Monday, August 27, 2007

Holy Etiquette

Like all places, India has it's traditions and idiosynchrisies... and it's inconsistencies.

One of these involves the left hand. Because of it's use in personal hygiene (remember that toilet paper is not used here), the left hand is considered "dirty" and considered taboo for many things. It is never to touch the mouth for eating for instance. And yet there are inconsistencies in practice. For instance, some people use their left hand to help break apart their chapati's (flat bread), while others are purists, and use their right hand by itself to break their bread, using their fingers with great dexterity. At the water filters by the Temple here in Bodhgaya I see people used their left hand to push the push button on the spigot for drinking water! As a foreigner, I am under constant scrutiny. At Babadham, I made the mistake of breaking my papadum (a very thin crisp chip) with my left hand and was immediately chastised in front of everyone, by an obvious purist. My disrespectful left hand had to be rinsed with water.

Speaking of water, the water from the Holy Ganges River is considered very sacred and holy. A "bathe" in it is supposed to clear you of your sins. It is considered so powerful in it's cleansing abilities, that cremated remains are thrown into it for auspicious "burials". That is except in the case of dead babies, and pregnant women... whose bodies are simply thrown in the river. Offerings to the Holy River are made with the flowers still in a plastic bag. Humans urinate and evcuate their bowels along the river banks... I assume they also do so directly in the river as I have seen them do so in other rivers. I don't know if this is good for your karma as well!

So you can imagine, that water from the lower Ganges is not anywhere near what the Western mind considers as clean, with it's special additives of feces, urine, runoff from villages and cities, dead bodies, crematory ashes, etc..

(The Ganges has extremely high fecal matter contents. Interestingly though, I read that because it has so much bacteria, there are bacteria eating organisms such that staff bacteria are almost instantly killed, whereas in tap water they survive for days!)

Water from the Ganges is considered auspicious and one of my local friends asked me to bring him some from my pilgrimage at Babadham. I filled a plastic juice bottle for the purpose. I didn't see any nice containers around to gift him the water in, so I asked him if he had a nice container and pulled the juice bottle out of my bag. He said he did not want the water because the bottle was probably not pure because it had touched someone's lips! So much for the Holy cleansing power of the Ganges!

Friday, August 24, 2007

Babadham Prison Blues

Three weeks ago I set forth from Bodhgaya, following my Spirit's call to engage in the Hindu Pilgrimage called Babadham. I left Bodhgaya dressed in orange, the color of Shiva, and carried only a small handbag will a sheet of plastic to sleep on, a couple of cloths, a small journal, flashlight, some incense and matches. I went barefoot, according to the rules of Babadham. I felt a bit naked, yet free with so little. I felt nervous, excited, and hopeful.

Some friends in Sikkim had told me of Babadham and invited me to join them a week earlier. I hoped to find them. The few days before, I spent buying my orange clothes and gaining some insight from locals about what to expect.

I took a train from Gaya to Sultanganj. I nervously entered the station 10 minutes late, fearful I had missed my train. Luckily it was late... unfortunately, four hours late! I waited nervously on the platform. Relatively few locals speak English in Bihar. I hoped I was on the right platform. I was soon motioned to sit down with a group of orange clad pilgrims... guys in their 20s from Gaya. One of them gruffly accosted me about my piercings and hair style... "why?" I didn't feel comfortable, and was waiting for a chance to escape, when another guy in the group sat down and had a more gentle demeanor. He asked the usual: where are you from? your name? ... and also about my journey to Babadham. I felt more comfortable and kind of decided that these guys were probably ok, just not very polished. It can be hard to tell across cultures sometimes.

Finally the train came, and I lost my accomplices in the boarding process. I wasn't sure if I was on the right car, but the other passengers said to sit down anyway. No one ever checked the ticket, and the car was packed, over packed for the number of seats. A middle aged teacher who knew some English talked a little with me and introduced me to a train engineer who was on his way home to Sultanganj. It was comforting to know he would make sure I got off at the correct stop.

It was a long grueling train ride... only five hours... but I was anxious to get to Sultanganj and find my friends from Gangtok. Instead of arriving at 5:20pm, the train arrived at 9:30pm... well after dark. Sultanganj was alive and busy with activity in it's narrow streets. The train engineer pointed me to a dharamsala (rest house)... which I decided I would check out after I walked around town and looked for my friends.

I was the only white man. I felt very vulnerable. I managed to walk up and down the main street with little harrassment. I couldn't find my friends. Then I ran into the nice pilgrim from Gaya, who said they had looked for me on the train. I walked through town with him. This time I was getting alot of harrassment. Shopkeepers grabbing my arm to get me in their shops. We stopped for tea, and I was surrounded by 20 curious onlookers. The police came and beat them away with switches. I went with my friend to the train platform where his friends were camped out. They planned to start their pilgrimage in a few hours (like 2am), but advised me not to. My friend motioned me away and before I knew it introduced me to the police. He had decided that it was not safe for me and asked them to watch me. It was both comforting and a bit aggravating. I was soon put into a guest house that would cost 300rs... a big chunk of my budget for the journey. I thought the manager quoted me 150 rs for a meal... but luckily it was 15 rs. Unluckily, the rice was not cooked fully. A man who seemed big in town had led me from the police to this guest house. It was about 1 am when I went to my dingy room. The town clammored away outside, bustling with incoming pilgrims. I managed to sleep a few hours and awoke early and was ready to search for my friends. I went downstairs to find that I was locked in... the big sliding steel door (like a garage door) locked down. I was frustrated. It was daylight. I wanted my freedom. I returned upstairs and stared out the balcony, hoping to glimpse my friends from Gangtok. No luck. Eventually, the hotel opened up. I went out, looking for my friends, with no success.

I bought my kanwar (a stick you put across the shoulder and suspend bottles of holy Gange water from). The "mayor" had told me he could get me one for I think 900 rs.... I got mine for 60rs. It was wrapped in brightly colored foil paper, like wrapping paper, adorned with tinsil, and plastic tridents and incense holders. I declined offers from salesboys roaming the streets wiht bells, whistles, and plastic flowers to accessorize the kanwar.

I found a place to eat. They had no menu, but said rice and vegetables were 25 rs. Then they brought me vegetables and chapati's and sweets. When I went to pay, they said it was 60rs. Damn cheaters! I didn't like this town. I went back to my room, showered, and prepared to leave. I went to find my crystal pendulum that I had had for 9 years, and discovered it had fallen out from my wallet. I had hoped to use it to divine where and how to find my friends. I lay on the bed and cried for 10 minutes. I wanted my friends. I knew I would be ok and meet people and everything would be fine. But I had intended this to be an easy and fun experience with my friends from Sikkim. I had my fears as well. The manager came to see me, and filled my water bottle. I wondered if he had heard me crying.

I walked out into the unknown, knowing I had to move. My friends likely arrived yesterday as well, and there was nothing to do but hope I would see them on the way. I had surmised the general direction of the Ganges... they holy river where to fill my water bottles. I walked through the town, hoping to see my friends. I followed pilgrims whose bottles were empty... figuring that would lead me the right way.

I got to the river and a Hindu Priest latched onto me. I tried to ignore him. To my good fortune, a young pilgrim from Uttar Pradesch came along and said "Come with me!" His English and energy were good, so I tagged along. He took me with his group of six friends into the river, where we met a priest sitting on a wooden platform. Like a greenhorn, I started to fill my water bottles. Then I was told I had to bathe in the river first. I looked forlorn. The water was filthy. I was wearing my money belt and neck wallet. My valuables were in plastic, but I still wondered if they would take submersion. And I also wanted to make sure I bathed the "proper" way for this Hindu ritual. My friends pushed me onwards, and I went over a few feet and submerged myself quickly. I prayed the germs away, and hoped I didn't get any water in my mouth. Apparently that was good enough. I went back to the platform where we gathered around the priest. I had to dump my water out... since I was not "clean" when I filled my bottles before. And I refilled them, in my now "clean" state.

The priest gave us rice and flowers to hold and we repeated after him the names of Hindu gods and some invocations I couldn't understand. We put some rice and flowers in our Gange water. My friend saw my drinking water bottle and said I had to dump it out and replace it with Ganges water for drinking! I was flabbergasted at the thought of drinking this dirty river water. He was insistent. So I finally dumped my bottle (500ml). I nervously asked him if I needed to do the same with my 2 liter bottle, and luckily he said no. Then there were words between the guys and the priest and finally the guys said I had to say what I wanted to donate to the priest. They said it could be any amount of money. I had been warned in Bodhgaya that it should only cost 10-20rs. The amount of 31 rs came to my head. And that is what I gave. We then paraded around the priest shouting "Bal Bam", and took off with our blessed water. The idea is to carry it barefoot to the holy temples and pour the water on the Lingams in the temples.

As we left, my friend said they were not happy with the priest and his work. It turns out he had wanted to charge me 5000rs! Sometimes I wonder why anyone thinks India is spiritual at all! I told my friend I thought that we were blessed anyway regardless of the Priest. I find it a bit discpicable when any religion puts a middle man between the individual and God... especially when the middle man makes power and profit from it.

It turns out my new friends planned to make the 105 km pilgrimage in 3 days. I later learned that this is the most usual itinerary for Indians of the plains. Sikkimese and Nepali's usually plan 6 days. My friends from Gangtok had said they would take 8 or 9 days. The longer time suited me. I figure I would just go a few kilometers the first day and gradually toughen my feet.

As we trod along the streets, my feet felt the heat of the late morning sun. It was scorching. Probably around 90 deg F. My friends told me to walk in the dirt along the side of the pavement wherever possible. We made our way through town at a pace that was a bit fast for me, but I was enjoying my escorts. I figured I would part with them after a few km.

After and hour or a bit more, we finally stopped for some food. Rice and vegetables and dahl. Not the best. But cheap. I was ready for the break. I have suburban white boy feet. Most of my barefoot experience is walking across the carpeted bedroom to the shower. Maybe a few yards on a well groomed lawn. Some painful excursions into a lake or river to swim. I put my feet up. We rested a bit after the meal. Then had a pee break. Then we had to "bathe"... because of the holy water we were carrying, we had to be clean whenever we picked it up. So after eating or smoking, it was requisite to wash the hands, and any kind of toilet activity meant washing the whole body.

Now this is India, so "washing the whole body" meant pouring water over the head, with a bit of pretend scrubbing, aiming some water at the private parts, and especially washing the feet. This was done fully clothed, either with a bucket, or in many places open showers were set up.

My friends and I continued on the road again. Their pace was fast. I was struggling a bit to keep up. I figured I would stop soon. Suddenly, one of them realized they had forgotten their bag at their hotel. This was a dilemma because on the pilgrimage, one was never supposed to go backwards with their water. They stopped to discuss it. After a few minutes, I said I would start walking and they would catch up with me and my slower pace.

I trudged along, enjoying the road. Out of town, now, I enjoyed the surrounding landscape of rice paddies and farm fields. The land was flat. Some coconut groves were scattered here and there. I came upon a police post, and tried to ask if they had seen any Sikkimese pilgrims. They didn't understand. I decided to wait for my new friends for translation. I waited and waited. Finally, a pilgrim came along who spoke English. He tried to ask the police. They weren't helpful. Then he said if I came with him, he would make an announcement at a rest house. He and another middle aged man from West Bengal were travelling with a group of 80 people. We waited out a monsoon downpour in a thatched tea stall that threatened to blow away. I continued on with them, struggling to keep up. My feet were failing.

I was so desperate to find my friends from Sikkim, that I struggled beyond my capacity in hopes that the promised announcment would help me find my friends. Here I made a critical mistake. This group of 80 was on the 3 day plan... so that meant 40 km the first day. I kept up until their lunch spot. They had a bus and a group of cooks who made a lunch camp. I met a sadhu from Varanasi who was in their group, as well as others. They fed me. Then encouraged me to nap with them in their camp. I met the group leader and he invited me to join their group. My feet were already spoiled, but I decided to join them. This decision cost me alot.

After resting through the heat of the day, we embarked again on our walk. The group leader was a character. Probably 50 years old, with a big belly, he like to dance. We would stop for tea every hour or two. He would dance like a belly dancer. He was the center of the show. Some of the othe men would join him. If it were in the US, I would think they were gay. But this is India, and the men are different.

By now my feet were blistered. I complained. The leader said, I needed more "Bol Bum"... the chant of the pilgrim... the prayer to Shiva. As the pilgrims walk, they chant this, often as a call between the leader and the rest of the group. It is a mantra, a prayer. Often you can tell someone is in pain, and they are using the chant to keep themselves going. Then the leader rubbed some balm... like Tiger Balm... a heating balm on my feet. I wasn't sure that that was the best thing for blisters... like they need more heat!

We moved on like this into the evening. I struggled and struggled, often falling behind. The young Sadhu would sometimes wait for me. Several times I almost gave up on keeping up with them. At one point I was about to give up, barely hobbling along, when a middle aged woman pilgrim came along side me and looked into my eyes. "Bol Bum" she said. "Bol Bum", I replied. "Bol-a Bum" she said. "Bol-a Bum", I replied. She chanted in a sweet melody, and I continued to answer. The chant lifted me up and carried me along. This is some of the great magic of Babadham... the comraderie... the sharing of the group. The acknowledgement of the hardship and the prayer for each other to carry on... "you can do it", "i am here with you brother/sister", "god, shiva, is here with you"... Bol Bum!!!

This woman lifted me up so, and helped me transcend my pained feet so much, that I nearly passed right by my sadhu friends at one of the tea stalls where they were resting!

One of the W.Bengal group, a very dark skinned middle aged man, who spoke little English, and was very even in temperment... became my "partner". He held my hand helping me limp to a tea stand when we stopped. He watched out for me. I followed him and his bright yellow "Hawian style" shirt in the dark. Finally we got to their evening camp. I plopped down on the ground in exhaustion. A drank a liter of more of water as it was offered glass by glass. Soon dinner was served. About 30 people sat on the tarp, eating rice and vegetables and dahl. Then they got up and the next group was served.

My next term of imprisonment began.

A man who spoke a bit of English took me under his wing. He took me to a foot doctor where my feet were swabbed in iodine and bandaged. That helped a lot. But it felt futile walking around the dirt and sometimes mud. I just wanted to lay down. But there was entertainment!

The group of 80 had their own band and several singers. The music was powered by a generator, and played at full blast. So here in the middle of the countryside, after an exhausting day of walking, was a loud petrol generator droning away to power amplifiers, speakers, and bright lights. A woman sang. The Indian aestetic for music must be different than in the US. Here the quality of the singer is not apparently important, and at this and other camps I often heard the least melodic, most out of tune, "singing" I have ever heard in my life... and played and amplified a full volume!!! The woman singer sounded to me as if she had swallowed a cat and a blackboard and the cat was sliding down the blackboard with it's nails. I tried my best to smile in spite of the grating affect it had on me, and in spite of my exhaustion and pained feet. A man sang as well. He was much better suited to my taste. The same songs were sung over and over... hymns to Shiva... I would hear them repeatedly on the pilgrimage trail.

Sitting there exhausted, praying that it would be bedtime soon, I heard the singer say, "And now, Mr. USA, won't you please share a dance with us!" I grimaced. I surmised that I was the only one from the USA here. I had to get up to dance.

Dancing is taken seriously here in India. All the men know the moves of the latest Bollywood dancers. It is choreographed. It is not the hippie styple free form disco that I am used to in the USA. I often feel embarrassed by my dancing here... in the states, I usually feel good... but here I feel like an amateur. I summoned my energy and got up and did my best. I was on spotlight. George Bush's special ambassador from America. I did my best moves... well the best I could muster in a state of exhaustion and aching feet. I was flabberghasted that they would ask someone who they knew was having severe foot pain to dance. But what could I do?

I did my best to enjoy my moment of fame as Mr. USA!

I was told I would get to sleep on the stage. Instead I was placed on a wooden platform by the road. Everyone was either sleeping on these wooden platforms or on tarps on the ground. I felt vulnerable. Supposedly there were thieves about. I was told to use my hand bag as my pillow. Not that it mattered much, as there was nothing valuable in the bag. But the lights were on all night. And I was surrounded by my 80 new friends on the other sides. It was my first night of what I would learn were typical sleeping conditions.

Camp started to awake at 4am... I think some didn't really sleep... I got up at 5 am when the leader came around banging a stick on everyone's platform. The idea is that everyone gets up at 4am, has their bowel movement, takes their holy bath, and starts walking. Not being known for my regularity, this program had me nervous. Someone got me a neem stick to brush my teeth with... this is one of the ways of the pilgrim.

Pilgrims are to be celibate, not eat onions or garlic, not eat meat or eggs, etc for the month. Apparently there is something about a toothbrush or toothpaste as well. So twigs from the neem tree are sold. You chew on the end until the fibers expand, and then use like a brush.

I had seen someone with a necklace that looked like a pendulum yesterday. I was debating staying here to look for my Sikkim friends. I was pretty sure I was ahead of them. I tried to ask for a pendulum. This was a futile enquiry that dragged in everyone who thought they understood English, and a circle of 10-15 others as well. I tried to draw a picture. I tried to borrow the Sadhu's necklace. All to no avail. It can be so frustrating when language is a barrier. I didn't know whether to stay or go. I mainly wanted my friends from Sikkim. This group of 80 was attached to having me with them. They wanted to "protect" me. They wanted to be my friends. They said, "we are your friends". It was true, and yet it was not the same. My friends from Sikkim knew I was gay and were sophisticated about it. They treated me more as a peer. Here I was more put on both a pedestal, and a prisoner.

I ended up staying with the group of 80, attached to having something "known". They also had a bus and with the condition of my feet, I was allowed to ride the bus. We road through the countryside to the place where our lunch camp would be. The route of the pilgrimage is more or less lined with tea stalls, paying resthouses, and free dharamsala's either run by the government or by private donations. Much of the businesses were temporary, constructed of bamboo and thatch and plastic. Occasionally the route passed through a village. I scanned the roads for my friends from Sikkim. Along the route was a steady stream of orange clad pilgrims and their chants of Bol Bum.

The pilgrims' slang for each other is Bum. "Hey Bum!" was the way to get someone's attention. There were various adjectives as well: slow, fast, Sikkim, etc. "Dak Bums" were pilgrims that completed the 105 km route in 24 hours or less. Then often wore white, and raced through the crowds shouting "Bol Bum, Side Bum!" asking others to step aside.

The Problem with Donations

Sitting in Bodhgaya last night, eating dinner, I talked with an American guy doing research here on NGO's and development. Like many tourist areas, Bodhgaya is full of touts... one of the big things here is getting people to donate to local schools. Being in Bihar, one of India's poorest states, the Buddhist shrine's location here allows spiritual tourists ample opportunity to fulfill their desires to help the poor.

There are many schools set up, mainly to make money. Allegedly, in many of the schools, over 50% of the monies go to the owners. And my American friend told of one school that has encountered a grave problem. It sits near the center of the tourist area, and has outdoor classes and an obvious lack of facilities. For years, many years, if you get my drift, it has been "trying" to raise money to build a proper school. The apparent lack of facilities make it an obvious choice for donors. To the school owners' dismay, a foreign lady managed to raise enough money for them to build a completely new school with complete facilities. If they build the school, they will loose their cash hog because tourists won't see the need to donate money... like they see when they see the roomless classrooms. And the owners will loose their way to make money. Yet here they are with the amount of money they asked for. Apparently they are in quite a quandry.

Friday, August 03, 2007

Burning Hot in Bodhgaya

Yesterday I was a bit dismayed to learn that the temperatures here are now only in the 80s and 90s Fahrenheit... it feels much hotter.

I arrived Sunday afternoon about 3:30pm after about 29 hours of transit time from Gangtok. I left Gangtok a bit bleary eyed, sad after my long sojourn there and in Sikkim. I was sad to leave the comfort and security of the known and my handful of local friends there; mainly the half dozen or so men that worked at the guesthouse, but also a few others as well. My permit was expiring though (Sikkim requires an inner line permit for foreigners because it is close to the volatile Chinese border), and the season in Ladakh where I planned to be already ends in mid September.

I had planned to leave the day before but ran into a nice guy I'd met a few weeks before and hadn't seen. He encouraged me to stay a day and hang out with him and his friends. I did, and they proved to be very sincere and nice. I ended up coming out to them about my being gay, and they were quite sophisticated about it, though had many questions. They even had a gay friend they knew of. And the best part is they were not about to hustle me, as I had encountered from others.

They invited me to join them on a Shiva pilgrimage in Bihar in a week. I declined, feeling the need to get to Ladakh.

The journey to Bodhgaya was grueling, but also not as bad as I'd feared. I'd been dragging my feet so about leaving Gangtok. Lakpa and Binod from the guest house actually drove me to the jeep stand... very sweet of them ... I the jeep left about 11 am for the normally a four hour journey to Siliguri. Excessive rains had caused numerous landslides though. The journey took about 5 1/2 hours... luckily there were only two landslides that seriously slowed us down with the associated traffic jams.

It felt a bit vulnerable seeing the road eaten away so seriously. And as we drove along the river I wondered how thin the roadbed was that we traveled on in places. At several of the blocks, only small/light vehicles were permitted through. I hoped someone with some engineering sense was monitoring the damaged areas.

Siliguri proved to live up to it's reputation as a "pit". It's a traffic hub full of crime and ripoffs. It was quite a shock after the mountains and the more peaceful cultures there. As soon as I got out of the jeep, touts started asking where I was going so they could see me travel tickets. I resented the feeling of not being able to trust anybody. A "travel agent" right next to the unloading jeep said he had a ticket for me to Patna (my desired route to Bodhgaya). I asked a Hindi man who had travelled in the jeep from Gangtok with me, if there was a bus at the government bus stand across the road. The tout overheard and butted in on the conversation saying there was no government bus to Patna. The Hindi man said that I likely needed to bargain and that I should not take a ticket for any bus unless I actually saw the bus. I took it to mean I should be wary of the tout. Against the protests of the tout and his friends who were insistent that there was no govt bus, and that I ought buy the ticket from them, I managed to head across the street to the bus stand, saying I had to use the toilet. There I found out indeed that there was no govt bus to Patna. A guard asked where I was going and introduced me to a friend to take me to a private agent to get a ticket. Rather, the man was dress like a guard. The gov't information clerk seemed wary of him. I was led to a stand where a fellow with a nice energy quoted me the fare. I declined saying I would think about it... I figured the guy who led me over there was a tout on a commission.

I was hating the plains already. Sikkim has its touts for sure, but they are not as aggressive. I walked along the street to ditch the tout who followed me a ways. Another fellow came along and said he'd overheard my inquiries and that it was true there was only one private bus to Patna. I didn't know whether to trust him or not. I walked a half mile and took a moment or two on a bridge over the wide muddy river. It was 4pm and I figured I best get a ticket. I went back and tried one other agent. He wasn't there and I was immediately accosted by another customer... asking where I wanted to go and then barraging in on me to practice his English. Finally the agent came back. He ended up leading me back to the agent with the nice energy whom the tout from the bus stand had taken me to. My new "friend" accompanied me. I decided to trust and buy the ticket. My new friend then took me to get some food and explained how his Uncle was a monk in Florida; he had told this young man to always practice his English when he met a traveler, and to always help them out. Though a bit overwhelming, he was indeed an honest and nice young man.

Waiting for the bus, I met a monk from Sikkim who was returning to his monastery in Bodhgaya. He was nice and we were both sad our seat assignments didn't place us next to each other. The overnight bus, supposedly leaving at 6pm and arriving in Patna at 6am, was late, and proved one of the most unpleasant bus rides I've ever had. It left late. It was terribly hot and sticky and claustrophobic as the bus stood fully loaded and waiting to leave. I met a English traveler and we vented to each other about the hassles of traveling in India. Finally the bus left and we went careening down the terrible roads... bumping, and shaking our way along. The windows shook themselves open and were impossible to close when a rain storm overtook us. We pulled the curtains down over the windows to block the rain. It was moderately successful in keeping me a little dryer. Luckily it was only a brief storm. The Englishman switched seats and I later learned that his seat was soaked when he first sat in it, but with the humidity and heat and sweat, he hadn't realized it until he was soaked. He said he tried his best to meditate and hypnotize himself into comfort during the night.

I managed to get a little sleep. I laughed at the irony that Bihar people were noted roadworkers on the road in the far north of India to Ladakh because no one else would work for such a low wage. Yet the roads in Bihar were so poor, I wondered if all the road workers had left the state! I think the reality was that we were traveling along a new highway being built, and we were on the temporary right of way. It was a typical India road experience... a road with no lanes and everyone going where they thought the road was best. Five lanes of traffic on a three lane road. The seating on the bus must have been different than the jeep, which had felt like I was breaking skin.

As we approached Patna in the morning I saw alot of poverty and lack of health. I saw a beautiful teenage boy, with what looked like elephantitus in one of his legs. Children with distended stomachs from parasites. People sleeping on bamboo cots in front of ramshackle sheds. In Sikkim I didn't really see poverty. I mean I don't consider it poverty if you don't have money... but if you don't have health, food, and decent shelter, then that is poverty. In Bihar, it looked like poverty to me.

Heavy rains had flooded areas around Patna, and we arrived about 10am to a huge lot full of buses. My monk friend did the wheeling and dealing and decided a train would be better than bus to get us to Gaya. He haggled with the rickshaw driver and got our tickets at the train station. He was a nice man. I was thankful not to have to sort all of it out by myself. We sat exhausted on the train platform awaiting our train. What I thought was to be a three hour ride, turned out to be two hours. From Gaya we took a rickshaw for the half hour ride to Bodhgaya.

I was not enjoying my new environment. The filth that heat brings. The aggressiveness, craziness of the plains people. The hectic pace of multitudes. The monk had bargained a good fare for the rickshaw, but that meant we would be sharing it with as many others as the driver could cram in. At one point a couple of business man passengers balked when the driver tried to pick up a passenger that would have to cram in across our laps. The driver himself was sitting in front of four crammed on the front seat with him!

We finally arrived in Bodhgaya, and I went with the monk to Sechen Monastery where he lived and checked into the guesthouse run by the monastery. Bodhgaya proved to remind me of Khajaraho where I visited last year. Small, but touristy. Full of touts. Shedding a big backpack is the first line of defense, which marks you as a new arrival, maybe looking for a guesthouse. But even then, they still knew I was new. Children horded me trying to take me to their school ("no money, just we need books...") Typical scams. A ring of kids run by a fake teacher who acts like a "pimp". Sometimes even the schools are mostly scams, as I learned from an American guy teaching English here. He said most of the real schools here take about 50% or more off the top to make money for the owners.

I was surprised to have energy after my long journey. I roamed around town after washing some clothes by hand. I was excited that here my clothes actually dried under the ceiling fan overnight! In Sikkim, it was so hard to dry things, that most of my clothes would get musty before they dried.

I met a really nice and honest guy running a bookstore and chatted with him. He had a wife from Belgium whom he had just married in Thailand. She is there teaching English. He is a local guy and businessman. He proved to be one of the nicest people I've met, and one that could understand Westerners.

I eventually made my way to the main temple here, marking the place where Buddha became enlightened. A big complex, full of monuments. I found the Boddhi Tree (actually the 2nd replacement of the original), under which He attained Enlightenment. I sat under it and felt the most amazing energy. There I transmitted the distance Reiki for a series of Soul Empowerment Blessings I am sending to clients around the world.

I was glad to be here, but also hating it. Even in the main temple grounds, there are children dressed like monks trying to extort money. There are rings of old women begging. Daily, one is affronted by boys and men trying to get you to visit their school. It is sad because there is much poverty here. And you have to sort through the corruption to see if and where it is appropriate to help. I haven't done much in the way of giving money, because it mostly seems like corrupt scams.

Over the days, I have become clearly called to join my friends from Sikkim on the pilgrimage. I am excited and nervous. There are many orange clad pilgrims passing through town. I know I will be a focus of attention as I join the pilgrimage. I haven't met any who speak English much here. I get alot of stares from them. I started getting my necessities for the pilgrimage... mainly orange clothing ... yesterday. I will leave everything here in Bodghaya except for a little money, passport, and toothbrush. I found a website explaining the pilgrimage yesterday (http://www.angindia.com/sultanganj/sultanganj_sultanganj_shravani_mela.html ).

My friends said they aim to take 8 or 9 days for the 100 km or so pilgrimage. The walking doesn't scare me, but I am intimidated by the crowd of foreignness I will be immersed in, and a little wondering about facilities and hygiene in such a crowd.

I hope there are less mosquitoes on the journey than there have been in the last two guesthouses I have tried...