Tearing Outta Goa
It was a case of "I need to get the hell outta this place," so I finally managed to rip myself away from Goa. It was on the back of Wayne's 1972 Royal Enfied. He bought the bike a few days ago and decided it was a girl. Followng the first 12 hours of our journey, it became a boy, but then we decided it was a tom-boy, or even better, a bisexual bitch of a bike with balls (or BBOBB - or just Bob - or Bobbella even, depending on the mood of the bike). It was an apocolyptic ride and I broke my ass. We hit the road yesterday morning and covered some 400 km of rural landscape, mountain roads, congested towns, express highways and crazy country roads full of potholes and dust. The traffic was crazy... Wanna see the real India? Then get your ass on the road and feel yourself walking like John Wayne when you stop off for the next chai. Dust is up your nose, in your mouth, in your hair; a thick film over your sunglasses, all over your clothes and over every inch of your bare flesh.
Bikin' it
Skimmed precariously over narrow bridge, rocks and river one side and 50 km convoy of trucks the other. Felt like a never-ending road-trip dominated by these metal monsters from hell. I lit a cigarette to relieve the stress and we laughed at the madness. When someone pulls out inches in front of you, or charges at you full throttle on the wrong side of the road, or decides to take up a comfortable high-speed place in your blind spot, or when one fat truck overtakes another and is heading straight at you along a huge bend - you realise you can't lose the plot about such trivial matters because this is India. Forget road manners because here you charge ahead with zero hesitation and a tinge of aggression. In other words, when in India, do as the Indians do. Run with the craziness, accept it for what it is and laugh about it. There exists a synchronicity in the chaos, but then there are times that it's so insane, it's funny.
Connecting to the spirit of Indian people
Indians smile from the heart. Villagers, townies frantically signal the thumbs up sign as you speed past those in throes of daily Indian life in bazaars, cities, and rural farmland areas. These are people you will never see again, but even during that split second of time that you do see them, you feel a fleeting connection that lights you up inside. I felt the buzz of life on the back of the bike and smelt the goodness of the Indian spirit, Indian land, Indian people. It was nice and yes, I'm stoned right now...!
Fifteen hours later...
Fifteen hours later... Hampi in the state of Karnataka has a peculiar landscape. Looking at it from the other side of the river that we crossed, it appears as something from the age of the ancient Mayans. Surreal Dali-like rock structures also remind me of the spirit of ancient Greece. Ancient temples and paddy fields abound. That's all I can say for now as I just got here. We wanted to stay on the other side of the river and the locals helped us get the beast of a bike across on a boat, so the other thing I can say is that once again, the people have been amazing. Found out the petrol in this town sucks and has already crippled four Enfields so we need to ride 10km to the nearest town for better quality juice. Also found a way of getting to our side of town without crossing the river. For obvious reasons, the locals refrain from divulging this information to tourists. So it's all cool and we are enjoying staying in the Brixon side of town this side of the river. Om Shanti Guesthouse is sweet and comprises the outbuildings of a family home, complete with rooster, chickens, a herd of goats, a cow and two baby goats that were born just today. It's real Indian living in a room with two mattresses, a make-shift ceiling, a light switch and a mosquito net. Great food and fresh fruit juice also served by the lovely family. Not bad at 50 rupees a night. It's been a long couple of days. Time to zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
Monday, February 9, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
GOA WAGA RAGA NAGA!
Goa-waga-raga-naga! So this is what all the fuss has been about? Travellers and old timers, freaks of yoga and meditation, Indian yuppies, trance heads, fat European tourists swilling beer on the beach and this year, lots of Russians – there's an odd combination of people that converge here to live up to the clichés of Goa life.
I’m in Arambol, north of Goa. It's like being at a permanent festival, so I guess you could say I feel pretty much at home. Ask me what I did yesterday and I'd have to think real hard about it. Been in Goa about three weeks, but its difficult to keep track of time. It took me two weeks to get off my arse to find the post office and getting to the internet cafe can become one of the most laborious tasks when all you want to do is just be. Days melt into each other and I'm floating through time with a silly grin stuck to my face. In the beginning I'd get spells where I'd freak out with thoughts that screamed, “I should be doing something constructive, not just sitting here smoking chillums all day!” It's actually hard work doing nothing, but take my word for it, it does get easier and regular counseling sessions that consist of gassing with all those in the same boat, do help. I don't know what I'm doing tonight, tomorrow or next week, so don't even bother asking me.
Goa is a special place
Arambol, the place I’m at right now is the place I want to be and I can see why people are here. It has a very special energy. I see myself in the eyes of the people that I attract. I feel a powerful connection with people. I'm a Blue Crystal Storm on the Mayan calendar, so perhaps that explains it. I'm a hurricane in this town when it comes to communication and people. Sometimes I don't even have to try, I only have to stand there and before I know it, I've made some kind of connection, be it sexual, spiritual, intelligent, heartfelt, emotional, friendly, creative or business. It's like looking into a mirror, generating a greater level of self-awareness and consciousness. It's what I was aiming for, and to discover this in Goa is a privilege and a pleasure.
Trance Parties
Trust me to land in Goa the year the Indian government decides to ban music after 10pm. A couple of so-called terrorists were caught in Vasco de Gama kitted out with Kalashnikovs etc… so military police have been combing the beaches with their funny-looking world war two rifles. The odd helicopter has also been seen hovering about. It'll probably blow over in a couple of months, but the local businesses have been affected. Agonda in the south was not so busy, but I guess it's nicer that way. Despite the beautiful beach, I didn't really take to Agonda much. It was too quiet and the people too cliquey and the sea too calm. I like Arambol, yeah!
Parties at clubs and beaches have still been going on though and I found myself at one on a beach at Shiva Valley recently. Music was so-so, with DJ chopping it up with too many changes, but it was full of plenty of trance nuts, speckled with groups of tourists making an effort to absorb the scene and of course, an abundance of rich young Indians from Mumbai, Banglore and Delhi.
It’s weird to see Indians of India playing up to the psytrance scene and all its happy clappy values about love and spirituality when they live in a country that is regressing in terms of poverty as much as it is progressing in terms of technology. I spoke to one guy about this but he didn't have much of a response, quite possibly because the poor thing was tripping off his nut as I interrogated him...
Hill Top and West End are the two major venues for psytrance parties. I've been to both. Sped off into the night on the back of a bike with a guy called Dave the other week to celebrate Russian New Year at the West End. It was a disaster. The only thrill was getting to the place at top speed, the wind practically ripping the features off my face the entire ride. Too many Russians, twisted and contorted with drugs, and a few yuppie Indians on too much speed. It was shite and I'm not going back. Stark difference in contrast to the pumping daytime party on Sunday afternoon at Hill Top with its sexy psytrance, cool outdoor venue and positive people vibes. Noticed the best parties finish earlier as they're not being run by the rackets that swamp Goa with drugs, arms and prostitutes, which means they probably can't afford to pay the local police extortionate sums of baksheesh (bribes) to break the license law. Investigations underway so watch this space...
Juggling Convention
Juggling convention took place the other week. We sat on beach and watched two globe-headed funksters balance crystal balls on their heads. A rasta boy played a dome-come-UFO-shaped steel instrument from Switzerland known as a Hang Drum, and the silhouettes of pois dancers and jugglers were beautiful as the sea sparkled in the orange glow of the setting sun. The finale was meant to take place the following day but was cancelled with organiser Tom arrested for refusing to pay baksheesh. It cost 70,000 rupees to bail him out. He preferred to have stayed another night in jail just to make a point, but he was a wanted man both in and outside jail – wanted on the outside in the positive context of course.
Permission for event had been granted by the chief superintendent but someone had gone to the top and the complaint filtered down the channels leading to his arrest. Indian police play the dirtiest games and this boils down to the ground-level contact they have with citizens. It's a power trip, even amongst car park attendants and the most miniscule of official positions, giving them importance in their petty government roles. There is a lack of trust and money is the only thing that talks if you want to get anything done. The Russian New Year party stormed on for 48 hours. Doesn't take a genius to figure out how and why. It's such a contrast to the love and spirituality that reigns in India, contradicting the values of Mother India and all that she stands for, contradicting everything that the world's biggest democracy stands for. How can India be the world's biggest democracy when the sheer size of her population serves as bait for corruption? Where is the democracy in that amongst the majority of the 1.2 billion people that are being manipulated with the most common official weapon, baksheesh? Where is the love in that? There is no connection between the spirituality that you can literally visualize rising from Indian soil and the extortionate level of corruption. Still, as a friend suggested, and I am inclined to agree with him, India still is the last safe haven on earth before the complete annihilation of the planet settles in.
Tom got out of jail just a few days ago and the artists of the juggling convention put on a grand finale just last night at the Psybar here in Arambol. A point was made and next year's juggling convention has already been arranged. Power to the people!
Anjuna
German girl Nora and myself hitched lift from boring, straight, event-less Agonda to Anjuna with some film director guy. Think he's meant to be famous, a fact that became a little obvious when he asked, “Do you know my name?” He might as well have said, “Do you know who I am?” I refused to feel stupid in his imposing, patronizing presence, although we did appreciate his offer of a roof over heads and of course the lift at the back of his open-top four wheel drive monster of a car.
Walking along the beach in Anjuna, I bump into my Portuguese friend, Tiago and his Slovakian girlfriend, Natalia. I worked with them at the Boom Festival last year, so it was a surreal moment, totally unexpected! Also bumped into Hugo, one of the photographers from Boom, plus met a crazy Finnish couple, Anika and Yari who became my surrogate parents. They have this dry, wicked sense of humour. We embarked upon a pretty cool adventure together when we walked back along the rocky coastline from Vagator to Anjuna, getting back just as the tide was coming in. Nuts, the pair of them! Advice: Try not to walk over three kilometers of giant rocks after smoking a jay.
Anjuna beach was packed with bodies and bars such as Janet and John's, and reminded me of the Costa del Sol, but in a more exotic environment. The beach didn’t really do it for me, so it became more a case of people rather than place. The interactive vibe between complete strangers from different walks of life is what really inspires me. I guess you could call me a people person. I love my space, but I also like to interact with people and my inquisitive nature has helped me to build some nice connections. Certain people became regular friends over a period of days and it felt like I’d known some of them for more than just those few days. I felt this way with Anika and Yaris in particular. Tiagi and Natalia, I only knew from working at the Boom, but it was magic to bump into them on the other side of the world and spend some quality time getting to know them even better.
The market in Anjuna was also good fun. I hung out with two beautiful German girls and we had fun with the stall holders, telling all their customers to “come look my shop.” It's a shopper's paradise and if you're on a budget like me, then it can be kinda hellish to walk past some 2000 stalls bursting with goodies. I bought some magic body paint and ankle chains.
Arambol – the cake at the end of the tunnel
A week in Anjuna was enough to satisfy my appetite. So here I am in Arambol, the final point in Goa that I was aiming to reach. It's like being at a permanent festival. Travelers rather than tourists seem to flock to this place. Dreadlocks, mohicans, mullets, hippy chicks and pretty trance girls all over the place, everyone sporting sinbad trousers, funky tops and bindis.
I've only been in Arambol a couple of days, yet I've already become a bonafide resident, living in a funky house with two highly spiritually fine-tuned people near a big purple house not far from the Magic Park. It's worked out perfectly in so many respects, I feel blessed that the opportunity came my way.
I don’t want to cheat myself of India by staying here continuously, so the plan is to keep Goa as a cool base from which I can bounce to places such as Anantapur and Tamil Nadu. My time in the south should be done by April, by which time I hope to head for Richikesh and Himachal Pradesh.
I've only been in Arambol a couple of days but I feel like I have done plenty, including finding the post office and taking a mud bath at the sweet water lake. Went there the other day with a guy called Paul from Cambridge and we sat around on the rocks smoking a joint, listening to the sound of the water, the birds and watching wildlife. It was bliss. Next mission is to get to Paradise Beach, which falls under the state of Maharashtra. It's meant to be stunning and I think a few of us will be heading that way on bikes in the next day or so.
According to my flatmate and her Mayan calendar, I'm a blue storm crystal, which is something resembling a hurricane, a whirl wind, a typhoon, that whizzes about at a speed that defies the laws of nature. So I guess I need to work with that energy. It may help me to find what I am looking for. To be happy is no easy feat. It has to be worked at. I think I'm in the best place to do this and I feel blessed by the gods that I am here to try and figure it all out.
I’m in Arambol, north of Goa. It's like being at a permanent festival, so I guess you could say I feel pretty much at home. Ask me what I did yesterday and I'd have to think real hard about it. Been in Goa about three weeks, but its difficult to keep track of time. It took me two weeks to get off my arse to find the post office and getting to the internet cafe can become one of the most laborious tasks when all you want to do is just be. Days melt into each other and I'm floating through time with a silly grin stuck to my face. In the beginning I'd get spells where I'd freak out with thoughts that screamed, “I should be doing something constructive, not just sitting here smoking chillums all day!” It's actually hard work doing nothing, but take my word for it, it does get easier and regular counseling sessions that consist of gassing with all those in the same boat, do help. I don't know what I'm doing tonight, tomorrow or next week, so don't even bother asking me.
Goa is a special place
Arambol, the place I’m at right now is the place I want to be and I can see why people are here. It has a very special energy. I see myself in the eyes of the people that I attract. I feel a powerful connection with people. I'm a Blue Crystal Storm on the Mayan calendar, so perhaps that explains it. I'm a hurricane in this town when it comes to communication and people. Sometimes I don't even have to try, I only have to stand there and before I know it, I've made some kind of connection, be it sexual, spiritual, intelligent, heartfelt, emotional, friendly, creative or business. It's like looking into a mirror, generating a greater level of self-awareness and consciousness. It's what I was aiming for, and to discover this in Goa is a privilege and a pleasure.
Trance Parties
Trust me to land in Goa the year the Indian government decides to ban music after 10pm. A couple of so-called terrorists were caught in Vasco de Gama kitted out with Kalashnikovs etc… so military police have been combing the beaches with their funny-looking world war two rifles. The odd helicopter has also been seen hovering about. It'll probably blow over in a couple of months, but the local businesses have been affected. Agonda in the south was not so busy, but I guess it's nicer that way. Despite the beautiful beach, I didn't really take to Agonda much. It was too quiet and the people too cliquey and the sea too calm. I like Arambol, yeah!
Parties at clubs and beaches have still been going on though and I found myself at one on a beach at Shiva Valley recently. Music was so-so, with DJ chopping it up with too many changes, but it was full of plenty of trance nuts, speckled with groups of tourists making an effort to absorb the scene and of course, an abundance of rich young Indians from Mumbai, Banglore and Delhi.
It’s weird to see Indians of India playing up to the psytrance scene and all its happy clappy values about love and spirituality when they live in a country that is regressing in terms of poverty as much as it is progressing in terms of technology. I spoke to one guy about this but he didn't have much of a response, quite possibly because the poor thing was tripping off his nut as I interrogated him...
Hill Top and West End are the two major venues for psytrance parties. I've been to both. Sped off into the night on the back of a bike with a guy called Dave the other week to celebrate Russian New Year at the West End. It was a disaster. The only thrill was getting to the place at top speed, the wind practically ripping the features off my face the entire ride. Too many Russians, twisted and contorted with drugs, and a few yuppie Indians on too much speed. It was shite and I'm not going back. Stark difference in contrast to the pumping daytime party on Sunday afternoon at Hill Top with its sexy psytrance, cool outdoor venue and positive people vibes. Noticed the best parties finish earlier as they're not being run by the rackets that swamp Goa with drugs, arms and prostitutes, which means they probably can't afford to pay the local police extortionate sums of baksheesh (bribes) to break the license law. Investigations underway so watch this space...
Juggling Convention
Juggling convention took place the other week. We sat on beach and watched two globe-headed funksters balance crystal balls on their heads. A rasta boy played a dome-come-UFO-shaped steel instrument from Switzerland known as a Hang Drum, and the silhouettes of pois dancers and jugglers were beautiful as the sea sparkled in the orange glow of the setting sun. The finale was meant to take place the following day but was cancelled with organiser Tom arrested for refusing to pay baksheesh. It cost 70,000 rupees to bail him out. He preferred to have stayed another night in jail just to make a point, but he was a wanted man both in and outside jail – wanted on the outside in the positive context of course.
Permission for event had been granted by the chief superintendent but someone had gone to the top and the complaint filtered down the channels leading to his arrest. Indian police play the dirtiest games and this boils down to the ground-level contact they have with citizens. It's a power trip, even amongst car park attendants and the most miniscule of official positions, giving them importance in their petty government roles. There is a lack of trust and money is the only thing that talks if you want to get anything done. The Russian New Year party stormed on for 48 hours. Doesn't take a genius to figure out how and why. It's such a contrast to the love and spirituality that reigns in India, contradicting the values of Mother India and all that she stands for, contradicting everything that the world's biggest democracy stands for. How can India be the world's biggest democracy when the sheer size of her population serves as bait for corruption? Where is the democracy in that amongst the majority of the 1.2 billion people that are being manipulated with the most common official weapon, baksheesh? Where is the love in that? There is no connection between the spirituality that you can literally visualize rising from Indian soil and the extortionate level of corruption. Still, as a friend suggested, and I am inclined to agree with him, India still is the last safe haven on earth before the complete annihilation of the planet settles in.
Tom got out of jail just a few days ago and the artists of the juggling convention put on a grand finale just last night at the Psybar here in Arambol. A point was made and next year's juggling convention has already been arranged. Power to the people!
Anjuna
German girl Nora and myself hitched lift from boring, straight, event-less Agonda to Anjuna with some film director guy. Think he's meant to be famous, a fact that became a little obvious when he asked, “Do you know my name?” He might as well have said, “Do you know who I am?” I refused to feel stupid in his imposing, patronizing presence, although we did appreciate his offer of a roof over heads and of course the lift at the back of his open-top four wheel drive monster of a car.
Walking along the beach in Anjuna, I bump into my Portuguese friend, Tiago and his Slovakian girlfriend, Natalia. I worked with them at the Boom Festival last year, so it was a surreal moment, totally unexpected! Also bumped into Hugo, one of the photographers from Boom, plus met a crazy Finnish couple, Anika and Yari who became my surrogate parents. They have this dry, wicked sense of humour. We embarked upon a pretty cool adventure together when we walked back along the rocky coastline from Vagator to Anjuna, getting back just as the tide was coming in. Nuts, the pair of them! Advice: Try not to walk over three kilometers of giant rocks after smoking a jay.
Anjuna beach was packed with bodies and bars such as Janet and John's, and reminded me of the Costa del Sol, but in a more exotic environment. The beach didn’t really do it for me, so it became more a case of people rather than place. The interactive vibe between complete strangers from different walks of life is what really inspires me. I guess you could call me a people person. I love my space, but I also like to interact with people and my inquisitive nature has helped me to build some nice connections. Certain people became regular friends over a period of days and it felt like I’d known some of them for more than just those few days. I felt this way with Anika and Yaris in particular. Tiagi and Natalia, I only knew from working at the Boom, but it was magic to bump into them on the other side of the world and spend some quality time getting to know them even better.
The market in Anjuna was also good fun. I hung out with two beautiful German girls and we had fun with the stall holders, telling all their customers to “come look my shop.” It's a shopper's paradise and if you're on a budget like me, then it can be kinda hellish to walk past some 2000 stalls bursting with goodies. I bought some magic body paint and ankle chains.
Arambol – the cake at the end of the tunnel
A week in Anjuna was enough to satisfy my appetite. So here I am in Arambol, the final point in Goa that I was aiming to reach. It's like being at a permanent festival. Travelers rather than tourists seem to flock to this place. Dreadlocks, mohicans, mullets, hippy chicks and pretty trance girls all over the place, everyone sporting sinbad trousers, funky tops and bindis.
I've only been in Arambol a couple of days, yet I've already become a bonafide resident, living in a funky house with two highly spiritually fine-tuned people near a big purple house not far from the Magic Park. It's worked out perfectly in so many respects, I feel blessed that the opportunity came my way.
I don’t want to cheat myself of India by staying here continuously, so the plan is to keep Goa as a cool base from which I can bounce to places such as Anantapur and Tamil Nadu. My time in the south should be done by April, by which time I hope to head for Richikesh and Himachal Pradesh.
I've only been in Arambol a couple of days but I feel like I have done plenty, including finding the post office and taking a mud bath at the sweet water lake. Went there the other day with a guy called Paul from Cambridge and we sat around on the rocks smoking a joint, listening to the sound of the water, the birds and watching wildlife. It was bliss. Next mission is to get to Paradise Beach, which falls under the state of Maharashtra. It's meant to be stunning and I think a few of us will be heading that way on bikes in the next day or so.
According to my flatmate and her Mayan calendar, I'm a blue storm crystal, which is something resembling a hurricane, a whirl wind, a typhoon, that whizzes about at a speed that defies the laws of nature. So I guess I need to work with that energy. It may help me to find what I am looking for. To be happy is no easy feat. It has to be worked at. I think I'm in the best place to do this and I feel blessed by the gods that I am here to try and figure it all out.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
I make a crap tourist
I do. In Jaipur. Can’t deal with looking at buildings all day. Went to the Amber Fort, and it looked like a, erm, fort. It was big. Didn’t want to look at anymore buildings so spent most of the following afternoon sitting on the white-cushioned floor of a tiny shop near Hawa Mahal with an Italian gemstones dealer. We decided on my character before we got there, so told them I don’t speak Hindi, I’m half white and my husband is in Europe. I use Hindi only when I need to use it because it’s not always the best thing for me. I’ve tried the experiment of ditching the piercings and combat-dress style clothing for a simple salwaar kameez, Nazreen styleee. But guess what? It doesn’t matter, the fact that I am woman travelling alone is enough.
The guy’s been dealing in gems for a good couple of decades. I went along to keep my mouth shut and listen in on the conversation. We sipped tea and examined stones and waited in patience for the next broker to come along and impress us with something. These guys are like underwriters. They say the stones have been tested by a lab, but this is not always the case, and even if it as, there is no way you will ever get the perfect stone without running into six figures. So called “fish” marks mean it’s not as good as it could be. My Italian friend found what he was looking for and refused to purchase right until the last minute when they could take no more, and then the deal was done. No problemo!
Everyone tries to shake your hand, all the men that is, but I usually ignore them or respond with a polite Namaste or tell them in Hindi that I come from the sky whenever they try to find out who I am and where I come from. “Aasmaan se aiy hain” seems to work quite well, it gives them a laugh. For me, Jaipur was full of money makers and perverts. I didn’t feel like being a tourist in this town. The people here like to suffer fools too gladly for my liking, everyone so evidently out to make a quick buck out of tourists and then tourists walking around like lambs who have no idea about the slaughter! MI Road is full of international backpackers and that’s where I stayed, mainly because it was central. It was nice to be in the hostel and I had fun with some cool people who were there on business. In fact everyone in Jaipur seemed to be there on business, the regulars linking up at the same hotel. In fact they seem to be having fun at the same time, travelling, making money, meeting people. Sounds good eh? I’d go back, but only if it made good business sense!
The guy’s been dealing in gems for a good couple of decades. I went along to keep my mouth shut and listen in on the conversation. We sipped tea and examined stones and waited in patience for the next broker to come along and impress us with something. These guys are like underwriters. They say the stones have been tested by a lab, but this is not always the case, and even if it as, there is no way you will ever get the perfect stone without running into six figures. So called “fish” marks mean it’s not as good as it could be. My Italian friend found what he was looking for and refused to purchase right until the last minute when they could take no more, and then the deal was done. No problemo!
Everyone tries to shake your hand, all the men that is, but I usually ignore them or respond with a polite Namaste or tell them in Hindi that I come from the sky whenever they try to find out who I am and where I come from. “Aasmaan se aiy hain” seems to work quite well, it gives them a laugh. For me, Jaipur was full of money makers and perverts. I didn’t feel like being a tourist in this town. The people here like to suffer fools too gladly for my liking, everyone so evidently out to make a quick buck out of tourists and then tourists walking around like lambs who have no idea about the slaughter! MI Road is full of international backpackers and that’s where I stayed, mainly because it was central. It was nice to be in the hostel and I had fun with some cool people who were there on business. In fact everyone in Jaipur seemed to be there on business, the regulars linking up at the same hotel. In fact they seem to be having fun at the same time, travelling, making money, meeting people. Sounds good eh? I’d go back, but only if it made good business sense!
Pushkar People
Pushkar put a spell on me. I can't really explain it in any other way. You don't walk through its bazaar, you float through it. It's like a medieval festival full of mystical characters. The people here have a mannerism that I haven't noticed anywhere else in India. They will charm you, grab your attention in witty ways and become faces that you get to know on first-name terms in a matter of hours.
People in Pushkar are all about connecting. Pushkar Lake at sunset was the best time of the day to do this with the locals, especially the kids that literally hang off you like monkeys, speaking defiantly in their half-broken English and getting highly cheeky and mischevious!
There's a few trippy characters too, including the guy who gave Isabelle a massage. Rolling his eyes as he massaged her hand, this guy managed to convince her to strip down to her knickers in no more than sixty seconds because by the time I'd got back from the toilet, she was starkers and straddled. It might have been the red light in the room or the fact he wanted me to strip down and lie on the bed next to her too, but it was all a bit horny. He did the job well though because it was just what her back needed.
Pushkar came to be placed on the map a a result of the Godhead Brahma, who planted a lotus flower at the spot now known as Pushkar Lake. The Brahma Mandir in Pushkar is meant to be the only temple in the world devoted to Brahma. It's also a sanctury of just a handful of the 30 million gods of the Hindu religion, including Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman.
But it's not the tourist attractions that make the impact, it's the feeling you get when you walk into the town. Following the intensity of chaos in places like Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, this place felt bliss! You feel embraced by a spiritual energy, it's real chilled and there's no place here for meat, eggs or alcohol although bhang lassi is on the unofficial menu and can be obtained quite easily. Mind blowing stuff, or so I've heard...
Pushkar made me realise a few things about the way we connect with each other, how the energy of other people is a reflection of your energy and how easy you see this in the eyes of others. It made clearer the philosophy of Self. It was a graphic illustration of how visualisations can be manifested and gave me even more faith in the universe. I'm happy I had this experience and def plan on coming back.
Have lots of groovy pics by the way. Blogger takes an age to upload them. gonna think of another solution. any ideas anyone, let me know!
People in Pushkar are all about connecting. Pushkar Lake at sunset was the best time of the day to do this with the locals, especially the kids that literally hang off you like monkeys, speaking defiantly in their half-broken English and getting highly cheeky and mischevious!
There's a few trippy characters too, including the guy who gave Isabelle a massage. Rolling his eyes as he massaged her hand, this guy managed to convince her to strip down to her knickers in no more than sixty seconds because by the time I'd got back from the toilet, she was starkers and straddled. It might have been the red light in the room or the fact he wanted me to strip down and lie on the bed next to her too, but it was all a bit horny. He did the job well though because it was just what her back needed.
Pushkar came to be placed on the map a a result of the Godhead Brahma, who planted a lotus flower at the spot now known as Pushkar Lake. The Brahma Mandir in Pushkar is meant to be the only temple in the world devoted to Brahma. It's also a sanctury of just a handful of the 30 million gods of the Hindu religion, including Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman.
But it's not the tourist attractions that make the impact, it's the feeling you get when you walk into the town. Following the intensity of chaos in places like Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, this place felt bliss! You feel embraced by a spiritual energy, it's real chilled and there's no place here for meat, eggs or alcohol although bhang lassi is on the unofficial menu and can be obtained quite easily. Mind blowing stuff, or so I've heard...
Pushkar made me realise a few things about the way we connect with each other, how the energy of other people is a reflection of your energy and how easy you see this in the eyes of others. It made clearer the philosophy of Self. It was a graphic illustration of how visualisations can be manifested and gave me even more faith in the universe. I'm happy I had this experience and def plan on coming back.
Have lots of groovy pics by the way. Blogger takes an age to upload them. gonna think of another solution. any ideas anyone, let me know!
Friday, December 12, 2008
From Pushkar With Love...
From Pushkar With Love
Wow. This is the feeling I've been searching for in India. This is the India I’ve been wanting to experience. The concentration of faith, belief in God, in the human race and in the Universe explains why one can be so overwhelmed by the energy that reverberates every through every nook and cranny of India. It also explains why there is no other country in this world like India. This energy can be felt in every ghat, street alley, riverside community, mountain dwelling, city suburb, village, town, city space, every dirt track, practically everywhere that there are people to be found. The energy resonates from the hearts and souls of India's 1.2 billion people. The collective power of universal oneness! Energy levels are greater in some places than in others. It’s something that comes to mind when you happen to be walking down a street and it just hits you, stopping you in your tracks. It feel as if some magical puff of smoke has transformed the signal of your senses as you absorb these now suddenly different variables of the external environment. One such place is Pushkar, Rajasthan.
I'd been travelling since 6am and finally arrived in Pushkar late afternoon. Yet the journey was not quite over as the comical scenario trying to get off the actual bus proved more than just a little trying. People are pushing to get on the bus like a herd of elephants. Only one tiny set of doors on the bus are open. The people on the bus trying to get off are trapped as the swarm attempting to get on are blocking the doors! It’s a slightly aggressive push-shove situation and I plead with the driver to allow me to get out from his side but he's not having any of it. My rucksack is huge and I have to use considerable force and literally fight to get out of there. It shows that despite the mellow, peaceful, vibe of this place, there is nothing to tame Indians when it comes to bagging your place on public transport!
The Krishna Guesthouse was a short walk away, near to the Vishnu Mandir. There are bhajans blaring from the loudspeakers of the temple. You could very easily slip in a nice little drum n bass mix, or even better, a psytrance bassline. In fact I can hear the distant sound of drums as I write this text. It's almost midnight, and despite the fact all action on the streets dies down by about 9pm, one of the restaurants in town is having their Friday night rave with bhajans, dancing and chants. It sounds like the distant vibrations emanating from a psytrance festival.
I'm here in Pushkar with Isabelle, a French rasta girl I met on the plane from London to Delhi. By the time I'd arrived, she'd linked up with a few other Frenchies, three very witty, good-humoured guys that are totally integrated into Indian life, taking it in their stride. They've been coming to India for 15 years and speak pretty good Hindi. One of them, a blonde rasta, with a lovely interactive aura, has been studying Sanskrit in Bodhgaya. We smoked some nice hash from Parvati Valley, which is up in the state of Himachal Pradesh, a place I plan on visiting in a few months time. It feels really good to connect with people who are so in love with India and so clued up about its various parts.
To enter India is like entering the cosmic universe. The doors have been opened and suddenly you realise you are there. Boom! Boom Boley Naath! The latter is in reference to Shiva, the god of creation and destruction, whose name is pronounced before inhaling the holy smoke of the chillum. Puff and you are there! Praise the Gods, praise the Universe created by them, praise the positive energy they shower upon us and the good vibrations that this creates between each and every one of us!
One thing that I must mention though, without putting a downer on all this positivity, is the registration process in this particular hostel. Perhaps it's as a result of the Mumbai bombings, but when I went to register, I discovered it was not just my name and passport number that they wanted. They also wanted my visa number, visa start and expiry dates, the place in India that I had arrived from and the one that I am going to next, duration I expect to stay in the country, date I arrived into the country, the airport I flew from and to, my date of birth and my UK address.
There's no denying the beauty of the hostel we are in with its grassy courtyard, maze of stairs that take you up to its many roof terraces, its Rajput architecture that will lead you up to its highest points from where you can just sit and watch the sunset or sunrise, it's basic yet fabulous, clean rooms with ensuite bathrooms and hot showers, etc. Despite all this, I can't get my head around the registration process and can't help but question the guy at reception. He refuses to give me any information, but I'm curious so I badger him and we're going around in circles. Me: “Why do you need to know where I'm going next?” Him: “Because I have to know.” Me: “But for what reason are you collecting so much information and why do you have to know? Who is this information for?” Him: “Because it's my job and like I told you, I have to know”. I admit I badgered him and yes, he does flip, threatening to report me to the police before describing a scenario where I'd be arrested, locked up and deported. Another guy confirms that the information is being logged for the CID, police, various other authorities and who knows who else. It shook me up a little but the restaurant we all went to a little while later chilled me out. I realize after that every hostel is like this and they have to follow the law. Guess you can’t argue about everything.
The place was like a temple. There was a shrine to Sai Baba in the middle of the courtyard, plants, flowers and trees framing it. We're sitting around its edges on huge cushions smoking chillums around the table. Pushkar is not exactly the gastronomical capital of India so dinner was not so impressive, very bland in fact as I can guess they presume foreigners to have low levels of spice tolerance. A Nepalese kid takes our orders. He speaks no Hindi and no English, and walks away without finishing the order on several occasions, but we have a laugh with him about it all the same. Another waiter joins us for a chillum, forgets the chai I had ordered and sits down with his own cup! He tells us to switch off the lights before we leave. Bliss! On the way home, a little kid tries to peddle us charas, hashish and bhang lassie and mocks us with this non-stop and freaky high-pitched cackle when we refuse his offer.
Pushka is magic. It touched my heart. And to enjoy it with the people that I have met here today, has made it all the more magical. Still have another two nights here, so I hope to bring back some more news on this incredible place at some point soon….. You must forgive the terribe gramatical errors in this text, but I a sure you will undestand that I don't want to use up too much time doing all that because I really don’t want to waste another second absorbing the richness of this place… Time for a little shopping methinks!
Wow. This is the feeling I've been searching for in India. This is the India I’ve been wanting to experience. The concentration of faith, belief in God, in the human race and in the Universe explains why one can be so overwhelmed by the energy that reverberates every through every nook and cranny of India. It also explains why there is no other country in this world like India. This energy can be felt in every ghat, street alley, riverside community, mountain dwelling, city suburb, village, town, city space, every dirt track, practically everywhere that there are people to be found. The energy resonates from the hearts and souls of India's 1.2 billion people. The collective power of universal oneness! Energy levels are greater in some places than in others. It’s something that comes to mind when you happen to be walking down a street and it just hits you, stopping you in your tracks. It feel as if some magical puff of smoke has transformed the signal of your senses as you absorb these now suddenly different variables of the external environment. One such place is Pushkar, Rajasthan.
I'd been travelling since 6am and finally arrived in Pushkar late afternoon. Yet the journey was not quite over as the comical scenario trying to get off the actual bus proved more than just a little trying. People are pushing to get on the bus like a herd of elephants. Only one tiny set of doors on the bus are open. The people on the bus trying to get off are trapped as the swarm attempting to get on are blocking the doors! It’s a slightly aggressive push-shove situation and I plead with the driver to allow me to get out from his side but he's not having any of it. My rucksack is huge and I have to use considerable force and literally fight to get out of there. It shows that despite the mellow, peaceful, vibe of this place, there is nothing to tame Indians when it comes to bagging your place on public transport!
The Krishna Guesthouse was a short walk away, near to the Vishnu Mandir. There are bhajans blaring from the loudspeakers of the temple. You could very easily slip in a nice little drum n bass mix, or even better, a psytrance bassline. In fact I can hear the distant sound of drums as I write this text. It's almost midnight, and despite the fact all action on the streets dies down by about 9pm, one of the restaurants in town is having their Friday night rave with bhajans, dancing and chants. It sounds like the distant vibrations emanating from a psytrance festival.
I'm here in Pushkar with Isabelle, a French rasta girl I met on the plane from London to Delhi. By the time I'd arrived, she'd linked up with a few other Frenchies, three very witty, good-humoured guys that are totally integrated into Indian life, taking it in their stride. They've been coming to India for 15 years and speak pretty good Hindi. One of them, a blonde rasta, with a lovely interactive aura, has been studying Sanskrit in Bodhgaya. We smoked some nice hash from Parvati Valley, which is up in the state of Himachal Pradesh, a place I plan on visiting in a few months time. It feels really good to connect with people who are so in love with India and so clued up about its various parts.
To enter India is like entering the cosmic universe. The doors have been opened and suddenly you realise you are there. Boom! Boom Boley Naath! The latter is in reference to Shiva, the god of creation and destruction, whose name is pronounced before inhaling the holy smoke of the chillum. Puff and you are there! Praise the Gods, praise the Universe created by them, praise the positive energy they shower upon us and the good vibrations that this creates between each and every one of us!
One thing that I must mention though, without putting a downer on all this positivity, is the registration process in this particular hostel. Perhaps it's as a result of the Mumbai bombings, but when I went to register, I discovered it was not just my name and passport number that they wanted. They also wanted my visa number, visa start and expiry dates, the place in India that I had arrived from and the one that I am going to next, duration I expect to stay in the country, date I arrived into the country, the airport I flew from and to, my date of birth and my UK address.
There's no denying the beauty of the hostel we are in with its grassy courtyard, maze of stairs that take you up to its many roof terraces, its Rajput architecture that will lead you up to its highest points from where you can just sit and watch the sunset or sunrise, it's basic yet fabulous, clean rooms with ensuite bathrooms and hot showers, etc. Despite all this, I can't get my head around the registration process and can't help but question the guy at reception. He refuses to give me any information, but I'm curious so I badger him and we're going around in circles. Me: “Why do you need to know where I'm going next?” Him: “Because I have to know.” Me: “But for what reason are you collecting so much information and why do you have to know? Who is this information for?” Him: “Because it's my job and like I told you, I have to know”. I admit I badgered him and yes, he does flip, threatening to report me to the police before describing a scenario where I'd be arrested, locked up and deported. Another guy confirms that the information is being logged for the CID, police, various other authorities and who knows who else. It shook me up a little but the restaurant we all went to a little while later chilled me out. I realize after that every hostel is like this and they have to follow the law. Guess you can’t argue about everything.
The place was like a temple. There was a shrine to Sai Baba in the middle of the courtyard, plants, flowers and trees framing it. We're sitting around its edges on huge cushions smoking chillums around the table. Pushkar is not exactly the gastronomical capital of India so dinner was not so impressive, very bland in fact as I can guess they presume foreigners to have low levels of spice tolerance. A Nepalese kid takes our orders. He speaks no Hindi and no English, and walks away without finishing the order on several occasions, but we have a laugh with him about it all the same. Another waiter joins us for a chillum, forgets the chai I had ordered and sits down with his own cup! He tells us to switch off the lights before we leave. Bliss! On the way home, a little kid tries to peddle us charas, hashish and bhang lassie and mocks us with this non-stop and freaky high-pitched cackle when we refuse his offer.
Pushka is magic. It touched my heart. And to enjoy it with the people that I have met here today, has made it all the more magical. Still have another two nights here, so I hope to bring back some more news on this incredible place at some point soon….. You must forgive the terribe gramatical errors in this text, but I a sure you will undestand that I don't want to use up too much time doing all that because I really don’t want to waste another second absorbing the richness of this place… Time for a little shopping methinks!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Journey to a place of love?
I decided it was time to get off ass and venture out into the bosom of Mother India. The Taj Mahal, one of the 8th wonders of the world, “a teardrop on the face of eternity”, a symbol of ever-lasting love that reaches out from beyond the grave, the remnants of a broken heart, a broken man, a torn soul - is a mere 200 km from Delhi. How could I possibly not go? I took the train from Faridabad, Delhi to Agra. It was my first train journey in India - an experience that can be quite daunting if you're not used to it. I'm not used to it, so by the time I got there, I felt quite proud of myself for getting on the choo-choo all on me lonesome.
My ticket doesn't have a seat number (lesson number 1: always ask for a seat number when booking your ticket), but I am lucky enough not to get harassed by anyone for sitting on their seat. On the train I manage to jump up to the top tier section of the third-class compartment. Chunks of the bench where there are supposed to be wooden panels are missing so it's not exactly comfortable. I try various positions to prevent falling arse-first and crushing the head of the passenger sitting below me. Throughout the journey, I sit there with my book trying not to make eye contact with the two guys opposite who continue to stare at me relentlessly throughout the journey.
In fact it feels as if everyone on the train has been staring at me like I have two heads. Truth is, they don't quite know what to make of me. With my Asian complexion, I appear to be Indian yet to them, I appear with my Indian-style dress and jeans. Then they see I have a piece of metal sticking out of my bottom lip and my hair is sticking up in every which direction. Have decided to instigate a little experiment of my own by dressing as a 23 year-old Indian girl in salwar kameez minus piercings to see the difference in the way people percieve me (just call me bat-u-meez Nazreen). If this doesn't work, then I'm definitley making an impression on people simply because of the fact I am an Indian girl travelling on her own. Let's just wait and see what happens.
Throngs of people with their cloth knapsacks, suitcases, trunks, multi-coloured synthetic bags, metal boxes and plastic containers are ambling to jump onto the moving train, as those trying to alight persevere with defiance to keep their places at the exit doors. On the platform there are shoe shiners, ear cleaners, coolies, food stalls and men sitting like snake charmers over their smoking chulas churning out steaming hot food. The action is non-stop and it's all go, go, go as little chai men chase seated passengers through open windows, luring them with “Garam chai! Garam chai!”
Exposing the sheer diversity of people that pass through them, railway platforms here are like a window into the soul of India. Sitting on a bench with her husband, a woman in a bright orange sari is breastfeeding her child, her head and face covered, protecting her from the unwelcome gaze of other men. A group of women dressed in muslin saris worn the Rajasthani way, are waiting patiently for the train, their noses embedded in semi-precious stones. I spot a freshly married young couple. She peers at me shy and curious, holding the end of her chiffon duputta over her mouth. Her chooria* are stacked half way up both arms (*a special set of red bangles worn by women on their wedding day and which they continue to wear for some months after). The sindoor*, (*a scarlet red powder worn by married women) is sprinkled along the centre-parting of her hair and is another giveaway of her betrothed status. A man in an embroidered white Muslim kurta and braided topis* (toque) checks the time on his watch as a long-haired, bearded sadhu in saffron robes and a tilak* (*scarlet powder representing the third eye of knowledge) walks by.
There are also children begging, many of them with stumps instead of hands and feet, which have been mutilated by the rackets responsible for kidnapping them and putting them on the streets. A small girl about 7 years old with big lifeless eyes and a sullen expression approaches me. She has nothing on her feet. She appears to be one of the lucky ones with all her limbs still intact. I can't get to my money as I have it tied up in a pocket on the inside of my jeans, so I give her the stuffed chapatti with lime-pickle that my aunty had packed for me instead. I get on the train and discover more of these kids, I notice a small boy with amputated feet dragging himself on a plank with wheels through the aisle, challenging passengers for change. Accustomed as they are to witnessing the depths of such deprivation, most look away or continue reading their newspapers. I understand there are millions of cases like this and that you can't give out small change to every kid you see, but I can't ignore this one so I place a five rupee coin in the palm of his hand and a smile transforms his face.
I strike up a conversation with one of the passengers on the train. He's a government scientist and tells me, “the mobs are known to kidnap children from their parents in busy areas. They amputate their limbs so that they look like lepers because they think it will generate more sympathy, hence greater revenues. It also allows unprecedented levels of control over the children.” He tells me that “by night, “debt collectors” roam the streets, leaving the kids with a few rupees for whatever food they can get.”
Busker kids jump on and off the train with their makeshift drums and string instruments. They appear as ambassadors of India’s cultural diversity as there is a marked difference in the sounds and rhythms they play as the train passes through different areas. You can also spot differences between the dialects, accents and even physical features. The soul of India is transparent. I can see it in the myriad of peoples that I visibly encounter on this journey. There is a beauty radiating from their souls, the kids in particular. They have no fear. They are doing what they think they have been put on this earth to do, perhaps in accordance to the Hindu religion, to make up for the sins they had committed in a previous life. They can only hope that by suffering in this life, they will be incarnated into a better one in the next. Traditions are preserved in India, even amongst those suffering at the very depths of poverty. It feels ironic that I am making this pilgrimage to this place that is meant to symbolize love when those who I have encountered along the journey, are lacking exactly that.
My ticket doesn't have a seat number (lesson number 1: always ask for a seat number when booking your ticket), but I am lucky enough not to get harassed by anyone for sitting on their seat. On the train I manage to jump up to the top tier section of the third-class compartment. Chunks of the bench where there are supposed to be wooden panels are missing so it's not exactly comfortable. I try various positions to prevent falling arse-first and crushing the head of the passenger sitting below me. Throughout the journey, I sit there with my book trying not to make eye contact with the two guys opposite who continue to stare at me relentlessly throughout the journey.
In fact it feels as if everyone on the train has been staring at me like I have two heads. Truth is, they don't quite know what to make of me. With my Asian complexion, I appear to be Indian yet to them, I appear with my Indian-style dress and jeans. Then they see I have a piece of metal sticking out of my bottom lip and my hair is sticking up in every which direction. Have decided to instigate a little experiment of my own by dressing as a 23 year-old Indian girl in salwar kameez minus piercings to see the difference in the way people percieve me (just call me bat-u-meez Nazreen). If this doesn't work, then I'm definitley making an impression on people simply because of the fact I am an Indian girl travelling on her own. Let's just wait and see what happens.
Throngs of people with their cloth knapsacks, suitcases, trunks, multi-coloured synthetic bags, metal boxes and plastic containers are ambling to jump onto the moving train, as those trying to alight persevere with defiance to keep their places at the exit doors. On the platform there are shoe shiners, ear cleaners, coolies, food stalls and men sitting like snake charmers over their smoking chulas churning out steaming hot food. The action is non-stop and it's all go, go, go as little chai men chase seated passengers through open windows, luring them with “Garam chai! Garam chai!”
Exposing the sheer diversity of people that pass through them, railway platforms here are like a window into the soul of India. Sitting on a bench with her husband, a woman in a bright orange sari is breastfeeding her child, her head and face covered, protecting her from the unwelcome gaze of other men. A group of women dressed in muslin saris worn the Rajasthani way, are waiting patiently for the train, their noses embedded in semi-precious stones. I spot a freshly married young couple. She peers at me shy and curious, holding the end of her chiffon duputta over her mouth. Her chooria* are stacked half way up both arms (*a special set of red bangles worn by women on their wedding day and which they continue to wear for some months after). The sindoor*, (*a scarlet red powder worn by married women) is sprinkled along the centre-parting of her hair and is another giveaway of her betrothed status. A man in an embroidered white Muslim kurta and braided topis* (toque) checks the time on his watch as a long-haired, bearded sadhu in saffron robes and a tilak* (*scarlet powder representing the third eye of knowledge) walks by.
There are also children begging, many of them with stumps instead of hands and feet, which have been mutilated by the rackets responsible for kidnapping them and putting them on the streets. A small girl about 7 years old with big lifeless eyes and a sullen expression approaches me. She has nothing on her feet. She appears to be one of the lucky ones with all her limbs still intact. I can't get to my money as I have it tied up in a pocket on the inside of my jeans, so I give her the stuffed chapatti with lime-pickle that my aunty had packed for me instead. I get on the train and discover more of these kids, I notice a small boy with amputated feet dragging himself on a plank with wheels through the aisle, challenging passengers for change. Accustomed as they are to witnessing the depths of such deprivation, most look away or continue reading their newspapers. I understand there are millions of cases like this and that you can't give out small change to every kid you see, but I can't ignore this one so I place a five rupee coin in the palm of his hand and a smile transforms his face.
I strike up a conversation with one of the passengers on the train. He's a government scientist and tells me, “the mobs are known to kidnap children from their parents in busy areas. They amputate their limbs so that they look like lepers because they think it will generate more sympathy, hence greater revenues. It also allows unprecedented levels of control over the children.” He tells me that “by night, “debt collectors” roam the streets, leaving the kids with a few rupees for whatever food they can get.”
Busker kids jump on and off the train with their makeshift drums and string instruments. They appear as ambassadors of India’s cultural diversity as there is a marked difference in the sounds and rhythms they play as the train passes through different areas. You can also spot differences between the dialects, accents and even physical features. The soul of India is transparent. I can see it in the myriad of peoples that I visibly encounter on this journey. There is a beauty radiating from their souls, the kids in particular. They have no fear. They are doing what they think they have been put on this earth to do, perhaps in accordance to the Hindu religion, to make up for the sins they had committed in a previous life. They can only hope that by suffering in this life, they will be incarnated into a better one in the next. Traditions are preserved in India, even amongst those suffering at the very depths of poverty. It feels ironic that I am making this pilgrimage to this place that is meant to symbolize love when those who I have encountered along the journey, are lacking exactly that.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Namaste!
Da Eagle has landed!
Bye-bye England, hello India! Waiting in the wings for takeoff has fuelled my brain with enough ideas about what i want to do. So finally, I'm here, and one of the first things I would like to do is to find a good ashram. Imagine though, if you could take all the ashrams that exist in India and put them together? They would take up a fair chunk of the country – which is why I have no idea where to begin, and which is why I have decided it's better to just let the ashram come to me.
On the buses
Staying with my uncle in Delhi, Faridabad. This is base for a few weeks until I decide on plan of action. Faridabad is dusty to high hell. Take a bus journey through this city and you'll feel choked by the end of it, especially if you make the mistake of sitting next to the window. By the time you want to get off the bus, it's so ramssacked with people you practically find yourself slow-motion-swimming through a sea of bodies to get to the front, exhausted with claustrophobic palpatations and gasping for air. You also need to hold on to the nearest thing to stop yourself from flying through the front screen as the drivers have a habit of slamming the breaks at unexpected times.
Traffic
Think Indian traffic and think rickshaws, buses and cars trying to out-do each other as they dodge cows strolling in the wrong direction and avoid getting crushed by stacks of precariously balanced goods carted by donkeys and camels. Just a couple of years ago, charged by the EU for being “too loud” and breaking the so-called noise-pollution law, Spain was hit by an order demanding it “keep the noise down”. If EU officials consider Spain noisy, then they obviously haven't taken a white knuckle ride through a busy Delhi street on a rickshaw with the wind blowing through your hair and a cocktail of smells spanning sewers to samosas engulfing the nostrils as you inhale zillions of particles of dust and find yourself going deaf with incessant honking. Even if there is no need to beep, they still feel the need to. It's a traffic jungle out there and you have to beep-whack your way through all the chaos.
It's a crazy kind of chaos that most people will either love it or hate. I can positively confirm that within a matter of days, I've managed to hit the ground running and synchronize with India's chaotic way of everyday life. I think you need to have a sense of humour to appreciate the chaos in India because people here have a certain way of dealing with it, and that generally happens to be with a wide toothy smile. Found myself in a traffic jam the other day sitting in car with cousin and aunty. It was a very busy bazaar and the jam involved a two rickshaws, a cow, and three cars clogging up a narrow street junction. I noticed traffic jams are caused by people who refuse to move because they actually enjoy being a part of all the commotion, honking horns, hollering in jest and having a good old banter in the middle of it all. More and more people will come out onto the street to watch and you will notice how everyone is wearing this silly grin.
Holier than thou cows
They are absolutely everywhere. And certainly considered holier than thou, especially in the eyes of Indians because the cow is a Godly figure and can do no wrong, even in the middle of a busy road, where traffic will stop to let her holiness pass. Even when the cow has no intention of moving, cars and rickshaws will wait until she has decided it's time to move on.
So far, I've seen them strolling casually through the hectic bazaar, sleeping outside the outlet of an internet service provider, chilling out next to a street vendor selling fresh lime juice and as mentioned, walking about in the middle of busy roads, causing traffic jams. The cow is even known to walk into your office and chill out next to your desk. So when they say “holy cow”, it's a literal a reerence to the revered sacred status of the cow. In India, the cow is a godly figure, a representation of the cowherd led by Krishna, the God of Love. Krishna is famed for his love of butter, which came from the milk of the cows that he took care of. Like a mother, the cow is a provider, a giver of milk, her love is symbolized by the milk she gives and it's an unconditional love like that of a mother. The mother is respected as a Goddess in Hinduism, therefore, the cow, who is considered a symbol of motherhood, as giver of of milk, is also worshipped. In fact just this year, the value of the cow was given consideration on a scientific as well as spiritual level when South Africa hosted an event that discussed the medicinal value of cow dung and urine, and life as a vegetarian.
Cows, bazaars, buses and traffic jams, if I can get through this, then I think I'm gonna be okay here in India. The real test will be travelling long distance on trains and surviving for at least another six months, not to mention the diabolical level of poverty that I will inevitably see. I feel initiated into Indian life already and most definitley feel ready for an adventure! :-)
Bye-bye England, hello India! Waiting in the wings for takeoff has fuelled my brain with enough ideas about what i want to do. So finally, I'm here, and one of the first things I would like to do is to find a good ashram. Imagine though, if you could take all the ashrams that exist in India and put them together? They would take up a fair chunk of the country – which is why I have no idea where to begin, and which is why I have decided it's better to just let the ashram come to me.
On the buses
Staying with my uncle in Delhi, Faridabad. This is base for a few weeks until I decide on plan of action. Faridabad is dusty to high hell. Take a bus journey through this city and you'll feel choked by the end of it, especially if you make the mistake of sitting next to the window. By the time you want to get off the bus, it's so ramssacked with people you practically find yourself slow-motion-swimming through a sea of bodies to get to the front, exhausted with claustrophobic palpatations and gasping for air. You also need to hold on to the nearest thing to stop yourself from flying through the front screen as the drivers have a habit of slamming the breaks at unexpected times.
Traffic
Think Indian traffic and think rickshaws, buses and cars trying to out-do each other as they dodge cows strolling in the wrong direction and avoid getting crushed by stacks of precariously balanced goods carted by donkeys and camels. Just a couple of years ago, charged by the EU for being “too loud” and breaking the so-called noise-pollution law, Spain was hit by an order demanding it “keep the noise down”. If EU officials consider Spain noisy, then they obviously haven't taken a white knuckle ride through a busy Delhi street on a rickshaw with the wind blowing through your hair and a cocktail of smells spanning sewers to samosas engulfing the nostrils as you inhale zillions of particles of dust and find yourself going deaf with incessant honking. Even if there is no need to beep, they still feel the need to. It's a traffic jungle out there and you have to beep-whack your way through all the chaos.
It's a crazy kind of chaos that most people will either love it or hate. I can positively confirm that within a matter of days, I've managed to hit the ground running and synchronize with India's chaotic way of everyday life. I think you need to have a sense of humour to appreciate the chaos in India because people here have a certain way of dealing with it, and that generally happens to be with a wide toothy smile. Found myself in a traffic jam the other day sitting in car with cousin and aunty. It was a very busy bazaar and the jam involved a two rickshaws, a cow, and three cars clogging up a narrow street junction. I noticed traffic jams are caused by people who refuse to move because they actually enjoy being a part of all the commotion, honking horns, hollering in jest and having a good old banter in the middle of it all. More and more people will come out onto the street to watch and you will notice how everyone is wearing this silly grin.
Holier than thou cows
They are absolutely everywhere. And certainly considered holier than thou, especially in the eyes of Indians because the cow is a Godly figure and can do no wrong, even in the middle of a busy road, where traffic will stop to let her holiness pass. Even when the cow has no intention of moving, cars and rickshaws will wait until she has decided it's time to move on.
So far, I've seen them strolling casually through the hectic bazaar, sleeping outside the outlet of an internet service provider, chilling out next to a street vendor selling fresh lime juice and as mentioned, walking about in the middle of busy roads, causing traffic jams. The cow is even known to walk into your office and chill out next to your desk. So when they say “holy cow”, it's a literal a reerence to the revered sacred status of the cow. In India, the cow is a godly figure, a representation of the cowherd led by Krishna, the God of Love. Krishna is famed for his love of butter, which came from the milk of the cows that he took care of. Like a mother, the cow is a provider, a giver of milk, her love is symbolized by the milk she gives and it's an unconditional love like that of a mother. The mother is respected as a Goddess in Hinduism, therefore, the cow, who is considered a symbol of motherhood, as giver of of milk, is also worshipped. In fact just this year, the value of the cow was given consideration on a scientific as well as spiritual level when South Africa hosted an event that discussed the medicinal value of cow dung and urine, and life as a vegetarian.
Cows, bazaars, buses and traffic jams, if I can get through this, then I think I'm gonna be okay here in India. The real test will be travelling long distance on trains and surviving for at least another six months, not to mention the diabolical level of poverty that I will inevitably see. I feel initiated into Indian life already and most definitley feel ready for an adventure! :-)
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