pleasures in life are food for the soul!
David: Excess pleasures are the food for destroyers of the soul.
Me: Denying yourself of pleasure makes your life a living sin. So enjoy yourself and be free!
David: Crap. The greatest pleasures require dedication, commitment, self-discipline and dedication. Only the “blind” seek solace in simple pleasures, that in fact, deny us true, lasting and genuine pleasure.
Me: Who says we can't have the best of both worlds? Divine, spiritual and “simple” - when everything is nothing anyway; and nothing is everything in the petty lives that we try to make the most of?
David: Always seeking the easy answer, the easy path, using nothingness as a reason to self-destruct. If nothing has any meaning or value, then one should value and strive for the few things in life that allow us to transcend nothingness. Don't be so mediocre!
Me: What is mediocre about living? About living in the moment, about being in the present, about the power of NOW, about living in the NOW?! About taking the best of all philosophies, religions, schools of thought, teachings and substances of thought? What's wrong with life and taking the best from it? As long as you are AWARE and conscious enough to progress and are doing whatever it takes in the process?
David: Because simple pleasures are for simple people. You are not simple. Stop denying the fact and seeking diluted philosophies to your contradictions in things that do not apply to you. You are capable of more complexity, of embarking on a deeper, spiritual and more personal path in life. Why be so normal?
Me: Who says “simple” is “normal”? To be “simple” is a bias of the mind, it is a subjective view. As individuals we have our own minds and perspectives on reality. What is reality? It is a creation of your mind. It is a very personal thing. So there is nothing wrong with living by your own rules – as long as those rules do not harm anyone or anything. And as long as you are aware of your own conscious mind. I am my own Buddhist.
David: Buddhist! If you accept to harm yourself, you have no compassion for yourself. Without being compassionate to oneself, we cannot be compassionate to others. Have you harmed yourself, ever?
Me: I have been extremely self-destructive in my life – however, looking back, I know the reasons why. Recognising these reasons is more than half the battle. Learning to love yourself, forgive the Self while maintaining an awareness of your actions - is one of the main keys to achieving higher consciousness. I can and have established this, even while enjoying the “simple” fruits of life. So why have any rules? (When the rules are dictated by the life you have lived and your willingness and ability to learn from it)?
David: Rules are nothing more than wisdom acquired through experience. When they are self-imposed, they are not rules but the application of that wisdom, the ability to learn through one's mistakes and not constantly repeat the same errors that lead to an unsatisfied life. Why rebel against one's own wisdom?
Me: (bit tipsy now)
No one is rebelling against one's own wisdom. Depending on the phase of your life (a stage that you have arrived at as a result of your own actions) – you are not rebelling against yourself, but vibing with the progression of your own individual life. We arrive on this earth alone (from what we have gathered). We die and disintegrate and spread into a million different DNA, molecules, amoeba. As a result, we are ONE and the same – yet the same special quality arises in our one and individual method in dealing with life. Making it special. Making it enjoyable. Which is why we make our own rules. In a state of awareness of course.
David: Rebel without a cause!
Me: A cause. A course.
David: No cause, a rebel for rebellion's sake!
Me: WHAT IS REBELLION?
David: Doing what you know is not good for you.
Me: Who says and what dictates what is good for you or not? People worship shit in this world. They worship animal excrement as a statement that there is life in everything. Is that good or bad? And by doing from what you learn, you transcend and reach the unknown! How do you know what is good and what is bad?
David: The unknown is inside, in your DNA, everywhere.
Me (a little slurred): THAT IS WHY WE ARE ONE!
David: So no need to destroy oneself in order to discover it!
Me (always have to try and have the last word): Without destruction, there is no creation!
I love my friend David. He's one of my most favourite people in this world. I'm really going to miss him when we go our separate ways on this journey. I guess everything comes to an end at some point or other. Nothing lasts forever. Detachment from people and things is a tool that protects us. Perhaps the Buddhists have got it right after all? Still, I am not so sure about Buddhist philosophy. I believe in love and in enjoying the fruits of life. I guess it's something that I need to investigate further.
Full power Buddhist prayer
David and I entered the prayer hall and sat on the floor. The monks were in full power action, chanting and reciting their prayers, dressed in traditional robes and towering hats, the head Gheshe La perched above the rest in a colourful gown. He looked like a larger than life laughing Buddha. It was only later that we realised that he was a lot thinner than we had initially thought, the weight of his costume giving the illusion of a larger man.
Climbing the steps of the monastery, we discovered a medley of different rooms, each one distinctly different. Climbing to the top, we discovered restoration work had been going on and climbed through the half-dilapidated building to the very top of the monastery to see the view across the whole valley. We could see green pastures that stretched out from Karsha to Padum and to other villages such as Zangla. The unforgiving, harsh and dry terrain is difficult to farm and we marvelled at the strength of the villagers who work the land.
An audience with the Gheshe La
We met Lauren on the way down, accepting immediately her invitation for a cup of tea. Entering a warm, cosy, bright room, we sat on the floor for a private audience with the head monk, otherwise known as the Gheshe La. It was the same Laughing Buddha that we had seen in the prayer hall some hours earlier. His face was warm and friendly, his eyes kind and features soft and round. He took off his hat and almost re-appeared, magically, as a different man. A Spanish woman, Imani, who I had met in Goa some eight months back, had joined us with her French photographer partner. She was all sweetness and light. It was nice to see her again, yet she was spilling with challenges for the Gheshe La, arguing that Buddhism does not allow us as individuals to enjoy the fruits of life. That denying ourselves of simple pleasures is like denying ourselves of life. Lauren translated, sometimes hesitating at the translation of questions posed by Imani.
Gheshe La's hand had been savaged by the monastery dog when he had accidentally stepped on the angry animal's tail. He'd covered the vicious wound with a bit of plaster. David, Lauren and I insisted he allow us to clean it, apply medicine and wrap a bandage around it. He refused and was surprisingly stubborn, which made us laugh. Lauren translated that de didn't want to conduct puja with a bandage on his hand the next day. “Vanity or what!” I retorted cheekily. We all laughed uncontrollably, until he finally allowed David to put his nursing skills to the test.
We attended puja the following day and saw the bandage on his hand, David noticing with pride, the details of his handiwork adorned by the revered holy man.
Monks versus Nuns
Monks, we noticed, have a slight lack of hygiene, especially in comparison to nuns. We'd been to the DorjeZon Nunnery and noticed the difference then. David took photographs of snotty young monks, with their dirty finger nails and soiled feet. There were some hot monks too in their early twenties, while some as young as seven ran riot around the place. It was amusing to see. A teenage monk prepared butter candles, another two stood on the roof, blowing horns to call the rest for lunch, while another monk took care of preparations within the prayer hall. In the meantime, an insane old monk walked round in circles at the entrance hall, muttering away to himself, eyes darting in every which direction. It was an interesting experience.
To be or not to be a monk?
A number of questions came to mind:
In accordance to living up to Buddhist philosophy, shouldn't a monk have a chance to “defeat” all other so-called “freedoms” of life before he dedicates his life to the monastery?
How can an individual make the commitment if he hasn't experienced other things in life?
Isn't it better for a person to decide for themselves as opposed to carrying out monk duties simply out of obligation?
Apart from the economic relief that sending a son to a monastery brings, the future of a child is dependent upon the “Janam Kundalini” - a birth chart that tells of the child's past life, present and even future life. So what factors of the Janam Kundalini determine the future of a child? How is this decided?
What if a child monk grows up to change his mind? Maybe he wants to explore the world before deciding on the path that he feels is right for him?
Wouldn't someone who has reached a state of consciousness for himself/herself have more substance as a monk/nun in comparison to one who is simply fulfilling his duties out of obligation?
Buddhist philosophy – comprises detachment from humans and material things. However, it means denying ourselves of our most basic human needs – sex included. Isn't this in itself a form of repression? How can this contribute to a positive society?
A person who smokes, drinks, takes drugs – a bad person? What about people who worship shit?
Do we all need to become monks to reach enlightenment?
Is it possible to love, be loved and be successful in life without being egotistical?
Why is detachment so fundamental?
These and many more questions came to mind as David and I roamed through the Buddhist monasteries of Zanskar and admired the remnants of an ancient tradition that still stood tall and proud, if not a little dilapidated.
Zanskar is a special place with a unique energy. It's like stepping into a medieval world with potent ties to the past. It's a place that embraces the future, yet continues to live by the traditions of its past. On a social level, its people are one of a kind. They are beautiful people with a kind, calm aura; people of the land that exist to maintain their way of life. It's another world is Zanskar, and effectively like stepping into another country. The wonders of India. They just never cease.
David and I had met a couple of cheeky 12 year olds who had the key to one of the temples at the top of the monastery. They were boys. Snotty noses, dirty feet, cheeky smiles. Training for monks can begin at an early stage in life, in some cases, they are as young as four, and for a number of reasons: they are sent to the monasteries by impoverished Buddhist families; if there is more than one son in the family, they often feel it is the duty of at least one of them to dedicate his life to Buddhism; or most commonly, it is because the fate of the boy has been written in the “Janam Kundali” - a birth chart that reveals not just the details of the child's previous life, but current and future lives too. I had met Tenzin (they all seem to have this name) in Disksit, just across the Nubra Valley, the world's highest motorable pass. He told me that he had been a monk in his previous life, and because he was an only son in this life, his fate was to take care of his parents, get married and bear children.
I have tried to understand the stoic nature of Buddhism. I appreciate even, the path that can lead to true enlightenment. However, I could not help but question: Isn't it better for a monk to be a monk because he arrived at that conclusion for himself? Shouldn't an individual be entitled to discover the world and life for themselves before making a decision like this? Does it mean that all those who are not monks, are living sinful lives? Is it really wrong to love, be loved, indulge in sex, drugs and rock n' roll? As human beings, do we not have needs? If we deny ourselves of those needs, does this not create unsavoury situations? Isn't repression a dangerous thing for our society? Priests and small boys? Buddhist monks and pregnant nuns?
Square table discussion with David
Padum is cold by night, so following dinner at our local dhaba, a tipple is just the tonic you need to warm you up. David and I went for a drink at our local watering hole and ended up having a square table discussion, on paper.
Me: The world we live in feeds our ego. Loving with our egos gets in the way of our relationships. Unselfish, unconditional love, letting someone go if you love them – whether they are friend, foe, brother, sister or lover. This is Buddhism. So does this mean Buddhism is a supporter of “free love”? Should we not learn to live and love the pleasures of life without ego when the pleasures of life are food for the soul?
David: You are a bad influence on people. Alcohol and narcotics should be consumed with... MODERATION. Fleeing life's problems doesn't work. Meditation, compassion and moderation does. So NEEEUGHHH! You have a sinful devil inside, exorcism is required!
Me: Pleasures in life are food for the soul!
David: Excess pleasures are the food for destroyers of the soul.
Me: Denying yourself of pleasure makes your life a living sin. So enjoy yourself and be free!
David: Crap. The greatest pleasures require dedication, commitment, self-discipline and dedication. Only the “blind” seek solace in simple pleasures, that in fact, deny us true, lasting and genuine pleasure.
Me: Who says we can't have the best of both worlds? Divine, spiritual and “simple” - when everything is nothing anyway; and nothing is everything in the petty lives that we try to make the most of?
David: Always seeking the easy answer, the easy path, using nothingness as a reason to self-destruct. If nothing has any meaning or value, then one should value and strive for the few things in life that allow us to transcend nothingness. Don't be so mediocre!
Me: What is mediocre about living? About living in the moment, about being in the present, about the power of NOW, about living in the NOW?! About taking the best of all philosophies, religions, schools of thought, teachings and substances of thought? What's wrong with life and taking the best from it? As long as you are AWARE and conscious enough to progress and are doing whatever it takes in the process?
David: Because simple pleasures are for simple people. You are not simple. Stop denying the fact and seeking diluted philosophies to your contradictions in things that do not apply to you. You are capable of more complexity, of embarking on a deeper, spiritual and more personal path in life. Why be so normal?
Me: Who says “simple” is “normal”? To be “simple” is a bias of the mind, it is a subjective view. As individuals we have our own minds and perspectives on reality. What is reality? It is a creation of your mind. It is a very personal thing. So there is nothing wrong with living by your own rules – as long as those rules do not harm anyone or anything. And as long as you are aware of your own conscious mind. I am my own Buddhist.
David: Buddhist! If you accept to harm yourself, you have no compassion for yourself. Without being compassionate to oneself, we cannot be compassionate to others. Have you harmed yourself, ever?
Me: I have been extremely self-destructive in my life – however, looking back, I know the reasons why. Recognising these reasons is more than half the battle. Learning to love yourself, forgive the Self while maintaining an awareness of your actions - is one of the main keys to achieving higher consciousness. I can and have established this, even while enjoying the “simple” fruits of life. So why have any rules? (When the rules are dictated by the life you have lived and your willingness and ability to learn from it)?
David: Rules are nothing more than wisdom acquired through experience. When they are self-imposed, they are not rules but the application of that wisdom, the ability to learn through one's mistakes and not constantly repeat the same errors that lead to an unsatisfied life. Why rebel against one's own wisdom?
Me: (bit tipsy now)
No one is rebelling against one's own wisdom. Depending on the phase of your life (a stage that you have arrived at as a result of your own actions) – you are not rebelling against yourself, but vibing with the progression of your own individual life. We arrive on this earth alone (from what we have gathered). We die and disintegrate and spread into a million different DNA, molecules, amoeba. As a result, we are ONE and the same – yet the same special quality arises in our one and individual method in dealing with life. Making it special. Making it enjoyable. Which is why we make our own rules. In a state of awareness of course.
David: Rebel without a cause!
Me: A cause. A course.
David: No cause, a rebel for rebellion's sake!
Me: WHAT IS REBELLION?
David: Doing what you know is not good for you.
Me: Who says and what dictates what is good for you or not? People worship shit in this world. They worship animal excrement as a statement that there is life in everything. Is that good or bad? And by doing from what you learn, you transcend and reach the unknown! How do you know what is good and what is bad?
David: The unknown is inside, in your DNA, everywhere.
Me (a little slurred): THAT IS WHY WE ARE ONE!
David: So no need to destroy oneself in order to discover it!
Me (always have to try and have the last word): Without destruction, there is no creation!
I love my friend David. He's one of my most favourite people in this world. I'm really going to miss him when we go our separate ways on this journey. I guess everything comes to an end at some point or other. Nothing lasts forever. Detachment from people and things is a tool that protects us. Perhaps the Buddhists have got it right after all? Still, I am not so sure about Buddhist philosophy. I believe in love and in enjoying the fruits of life. I guess it's something that I need to investigate further.
Full power Buddhist prayer
David and I entered the prayer hall and sat on the floor. The monks were in full power action, chanting and reciting their prayers, dressed in traditional robes and towering hats, the head Gheshe La perched above the rest in a colourful gown. He looked like a larger than life laughing Buddha. It was only later that we realised that he was a lot thinner than we had initially thought, the weight of his costume giving the illusion of a larger man.
Climbing the steps of the monastery, we discovered a medley of different rooms, each one distinctly different. Climbing to the top, we discovered restoration work had been going on and climbed through the half-dilapidated building to the very top of the monastery to see the view across the whole valley. We could see green pastures that stretched out from Karsha to Padum and to other villages such as Zangla. The unforgiving, harsh and dry terrain is difficult to farm and we marvelled at the strength of the villagers who work the land.
An audience with the Gheshe La
We met Lauren on the way down, accepting immediately her invitation for a cup of tea. Entering a warm, cosy, bright room, we sat on the floor for a private audience with the head monk, otherwise known as the Gheshe La. It was the same Laughing Buddha that we had seen in the prayer hall some hours earlier. His face was warm and friendly, his eyes kind and features soft and round. He took off his hat and almost re-appeared, magically, as a different man. A Spanish woman, Imani, who I had met in Goa some eight months back, had joined us with her French photographer partner. She was all sweetness and light. It was nice to see her again, yet she was spilling with challenges for the Gheshe La, arguing that Buddhism does not allow us as individuals to enjoy the fruits of life. That denying ourselves of simple pleasures is like denying ourselves of life. Lauren translated, sometimes hesitating at the translation of questions posed by Imani.
Gheshe La's hand had been savaged by the monastery dog when he had accidentally stepped on the angry animal's tail. He'd covered the vicious wound with a bit of plaster. David, Lauren and I insisted he allow us to clean it, apply medicine and wrap a bandage around it. He refused and was surprisingly stubborn, which made us laugh. Lauren translated that de didn't want to conduct puja with a bandage on his hand the next day. “Vanity or what!” I retorted cheekily. We all laughed uncontrollably, until he finally allowed David to put his nursing skills to the test.
We attended puja the following day and saw the bandage on his hand, David noticing with pride, the details of his handiwork adorned by the revered holy man.
Monks versus Nuns
Monks, we noticed, have a slight lack of hygiene, especially in comparison to nuns. We'd been to the DorjeZon Nunnery and noticed the difference then. David took photographs of snotty young monks, with their dirty finger nails and soiled feet. There were some hot monks too in their early twenties, while some as young as seven ran riot around the place. It was amusing to see. A teenage monk prepared butter candles, another two stood on the roof, blowing horns to call the rest for lunch, while another monk took care of preparations within the prayer hall. In the meantime, an insane old monk walked round in circles at the entrance hall, muttering away to himself, eyes darting in every which direction. It was an interesting experience.
To be or not to be a monk?
A number of questions came to mind:
In accordance to living up to Buddhist philosophy, shouldn't a monk have a chance to “defeat” all other so-called “freedoms” of life before he dedicates his life to the monastery?
How can an individual make the commitment if he hasn't experienced other things in life?
Isn't it better for a person to decide for themselves as opposed to carrying out monk duties simply out of obligation?
Apart from the economic relief that sending a son to a monastery brings, the future of a child is dependent upon the “Janam Kundalini” - a birth chart that tells of the child's past life, present and even future life. So what factors of the Janam Kundalini determine the future of a child? How is this decided?
What if a child monk grows up to change his mind? Maybe he wants to explore the world before deciding on the path that he feels is right for him?
Wouldn't someone who has reached a state of consciousness for himself/herself have more substance as a monk/nun in comparison to one who is simply fulfilling his duties out of obligation?
Buddhist philosophy – comprises detachment from humans and material things. However, it means denying ourselves of our most basic human needs – sex included. Isn't this in itself a form of repression? How can this contribute to a positive society?
A person who smokes, drinks, takes drugs – a bad person? What about people who worship shit?
Do we all need to become monks to reach enlightenment?
Is it possible to love, be loved and be successful in life without being egotistical?
Why is detachment so fundamental?
These and many more questions came to mind as David and I roamed through the Buddhist monasteries of Zanskar and admired the remnants of an ancient tradition that still stood tall and proud, if not a little dilapidated.
Zanskar is a special place with a unique energy. It's like stepping into a medieval world with potent ties to the past. It's a place that embraces the future, yet continues to live by the traditions of its past. On a social level, its people are one of a kind. They are beautiful people with a kind, calm aura; people of the land that exist to maintain their way of life. It's another world is Zanskar, and effectively like stepping into another country. The wonders of India. They just never cease.
Zanskar – A Magical Kingdom in the clouds
Jumping down from the truck, David and I felt as if we'd arrived home. Home had been waiting for us patiently the entire time! This is the wild, soul tearing landscape that we had both been waiting for, yet neither of us had predicted the magnificence of its beauty. Zanskar may be known as the Hidden Kingdom, but for us, it was like discovering a magical kingdom in the clouds. A majestic, snow-capped range of voluptuous, psychedelic mountains could be seen at 360 degrees. I've never seen anything like it. It was an immense vista of flat, sand-coloured terrain that stretched out for miles and miles until – bang! Mountain! The panorama was an intense image filled with valleys that garbled at us, the warped language of the mountains.
So when they say the “hills are alive”, they're not joking. In this case, we could feel the life pulsating through the mountains, see the language they spoke as they changed shape every hour of the day: the pale orange glow of sunrise unveiling the mysticism of the night before; mid-day revealing their bold nudity as glittering white peaks nearly touched the sky; clouds, as they began to cast their shadows by early evening, forming voluptuous shapes across the range, obscuring the view and transforming them once again, into mystical creatures of the night. Beige, green, bright electric blue; yellow, orange, gold and dusky purple. These are the colours of Zanskar and they penetrated my soul.
Zanskar – The Hidden Kingdom
Zanskar is rugged and isolated. Gompas, stupas, monasteries and nunneries abound in the ancient Buddhist valley. The reverberations of its melancholy soul have continued to resonate into the 21st century; maybe due to the fact that for centuries, it had been bypassed by traders and merchants traveling the Silk Road. No one even knew it was there.
It's not easy to access Zanskar, which is why you don't see so many travelers. Yet the ones who do make it, are serious either about Buddhist philosophy, or trekking. I fall into neither of these categories, prefering instead to simply take things in my stride. Things will change though, especially once the new road is built between Padum and Leh. The “fast track” to Leh these days is by foot over eight to ten days from Padum to Lamayuru. Weather conditions have meant that work can only be carried out three months of the year, so to the delight of trekking fanatics, the building of the road has been a slow and gradual progress. Once built, it should bring the town economic prosperity, but at the same time, risk watering down the substance of its culture as more traffic begins to enter and new hotels spring up, transforming it into a commercial hub and yet another plot on the stoner-circuit map.
Tenzin the Magic Monk
Tenzin, with his smiling eyes, is the jolly gatekeeper of the local monastery in Padum. He welcomed David and I as we explored a ruined part of the town. He invited us for tea, and as we stood on the rooftop of the monastery building, listened to the Call to Prayer resonating from the nearby mosque. We were drinking tea in a Buddhist monastery, looking out across a beautiful landscape and hearing the crystal-clear sound of the Muezzin's voice from a mosque just metres away. We were both mesmerised into silence.
Tenzin wanted to show us something that many people do not get to see. First, however, he wanted to guide us to the Buddhist temple that was built into the monastery. It's a centuries-old building, with a frail yet sturdy wooden interior - a small space that the Muslims had converted into a kitchen during the invasion as the war took place between India and Pakistan. Many monasteries had been destroyed by the Pakistani army, however, this particular monastery had been preserved. There is still a predominantly strong Muslim population in Padum, however, Buddhism too continues to prevail and the two combined give the place a unique aura of spirituality. Tenzin had lit a number of butter divas in the temple, soaking the statues of Buddhas and ancient voodoo-like ceremonial masks, in a modest, golden spiritual light.
An ancient civilization
Leading us through challenging terrain, we followed Tenzin as he clambered easily over boulders and rocks until we reached the magical place he'd wanted to show us. Huge rock formations loomed high up above us engraved with images of ancient Buddhas – both male and female. The markings revealed the existence of civilizations that survived here, perhaps two, maybe three millennia ago. These people had lived here for centuries without any hassles from the outside world. The existence of Zanskar was not even acknowledged until recently, confirming why today, it is known as the “Hidden Kingdom”.
Lauren
Lauren, otherwise known in Ladakhi as Konehog Choskit, is someone I had met for the very first time in Delhi some months back. We were in Majnu Ka Tila, the Tibetan quarter of Delhi. For me, it's the best place to stay whenever I happen to be in the city as it beats the lunacy of Paharganj, the formidable backpacker district. I happened to be checking into a hotel just as Lauren, accompanied by two Buddhist nuns, was checking out. I heard her speak Ladakhi and immediately struck up a conversation. We had swapped details, however, in the whirlwind of my travels, had forgotten our exchange.
Lauren is American, 25, a Harvard graduate, fluent in Ladakhi and has lived with nuns in Zanskar for three years. Well versed in Buddhist philosophy, she is considering a number of options in life, including the possibility of becoming a nun, although she does admit to being privy to the odd tipple – something that respectable nuns do not indulge in!
The mountain air can go straight to your head sometimes and Lauren happened to catch David, Alan and I indulging in a silly moment as we held hands and skipped down Padum's so-called “high street” - a village street lined by a handful of shops. Alan already knew Lauren from the repair work he had carried out with her at the crumbling Karsha Monastery. As she stopped to speak to him, she recognised me almost immediately.
It took me a few moments to realise that it was the same girl I had met back in Delhi all those months ago. This time, I had the opportunity to have a proper chat with her. The woman's sense of humour never fails her and she handles our cheek, wit and interrogation of her choices in life (not unlike the Spanish Inquisition) with good-nature. She's as clued up as you can get on the depths of Buddhist philosophy and spends her spare time reading complicated Buddhist texts. Far from brainwashed, Lauren, as we discovered, recognises the substance of a number of controversial opinions surrounding religion, in particular, Buddhism. What a woman! She's heading for Nepal soon to complete a Ladakhi-English translation course. I'll be posting an interview with Lauren on Buddhist philosophy, detachment and the choices that she has made in her life to date. Watch this space.
Karsha Monastery
The rare aesthetic of a wonder-world...
We had trekked the seven kilometres from Padum to reach the Karsha Monastery. A white washed village clung to the bosom of the mountain, the Karsha Monastery winding up to its summit. Villagers carrying stacks of grass that they were collecting for the winter season passed us by, each one bent forward by the strain of the weight, yet every single one of them still with the heart to greet us with a wide, friendly smile. “Julley”, in Ladakhi, means “Hello”.
A huge prayer bell stood tall in its temple-like shelter and Buddhist flags woven between its four columns fluttered in the wind against the dramatic backdrop. The sky is a brilliant, bright blue with tufts of cloud forming shapes over the expansive range of the Zanskari Himalaya just ahead. There are green fields that are being harvested by locals and the contrast against the barrenness is incredible. It is evident that the people of this village work very hard to bring fertility to this land. Golden fields of wheat and lush green acres of land against brilliant-white snow-covered summits piercing the azure give this environment a rare aesthetic.
Monks strolled down the hill in their burgundy robes and pirate-shaped, yellow-trim hats. They belong to the Gelukspa sect of Buddhism, led by big boss himself, the Dalai Lama. We took on the ascent to the monastery, climbing a steep incline until we reached the prayer hall. A special puja was taking place in honour of the sand mandala and it was going on over seven days with monks praying continuously from 7am until 3pm. They had created by hand, a colourful sand mandala - an amazing, intricate work of art that was to be washed away into the Suru River at the end of the puja. The stunning creation is a symbol of detachment – mental and physical - hence its fate for destruction. I gathered that the philosophy was about freedom, attained by letting go. It was there to remind us of the cycle of birth, life, death and reincarnation. True enlightenment is gained when we are truly free and true freedom can only be achieved by detachment and unconditional love.
So when they say the “hills are alive”, they're not joking. In this case, we could feel the life pulsating through the mountains, see the language they spoke as they changed shape every hour of the day: the pale orange glow of sunrise unveiling the mysticism of the night before; mid-day revealing their bold nudity as glittering white peaks nearly touched the sky; clouds, as they began to cast their shadows by early evening, forming voluptuous shapes across the range, obscuring the view and transforming them once again, into mystical creatures of the night. Beige, green, bright electric blue; yellow, orange, gold and dusky purple. These are the colours of Zanskar and they penetrated my soul.
Zanskar – The Hidden Kingdom
Zanskar is rugged and isolated. Gompas, stupas, monasteries and nunneries abound in the ancient Buddhist valley. The reverberations of its melancholy soul have continued to resonate into the 21st century; maybe due to the fact that for centuries, it had been bypassed by traders and merchants traveling the Silk Road. No one even knew it was there.
It's not easy to access Zanskar, which is why you don't see so many travelers. Yet the ones who do make it, are serious either about Buddhist philosophy, or trekking. I fall into neither of these categories, prefering instead to simply take things in my stride. Things will change though, especially once the new road is built between Padum and Leh. The “fast track” to Leh these days is by foot over eight to ten days from Padum to Lamayuru. Weather conditions have meant that work can only be carried out three months of the year, so to the delight of trekking fanatics, the building of the road has been a slow and gradual progress. Once built, it should bring the town economic prosperity, but at the same time, risk watering down the substance of its culture as more traffic begins to enter and new hotels spring up, transforming it into a commercial hub and yet another plot on the stoner-circuit map.
Tenzin the Magic Monk
Tenzin, with his smiling eyes, is the jolly gatekeeper of the local monastery in Padum. He welcomed David and I as we explored a ruined part of the town. He invited us for tea, and as we stood on the rooftop of the monastery building, listened to the Call to Prayer resonating from the nearby mosque. We were drinking tea in a Buddhist monastery, looking out across a beautiful landscape and hearing the crystal-clear sound of the Muezzin's voice from a mosque just metres away. We were both mesmerised into silence.
Tenzin wanted to show us something that many people do not get to see. First, however, he wanted to guide us to the Buddhist temple that was built into the monastery. It's a centuries-old building, with a frail yet sturdy wooden interior - a small space that the Muslims had converted into a kitchen during the invasion as the war took place between India and Pakistan. Many monasteries had been destroyed by the Pakistani army, however, this particular monastery had been preserved. There is still a predominantly strong Muslim population in Padum, however, Buddhism too continues to prevail and the two combined give the place a unique aura of spirituality. Tenzin had lit a number of butter divas in the temple, soaking the statues of Buddhas and ancient voodoo-like ceremonial masks, in a modest, golden spiritual light.
An ancient civilization
Leading us through challenging terrain, we followed Tenzin as he clambered easily over boulders and rocks until we reached the magical place he'd wanted to show us. Huge rock formations loomed high up above us engraved with images of ancient Buddhas – both male and female. The markings revealed the existence of civilizations that survived here, perhaps two, maybe three millennia ago. These people had lived here for centuries without any hassles from the outside world. The existence of Zanskar was not even acknowledged until recently, confirming why today, it is known as the “Hidden Kingdom”.
Lauren
Lauren, otherwise known in Ladakhi as Konehog Choskit, is someone I had met for the very first time in Delhi some months back. We were in Majnu Ka Tila, the Tibetan quarter of Delhi. For me, it's the best place to stay whenever I happen to be in the city as it beats the lunacy of Paharganj, the formidable backpacker district. I happened to be checking into a hotel just as Lauren, accompanied by two Buddhist nuns, was checking out. I heard her speak Ladakhi and immediately struck up a conversation. We had swapped details, however, in the whirlwind of my travels, had forgotten our exchange.
Lauren is American, 25, a Harvard graduate, fluent in Ladakhi and has lived with nuns in Zanskar for three years. Well versed in Buddhist philosophy, she is considering a number of options in life, including the possibility of becoming a nun, although she does admit to being privy to the odd tipple – something that respectable nuns do not indulge in!
The mountain air can go straight to your head sometimes and Lauren happened to catch David, Alan and I indulging in a silly moment as we held hands and skipped down Padum's so-called “high street” - a village street lined by a handful of shops. Alan already knew Lauren from the repair work he had carried out with her at the crumbling Karsha Monastery. As she stopped to speak to him, she recognised me almost immediately.
It took me a few moments to realise that it was the same girl I had met back in Delhi all those months ago. This time, I had the opportunity to have a proper chat with her. The woman's sense of humour never fails her and she handles our cheek, wit and interrogation of her choices in life (not unlike the Spanish Inquisition) with good-nature. She's as clued up as you can get on the depths of Buddhist philosophy and spends her spare time reading complicated Buddhist texts. Far from brainwashed, Lauren, as we discovered, recognises the substance of a number of controversial opinions surrounding religion, in particular, Buddhism. What a woman! She's heading for Nepal soon to complete a Ladakhi-English translation course. I'll be posting an interview with Lauren on Buddhist philosophy, detachment and the choices that she has made in her life to date. Watch this space.
Karsha Monastery
The rare aesthetic of a wonder-world...
We had trekked the seven kilometres from Padum to reach the Karsha Monastery. A white washed village clung to the bosom of the mountain, the Karsha Monastery winding up to its summit. Villagers carrying stacks of grass that they were collecting for the winter season passed us by, each one bent forward by the strain of the weight, yet every single one of them still with the heart to greet us with a wide, friendly smile. “Julley”, in Ladakhi, means “Hello”.
A huge prayer bell stood tall in its temple-like shelter and Buddhist flags woven between its four columns fluttered in the wind against the dramatic backdrop. The sky is a brilliant, bright blue with tufts of cloud forming shapes over the expansive range of the Zanskari Himalaya just ahead. There are green fields that are being harvested by locals and the contrast against the barrenness is incredible. It is evident that the people of this village work very hard to bring fertility to this land. Golden fields of wheat and lush green acres of land against brilliant-white snow-covered summits piercing the azure give this environment a rare aesthetic.
Monks strolled down the hill in their burgundy robes and pirate-shaped, yellow-trim hats. They belong to the Gelukspa sect of Buddhism, led by big boss himself, the Dalai Lama. We took on the ascent to the monastery, climbing a steep incline until we reached the prayer hall. A special puja was taking place in honour of the sand mandala and it was going on over seven days with monks praying continuously from 7am until 3pm. They had created by hand, a colourful sand mandala - an amazing, intricate work of art that was to be washed away into the Suru River at the end of the puja. The stunning creation is a symbol of detachment – mental and physical - hence its fate for destruction. I gathered that the philosophy was about freedom, attained by letting go. It was there to remind us of the cycle of birth, life, death and reincarnation. True enlightenment is gained when we are truly free and true freedom can only be achieved by detachment and unconditional love.
Ridin' the Trans-Himalaya!
Goodbye Rangdem...
David was the first to wake. He was pacing the room frantically, grinning insanely; muttering incomprehensibly. There was no way he was getting me out of bed at this obscene hour of the morning. The only trek we had planned for the day was six hours away by some form of transport and it wasn't even light yet. I peeped out the bed-covers and noticed that he was fully dressed in hat, boots, woolly jumper - like he'd just come in from the cold. “Look outside, look outside!” From the large pane windows, I could see nothing but white, unable to distinguish sky from landscape. It was another few hours before I was out of bed to see the light of day, and boy was it bright. It was the first time we'd seen snow covering the entire landscape around us. David was in heaven. He'd been up taking photographs since 5.40am and had captured a collage of the cold, hard climate, the austere of its solitary soul weeping melancholy tears in all its moody-blue-tinged glory. I felt cold just looking at the images as I lay in bed with the laptop resting on my sleepy corpse. David has a unique ability for capturing the soul of the mountains. Perhaps it is because the mountains are the very food of his soul.
I noticed the snow-covered mountains merge into the pasty clouds, felt my face whipped by the piercing, bone-chilling wind that swept through the valley as we walked the long stretch from the family home across the field with our rucksacks.
Ruth had been crying that morning. She complained of stomach ache. David and I guessed that the rough, remote, wilderness had become a little too much for the Jewish Princess who seems accustomed to package holidays, airport transfers and room service. Boaz put on a brave face, although we could see he was disappointed to miss out on the trans-Himalayan adventure that David and I were about to embark. Like the true gent that he is, he accompanied a relieved Ruth back to Kargil and on to the creature comforts of Leh.
Splitting up...
We were to split two directions at the police check post, which served as a hitching point for trucks as well as a stop for buses: Boaz and Ruth heading north, David and I delving deeper south into the heart of the Zanskar Valley. We were the first to depart. A truck pulled up and throwing our rucksacks on top, we hugged the guys goodbye and dived into the spare seats next to the driver.
Into the void...
We wondered at the possibility of the giant truck losing its balance over the narrow 4,900 metre pass and falling into the void. We were traversing the Penzila, the highest mountain pass of the Zanskar Range, not to mention, one of the coldest with the glacier that hung menacingly down below. The weather conditions were not exactly mild either, yet David and I felt positively exhilarated at hitching a lift in a truck through something that resembled a snow-blizzard.
The truck driver, Mohammad, was a shining star. Not only was he fasting for Ramadan, meaning he hadn't eaten anything since 4am, and wasn't about to at least until 7pm, but he had driven with considerable expertise, confidently manoeuvring the vehicle around the impossibly tight corners of the Penzila, the wheels of the truck teetering on the edge of the narrow, snow-ridden road while thousands of metres of nothingness plummeted down below us.
David was the first to wake. He was pacing the room frantically, grinning insanely; muttering incomprehensibly. There was no way he was getting me out of bed at this obscene hour of the morning. The only trek we had planned for the day was six hours away by some form of transport and it wasn't even light yet. I peeped out the bed-covers and noticed that he was fully dressed in hat, boots, woolly jumper - like he'd just come in from the cold. “Look outside, look outside!” From the large pane windows, I could see nothing but white, unable to distinguish sky from landscape. It was another few hours before I was out of bed to see the light of day, and boy was it bright. It was the first time we'd seen snow covering the entire landscape around us. David was in heaven. He'd been up taking photographs since 5.40am and had captured a collage of the cold, hard climate, the austere of its solitary soul weeping melancholy tears in all its moody-blue-tinged glory. I felt cold just looking at the images as I lay in bed with the laptop resting on my sleepy corpse. David has a unique ability for capturing the soul of the mountains. Perhaps it is because the mountains are the very food of his soul.
I noticed the snow-covered mountains merge into the pasty clouds, felt my face whipped by the piercing, bone-chilling wind that swept through the valley as we walked the long stretch from the family home across the field with our rucksacks.
Ruth had been crying that morning. She complained of stomach ache. David and I guessed that the rough, remote, wilderness had become a little too much for the Jewish Princess who seems accustomed to package holidays, airport transfers and room service. Boaz put on a brave face, although we could see he was disappointed to miss out on the trans-Himalayan adventure that David and I were about to embark. Like the true gent that he is, he accompanied a relieved Ruth back to Kargil and on to the creature comforts of Leh.
Splitting up...
We were to split two directions at the police check post, which served as a hitching point for trucks as well as a stop for buses: Boaz and Ruth heading north, David and I delving deeper south into the heart of the Zanskar Valley. We were the first to depart. A truck pulled up and throwing our rucksacks on top, we hugged the guys goodbye and dived into the spare seats next to the driver.
Into the void...
We wondered at the possibility of the giant truck losing its balance over the narrow 4,900 metre pass and falling into the void. We were traversing the Penzila, the highest mountain pass of the Zanskar Range, not to mention, one of the coldest with the glacier that hung menacingly down below. The weather conditions were not exactly mild either, yet David and I felt positively exhilarated at hitching a lift in a truck through something that resembled a snow-blizzard.
The truck driver, Mohammad, was a shining star. Not only was he fasting for Ramadan, meaning he hadn't eaten anything since 4am, and wasn't about to at least until 7pm, but he had driven with considerable expertise, confidently manoeuvring the vehicle around the impossibly tight corners of the Penzila, the wheels of the truck teetering on the edge of the narrow, snow-ridden road while thousands of metres of nothingness plummeted down below us.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A trans-Himalayan Adventure...
Kargil
Kargil marks the line of control between India and Pakistan. It's not exactly a border, but divides two thirds of Indian-controlled Kashmir from one third Pakistan. Thousands of families were reunited in the nineties when the first bus from Srinagar to Lahore (?) traveled across it. Bombs and shells fly over it from Pakistan now and then, but not frequently. Most people only stop the night before moving on to Srinagar, Zanskar or Leh. Police are everywhere and the town is a strategic point for the military machine that controls it.
Dividing India and Pakistan, Kargil is dominated by Tibetans, Kashmiris and Ladakhis. They're all troubled by either Pakistan, China, India and / or Afghanistan. Many Shi'a in the area. Strolling down the street we spot a poster of an Ayatollah leader and Boaz and Ruth, being Israeli, balk at the sight of it. All the hotels are scummy, expensive, unfriendly. We find one by squatting patiently outside it.
It was a better than the other dingy dives with their flee-infested beds, stained sheets, peeling paint, horrible toilets, sleazy men. That night, however, we witnessed the premier of the Itchy and Scratchy Show – In other words, bed bugs. Nice.
In the centre of town, we tried to hustle a jeep for Panikar, a sweet village positioned at the opening of the Suru Valley. A crowd had gathered around us, mostly drivers trying to rip us off with tourist prices. David and I have been there, done that and got the tee shirt, so there was no way we were going to fall for any of their crap. Neither were we about to get all flustered in the chaos and commotion many were creating around us. We picked the quietest guy, “Doh hazaar”, he said; meaning, 2000 rupees. “Ek hazaar”, I countered. “Teek hai.” We steered him away from the crowd and sorted out the rest. We had a done deal with a stellar dude and he was taking us to Panikar for the price we wanted to pay.
Panikar
A tiny white-washed pueblito with no more than about 100 residents, Panikar is an agricultural area with few shops, most of which remain closed throughout the week. It's difficult to buy basic necessities and we found ourselves scouring the town when looking for things like butter (nope), bread (only comes in form of chapati made at home), tomatoes (it's not the season), water (short supply).
Sunny and dusty, there was hardly a soul to be seen on the one street that made the town, a kind of a town. It felt like we'd entered a place fresh off the set of a western. Pretty colours of fields lined the country road. Stretching out for acres, they were dotted by locals who worked until their backs broke to harvest crop for the winter. This is the Suru Valley, leading to Zanskar. It was the start of something beautiful, the beginning of an adventure, a trans-Himalayan adventure. I was not prepared for the way in which the landscape was to change for us over the following weeks, but Panikar eased us in to that change with love.
Send the men to the kitchen!
The men took their place in the kitchen while Ruth and I took off for town to find some ingredients. We were staying at J&K Bungalows, a government-run affair with Mohammad, an elderly local man, as its caretaker. The rooms were huge and there was a sublime view from our “chill out” lounge to the spectacular Nun and Kun glaciers. We had our own kitchen and were the only ones staying in the place at the time. Panikar, at that moment, to me, felt cut off from the rest of the world. There was no way we could contact anyone - either by phone, email, text message or whatever. It felt like a techno-detox. In a way, it brought the four of us together – Ruth, Boaz, David and I. We'd only known the guys a couple of weeks and had dragged them with us as far as Panikar when they'd had no plans to even come this far. Boaz appreciated the place, the wilderness, the countryside, the seclusion from the outside world, while Ruth, we felt, was missing her creature comforts and mod cons. She did however, appreciate Panikar and was happy for us all to chill out together in the evenings, watching the mountains Nun and Kun, shimmer like disco balls under a full moon.
We fell upon a local who was kind enough to sell us some spinach, carrots, potatoes, onions, curd, butter. It was the best curd that we'd tasted, home made of course and amazing with fruit and honey for breakfast. Our whole survival of eating and cooking together was beautiful and something that I don't think any of us will forget.
Not trekking again!
Ruth hadn't expected the “walk” to be such a tough call. She didn't want to let Boaz down either so she braved it almost to the very end. We jumped across the river, crossed the bridge, took our time walking across multicoloured fields where locals worked and waved us in the right direction. It was a gentle ascent. Bouncy green meadows swirled with green, purple, pink, violet, yellow, orange, gold. David loves ascents, anticipating the summit, wanting to get higher and higher. I on the other hand, am not the greatest fan. He tries to encourage me as it gets tougher. I swear at him. “This is all your fault! Always want to get higher, we can see everything from here, we don't need to suffer anymore! You just enjoy making me suffer, don't you? You freak!”
David, at the best of times, is a man of few words, yet he transforms into a chatterbox once up in the mountains. While everyone else is huffing and puffing, focusing on breathing, David is nattering away while his lanky legs zig-zag effortlessly up the steepest ascents. “Shut up will you!” I say. He laughs then begins to encourage me again. David reckons that the mountains reveal what people are really like because it puts them to the test. If they cannot persevere and continue the exercise, then something is lacking in them. I think that his theory is a little harsh, but then again, my experience of mountains in comparison to that of David, is limited. David has been climbing mountains since the age of about two, when his dad would take him up into the Scottish Highlands. He's never felt complete without a mountain in his vicinity since. Bless! He admitted he was surprised at my resilience and felt that I was made of stronger stuff than he thought. That for me, was quite a compliment. “You might be small, but you're stronger than most when it comes to climbing mountains!” He's good at encouraging me in the mountains is David!
Between a rock...
David is standing on a rock a few metres above me. I zig-zag across the hilly terrain and join him. We settle for a cigarette and look down to see Ruth and Boaz, slowly but surely making their way up. We finally make it to the top and can see the glacier, Nun. The altitude was getting a bit much. We'd gone up about 1200 metres, hitting about 3,800. Coming down, we see Boaz. He'd left Ruth with a local shepherd and had decided to get to the top by himself. Approaching Ruth, we decide to cheer her up. It was impressive that she'd made it so far. David, however, was not impressed! He felt that she was pulling us back, that her heart was not in it and that she was negative because had been complaining about walking anywhere before we'd even properly begun. She'd tried, in David's eyes, and failed, at deterring us from climbing up to the summit. I guess trekking is not for everyone.
People of the land – Rangdem
Panikhar was just a starter. The environment ahead of us was about to change. We were about to continue along the Suru Valley and enter Rangdem. Rangdem defines the opening of Zanskar. It is the harsh, rocky, barren climate. As we drive into the village, Ruth is the first to react, speaking exactly what I was thinking: “Is this it?”.
The place, I felt, was magnificent. It's twisted landscape has been contorted by plate tectonics, giving the mountains a warped character. You can feel the landscape and it feels alive. Rocks are distorted too, the whole place is trippy – the effects of plates colliding during earthquakes. It's a harsh, barren land with temperatures plummeting to minus 40 in the winter. We arrive during the height of summer and snuggle into our jackets sitting in the shade. The sun is bright, the sky is super blue and there is a bone-chilling wind sweeping across the valley. A cluster of about 30 houses, an amenities store and a monastery with school seven km away makes up the town of Rangdem. A river washes across a sea of rocks. Ahead of that lies the monastery.
People of the land
They are real salt of the earth people of the land. The inhabitants of Rangdem cannot be described in any other way. The fruits of their labour are savoured in the winter, when nothing grows and life appears to cease as they hibernate and survive until summertime again. You can see their weatherbeaten faces, skin like leather, cheeks marked red by the wind, features contorted by the drastic climate. Money, money, money – they don't need it. Perhaps to pay the 200 rupees per month for each child's schooling and books. They don't even know the colour of it. Papa Ji, the head of the family we were staying with, had asked us to give him whatever we felt was right. His eyes lit up at the amount we had calculated.
No medicine, no mercy
The people of Rangdem had more of an effect on me than those of any other place that I have been to. They work hard, live simple, have few expectations and their ideals about life are worlds apart from the materialistic bullshit and consumer-driven chaos that I have seen dull the souls of people in the west. They're faces are lined by worry, illness, hardwork, but their eyes are soft and moist, and filled with kindness. No one is making it easy for them. No pharmacy, no doctor, no hospital, so no access to medicines. Papa Ji had an abscess and the pain was proving too much for him. His granddaughter, Dolma, a six year-old, painfully shy, whispering sunflower of a child, was sick with fever. She walks 14 kilometres to school and back in fierce weather conditions. We did that trek too, partly to see what it was like, so you could say we know what she does everyday. Boaz, thankfully, had some painkillers and paracetamol. The following day, we were greeted with gratitude. Boaz was meant to hand out more medicines to the family as his father, a physician, had stocked him with plenty. In the commotion to get packed and leave however, we had forgotten to do so. That thought remains with me until today. I hope to return to Rangdem one day.
School trip
We took a trip to the monastery, seven kilometres away and in the pouring rain, ended up killing time visiting the school. Dolma sat quietly in the corner, barely speaking as we tried our best to make her look cool by calling out her name. She speaks in whispers but smiles like a sunflower. She's a whispering sunflower, blown about by a harsh climate and living conditions. The teachers at least make it all worthwhile. There are seven of them, all young, funky and fluent in English. They teach Ladakhi, Hindi, English, Maths, Geography, History and Social Sciences. As David says, my sense of social responsibility kind of flew out the window when I asked them to repeat the names of birds, each bird representing a letter of the alphabet. Arriving at the letter “C”... The teacher was splitting his sides laughing. Thankfully the kids didn't clock the joke.
We'd noticed members of the Indian military guarding the monastery. One of the teachers admitted that two monks had been shot dead right here, in this isolated village, about 10 years ago. My first reaction: “do you think it had something to do with the Chinese or the Pakistani Mujahaddin?” David gave me one of his funny looks and I realised the teacher did not want to answer the question. Granddad filled us in later, admitting that it was to do with Pakistan.
Panikar and Rangdem form the Suru Valley. It's another world that has given me a new perspective into the lives of people who have different values in life. It opened my eyes as once again, I imagined a parallel world of busy highstreets, christmas shoppers that run like sheep to big department stores – intriscally, babylon at its best. It made me appreciate that truth will always prevail over the shit that we are constantly bombarded with in the samsara that engulfs the west. How ashamed people would feel of the lives they lead had they ever discovered the opportunity to see the world through the eyes of the people who live here. They are pure people and they reflect the clean, pure, beauty of the environment in which they live. They are people with heart and soul who are privileged enough not to be contaminated by the so-called civilized world. I will miss the Suru Valley and I will miss its people.
Kargil marks the line of control between India and Pakistan. It's not exactly a border, but divides two thirds of Indian-controlled Kashmir from one third Pakistan. Thousands of families were reunited in the nineties when the first bus from Srinagar to Lahore (?) traveled across it. Bombs and shells fly over it from Pakistan now and then, but not frequently. Most people only stop the night before moving on to Srinagar, Zanskar or Leh. Police are everywhere and the town is a strategic point for the military machine that controls it.
Dividing India and Pakistan, Kargil is dominated by Tibetans, Kashmiris and Ladakhis. They're all troubled by either Pakistan, China, India and / or Afghanistan. Many Shi'a in the area. Strolling down the street we spot a poster of an Ayatollah leader and Boaz and Ruth, being Israeli, balk at the sight of it. All the hotels are scummy, expensive, unfriendly. We find one by squatting patiently outside it.
It was a better than the other dingy dives with their flee-infested beds, stained sheets, peeling paint, horrible toilets, sleazy men. That night, however, we witnessed the premier of the Itchy and Scratchy Show – In other words, bed bugs. Nice.
In the centre of town, we tried to hustle a jeep for Panikar, a sweet village positioned at the opening of the Suru Valley. A crowd had gathered around us, mostly drivers trying to rip us off with tourist prices. David and I have been there, done that and got the tee shirt, so there was no way we were going to fall for any of their crap. Neither were we about to get all flustered in the chaos and commotion many were creating around us. We picked the quietest guy, “Doh hazaar”, he said; meaning, 2000 rupees. “Ek hazaar”, I countered. “Teek hai.” We steered him away from the crowd and sorted out the rest. We had a done deal with a stellar dude and he was taking us to Panikar for the price we wanted to pay.
Panikar
A tiny white-washed pueblito with no more than about 100 residents, Panikar is an agricultural area with few shops, most of which remain closed throughout the week. It's difficult to buy basic necessities and we found ourselves scouring the town when looking for things like butter (nope), bread (only comes in form of chapati made at home), tomatoes (it's not the season), water (short supply).
Sunny and dusty, there was hardly a soul to be seen on the one street that made the town, a kind of a town. It felt like we'd entered a place fresh off the set of a western. Pretty colours of fields lined the country road. Stretching out for acres, they were dotted by locals who worked until their backs broke to harvest crop for the winter. This is the Suru Valley, leading to Zanskar. It was the start of something beautiful, the beginning of an adventure, a trans-Himalayan adventure. I was not prepared for the way in which the landscape was to change for us over the following weeks, but Panikar eased us in to that change with love.
Send the men to the kitchen!
The men took their place in the kitchen while Ruth and I took off for town to find some ingredients. We were staying at J&K Bungalows, a government-run affair with Mohammad, an elderly local man, as its caretaker. The rooms were huge and there was a sublime view from our “chill out” lounge to the spectacular Nun and Kun glaciers. We had our own kitchen and were the only ones staying in the place at the time. Panikar, at that moment, to me, felt cut off from the rest of the world. There was no way we could contact anyone - either by phone, email, text message or whatever. It felt like a techno-detox. In a way, it brought the four of us together – Ruth, Boaz, David and I. We'd only known the guys a couple of weeks and had dragged them with us as far as Panikar when they'd had no plans to even come this far. Boaz appreciated the place, the wilderness, the countryside, the seclusion from the outside world, while Ruth, we felt, was missing her creature comforts and mod cons. She did however, appreciate Panikar and was happy for us all to chill out together in the evenings, watching the mountains Nun and Kun, shimmer like disco balls under a full moon.
We fell upon a local who was kind enough to sell us some spinach, carrots, potatoes, onions, curd, butter. It was the best curd that we'd tasted, home made of course and amazing with fruit and honey for breakfast. Our whole survival of eating and cooking together was beautiful and something that I don't think any of us will forget.
Not trekking again!
Ruth hadn't expected the “walk” to be such a tough call. She didn't want to let Boaz down either so she braved it almost to the very end. We jumped across the river, crossed the bridge, took our time walking across multicoloured fields where locals worked and waved us in the right direction. It was a gentle ascent. Bouncy green meadows swirled with green, purple, pink, violet, yellow, orange, gold. David loves ascents, anticipating the summit, wanting to get higher and higher. I on the other hand, am not the greatest fan. He tries to encourage me as it gets tougher. I swear at him. “This is all your fault! Always want to get higher, we can see everything from here, we don't need to suffer anymore! You just enjoy making me suffer, don't you? You freak!”
David, at the best of times, is a man of few words, yet he transforms into a chatterbox once up in the mountains. While everyone else is huffing and puffing, focusing on breathing, David is nattering away while his lanky legs zig-zag effortlessly up the steepest ascents. “Shut up will you!” I say. He laughs then begins to encourage me again. David reckons that the mountains reveal what people are really like because it puts them to the test. If they cannot persevere and continue the exercise, then something is lacking in them. I think that his theory is a little harsh, but then again, my experience of mountains in comparison to that of David, is limited. David has been climbing mountains since the age of about two, when his dad would take him up into the Scottish Highlands. He's never felt complete without a mountain in his vicinity since. Bless! He admitted he was surprised at my resilience and felt that I was made of stronger stuff than he thought. That for me, was quite a compliment. “You might be small, but you're stronger than most when it comes to climbing mountains!” He's good at encouraging me in the mountains is David!
Between a rock...
David is standing on a rock a few metres above me. I zig-zag across the hilly terrain and join him. We settle for a cigarette and look down to see Ruth and Boaz, slowly but surely making their way up. We finally make it to the top and can see the glacier, Nun. The altitude was getting a bit much. We'd gone up about 1200 metres, hitting about 3,800. Coming down, we see Boaz. He'd left Ruth with a local shepherd and had decided to get to the top by himself. Approaching Ruth, we decide to cheer her up. It was impressive that she'd made it so far. David, however, was not impressed! He felt that she was pulling us back, that her heart was not in it and that she was negative because had been complaining about walking anywhere before we'd even properly begun. She'd tried, in David's eyes, and failed, at deterring us from climbing up to the summit. I guess trekking is not for everyone.
People of the land – Rangdem
Panikhar was just a starter. The environment ahead of us was about to change. We were about to continue along the Suru Valley and enter Rangdem. Rangdem defines the opening of Zanskar. It is the harsh, rocky, barren climate. As we drive into the village, Ruth is the first to react, speaking exactly what I was thinking: “Is this it?”.
The place, I felt, was magnificent. It's twisted landscape has been contorted by plate tectonics, giving the mountains a warped character. You can feel the landscape and it feels alive. Rocks are distorted too, the whole place is trippy – the effects of plates colliding during earthquakes. It's a harsh, barren land with temperatures plummeting to minus 40 in the winter. We arrive during the height of summer and snuggle into our jackets sitting in the shade. The sun is bright, the sky is super blue and there is a bone-chilling wind sweeping across the valley. A cluster of about 30 houses, an amenities store and a monastery with school seven km away makes up the town of Rangdem. A river washes across a sea of rocks. Ahead of that lies the monastery.
People of the land
They are real salt of the earth people of the land. The inhabitants of Rangdem cannot be described in any other way. The fruits of their labour are savoured in the winter, when nothing grows and life appears to cease as they hibernate and survive until summertime again. You can see their weatherbeaten faces, skin like leather, cheeks marked red by the wind, features contorted by the drastic climate. Money, money, money – they don't need it. Perhaps to pay the 200 rupees per month for each child's schooling and books. They don't even know the colour of it. Papa Ji, the head of the family we were staying with, had asked us to give him whatever we felt was right. His eyes lit up at the amount we had calculated.
No medicine, no mercy
The people of Rangdem had more of an effect on me than those of any other place that I have been to. They work hard, live simple, have few expectations and their ideals about life are worlds apart from the materialistic bullshit and consumer-driven chaos that I have seen dull the souls of people in the west. They're faces are lined by worry, illness, hardwork, but their eyes are soft and moist, and filled with kindness. No one is making it easy for them. No pharmacy, no doctor, no hospital, so no access to medicines. Papa Ji had an abscess and the pain was proving too much for him. His granddaughter, Dolma, a six year-old, painfully shy, whispering sunflower of a child, was sick with fever. She walks 14 kilometres to school and back in fierce weather conditions. We did that trek too, partly to see what it was like, so you could say we know what she does everyday. Boaz, thankfully, had some painkillers and paracetamol. The following day, we were greeted with gratitude. Boaz was meant to hand out more medicines to the family as his father, a physician, had stocked him with plenty. In the commotion to get packed and leave however, we had forgotten to do so. That thought remains with me until today. I hope to return to Rangdem one day.
School trip
We took a trip to the monastery, seven kilometres away and in the pouring rain, ended up killing time visiting the school. Dolma sat quietly in the corner, barely speaking as we tried our best to make her look cool by calling out her name. She speaks in whispers but smiles like a sunflower. She's a whispering sunflower, blown about by a harsh climate and living conditions. The teachers at least make it all worthwhile. There are seven of them, all young, funky and fluent in English. They teach Ladakhi, Hindi, English, Maths, Geography, History and Social Sciences. As David says, my sense of social responsibility kind of flew out the window when I asked them to repeat the names of birds, each bird representing a letter of the alphabet. Arriving at the letter “C”... The teacher was splitting his sides laughing. Thankfully the kids didn't clock the joke.
We'd noticed members of the Indian military guarding the monastery. One of the teachers admitted that two monks had been shot dead right here, in this isolated village, about 10 years ago. My first reaction: “do you think it had something to do with the Chinese or the Pakistani Mujahaddin?” David gave me one of his funny looks and I realised the teacher did not want to answer the question. Granddad filled us in later, admitting that it was to do with Pakistan.
Panikar and Rangdem form the Suru Valley. It's another world that has given me a new perspective into the lives of people who have different values in life. It opened my eyes as once again, I imagined a parallel world of busy highstreets, christmas shoppers that run like sheep to big department stores – intriscally, babylon at its best. It made me appreciate that truth will always prevail over the shit that we are constantly bombarded with in the samsara that engulfs the west. How ashamed people would feel of the lives they lead had they ever discovered the opportunity to see the world through the eyes of the people who live here. They are pure people and they reflect the clean, pure, beauty of the environment in which they live. They are people with heart and soul who are privileged enough not to be contaminated by the so-called civilized world. I will miss the Suru Valley and I will miss its people.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)