Only In America: Salt Lassi

In India, travelers are often heard saying “only in India.” The saying sprouts forth when expectations are completely trashed, trampled, and transcended. At a pageant on a holy day, a spinning wheel of fireworks got loose and rolled through the group of children performers and into the crowd. The show went on without hesitation. No one seemed to be hurt. “Only in India,” I murmured. In the USA, or “America” as the Indians like to call it, the show would have stopped, injuries would have been rampant, and lawsuits would abound. Days before the pageant, I had witnessed a father with his baby on a four foot wide stone wall about 20 feet off the ground. The baby freely crawled around, apparently safely. Somehow the babies are more sensible there, I guess. In America, the baby would fall and the father would be charged with endangering the welfare of a child. In a Himalayan village in India, the main steps from the bus stop into the village were lined with barbed wire. Steps were missing and uneven. That didn't stop the elderly and infirm at all. In America, there would be public outcry, victimized elders, and a host of handicapped access violations.We simply live in different cultural realities, having no idea how much our cultural ideologies shape our apparent realities.

Utter amazement has nothing to do with right or wrong, cultural superiority or inferiority.... it's just a natural by-product of having one's cultural based perceptions of reality dashed to the winds and sent into hyperspace to come out in some bizarre universe you never imagined existed. I suspect Indian visitors to America find themselves saying “only in America” when they become flabbergasted by flagrant reality checks.

The phrase “only in India” drifts into “in India, anything is possible” which has it's origin in the idea that money can buy most anything. With enough rupees, better yet dollars, anything is possible. I like to twist the statement into sarcastic wit when I am dumfounded.

Today, I had the opposite experience... that of “only in America”. And I have to say I hate to use the word America to mean the USA because it's as if we are the only country in North America, or North and South America, which to many citizens of the US, who are blinded by manifest destiny, may seem to be reality. Having traveled and gained some perspective on the matter, I feel otherwise. The USA is just one little part of the world. Traveling, I try to say USA or United States when I am questioned about my country of origin. That is usually the second question taught in English class in India, if my usual conversations with Indians are any indication. It falls between “what is your good name?” and “first time, India?” which is then followed by “are you married?” and “why not?”. I often find that if I say, “I'm from the United States.”, the inquisitor says “what? .... oh... you mean America.” And so I slip back into saying “I'm from America” so I can avoid one more step in a painful conversation based on little connection beyond 5 sentences in English. When I say “America”, invariably some European or Israeli traveler overhears and glares at me with serious shade, and then I have to explain myself.

So, anyways, today in San Francisco, America, I mean US, I ate lunch at a Chinese restaurant, and feeling not quite sated since lunch was also my breakfast, my thoughts wandered to the local Indian boutique slash ice cream stand, Bombay, which sets on Valencia at 16th street. The other day, I passed by and noticed they sold chai, in addition to exotic flavors of ice cream, like fig flavored. I'm not much of a tea drinker, but a chai for sentimental reasons appealed to me. Then I remember the lassi, an Indian smoothie made of yogurt and often fruit. That sounded better than chai... something with calories and nutrition to help make up for no breakfast. I strolled down the street feeling like I was once again a traveler, freely walking about the world. I sauntered into the ice cream shop, a simple affair with a counter, and sparse cheap metal tables and chairs. I studied the menu on the wall. “Chaat” caught my eye along with “puri”, both Indian snacks. But I focused on the Lassi offerings and found mango, sweet, or salt as the options. Mango cost twice as much as the others, so I thought a plain salt or sweet lassi would do. You can find the same options in chai, sweet or salt. I decided to try the salt lassi, since sugar is not a big draw for me. The young man behind the counter politely took my order with mannerisms that took me back to India. I watched him put a stout tablespoon of white powder into the mix. That seemed like a lot of salt, if that's what it was. But since he was of Indian descent, I figured he knew how to make a dish of his own country. I took the plastic cup and straw and sat down to enjoy my taste of the subcontinent. I sucked through the straw to find the most amazing flavor of salt and sour milk. I tried again. It was still awful. I laughed as it reminded me of culinary surprises in India. I resolved to just drink it. I took another sip, thinking I would probably get used to the saltiness. It still tasted just as bad. I considered just walking away with it and throwing it out, thinking maybe it wasn't really that bad, but just wasn't adapting to my unique tastes. I took another sip. My stomach began to feel queasy. There was no doubt that I could not simply drink it. And I decided that this was beyond tastes, it truly was bad. And the clerk needed to know so he wouldn't be making the same mistake over and over.

I got up and returned to the counter and said, “I think this has way too much salt in it.” The young man apologized and said he'd make me another. He didn't even try to taste the rotten one. This time I caught him as he was spooning in the salt, and said “no, not that much... little little..” holding my thumb and first finger together. He only put part of a spoonful in... more than I might have... but the lassi came out ok.

I drank it down, and wandered out on the street. The more I thought the more I laughed. Only in America would an Indian guy not know how to make a lassi. In India, they might not know how to make pizza, but they know their own cuisine. This boy probably grew up here and never made a salt lassi before. “Only in America” I laughed. “Only in America, anything is possible!”

Foot By Foot in the Catskills

Nature soothes me. Finally after months of keeping to self imposed grindstones, I got it together to get out in the mountains. My destination, The Catskills.

I drove through the hills of upstate NY, crossing the Susquehanna River in Oneonta, I drove south into the steeper hills and watched them grow into mountains.

I dined on yummy Chinese food in Hunter. I deliberated. My head spinning from days of less sleep than I would have liked, and a good dose of grounding work. I'd been helping my cousin with his tent and auction business. It gave me a mix of sorting other people's stuff, and physical labor of putting up and taking down tents.

It felt good to be on the road again, in touch with my nomadic tendencies. The ultralight pack I'd first used in Hawaii four years ago brought memories of backpacking on lava earthscapes, and my first major mountain summit experience when I climbed Mauna Loa.

My mind started to declutter. In the way, were fears and indecisiveness. Where exactly was I going to hike and camp? Indian Head Mountain, Overlook Mountain, Poet's Ledge, and/or the Escarpment Trail. My indecisive nature ran rampant in my tired state. I resorted to my pendulum to tap into my intuition. Indian Head Mountain was it's answer. My mind found fault with the rugged hike. The ease of Overlook Mountain and it's proximity to a Buddhist Temple called to parts of me that remembered such sights from India and Nepal. Yet, if I drove to that trail head, I might loose another hour of daylight. It didn't sink in that I could get there via the Indian Head side.

I'd enjoyed discovering the Catskills in my internet research and mountain guidebook. The history of Hudson Valley artists and transcendentalist writers struck deep chords in my memory. Thoreau, Whitman, Burroughs. Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The painting of Kindred Spirits. All drew faint recognition in my whirled traveler brain.

I passed a sign announcing a visitor center as I neared the trailhead. I turned around and took the excuse to find help in my deliberations. The information kiosk surprised me when I drove up the lane to find a huge old hotel of a building. As I parked, a earthy man with a trimmed beard came alongside the car with a cart of what looked to my once farmer's eyes, like freshly dug potatoes. Indeed they were. He called for the "person on duty" to come give me information. Meanwhile I inquired what the facility was, and he said it was a Christian community.

I noted the same grounded clarity in their eyes here as I noticed in the eyes of the Amish a few weeks ago at an auction. Connected to the Earth. Connected to the code they chose to live by. No muddled heads. Not so much confusion from the burgeoning world culture of information and consumerism.

He and the young man "on duty" didn't help me sort out where I was going to hike and camp. They did give me some ideas, but no breakthrough of clarity. My pendulum still suggested the Indian Head Mountain. So I went to the trailhead, parked, packed, and headed off up the trailhead.

A wooden footbridge greeted me and led me into the deep scent of hemlock and pine. It smelled good, fresh, cool. I enjoyed a few stone quarries along the trails. Visions of men working and sweating with horses and oxen in the virgin timbered woods passed through my consciousness. Sometimes I think I was born a century too late, when I consider the thrill of being around the Amish, and the excitement with which I read my Great Grand Father's diaries of the 1860s. Something appeals to me about a world devoid of the buzz of motors... where you hear the rhythyms of hand tools and hoof steps.

I easily covered the 0.9 miles of steady upgrade to the intersection with the Devil's Path, the trail that would take me up to the top of Indian Head Mountain. Devil's Path is reputed to be steep, rugged, and relatively devoid of fresh water. I carried plenty of water for my overnight. But the ruggedness intimidated my potentially out of shape legs and overall tiredness.

I begrudged trusting the pendulum, and turned up the steeper Devil's Path, thinking maybe I'd have time to hike to Overlook Moutain from this back end. My indesiveness and the steeper climb ate up daylight. I finally resolved to get up to Sherman's Overlook, and potentially skip doing the summit.

The trail was indeed rugged. In Hawaii, I had trekked at 3-4 mph, and surpassed all the 1-2 mph time estimates by the trail guides. Here, in the steep Catskills, I was on the 1-2 mph mark. Last year, in the Indian Himalaya, I had learned that speed is not everything, and had taken my shoes off to go slower, to enjoy the sights more. Yet now, in the Catskills, I felt the pressure of desire to achieve several goals in a short time... I had slotted only a day and a half here.

My knees balked a bit at the pressure. It took me quite a bit of mental wandering from fearing injury and being laid up until I got to setting the intention that they'd be fine. I steadily slurped on the tube of water from my hydration pack, thankful for the ease of sipping water. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of an overlook. I stepped out onto a rock, and beheld the grandueur of the Hudson Valley. Platte's Clove below me. AHHHH... this felt good and made it all worth it! An amazing fall day showed off a great visibility of the surrounding mountains and hills. I rested a bit, enjoying the view. No wonder the Hudson Valley School of painters had spent so much time here.

After a brief recovery, I moved on, spurred by the cool breeze. In a few minutes I came upon a western overlook, where the sun was warm. I lingered here, enjoying the heat. I thought I could see the Tibetan Monastery off on a hill by Woodstock.

Now the summit plagued my mind. It seemed, by the guidebook's words, to be relatively close at hand. I knew I'd hate to pass it up, being so close. So I urged myself onwards. At the base of a rock crag, I left my pack. A ten foot scramble had me significantly closer to my summit goal. After a couple small scrambles, I enjoyed level trails. Rugged and small, the trees showed the hardships of living atop a windswept pile of rocks that makes a mountain. I passed a sign prohibiting camping over 3500 feet. I figured I was close. I ran at times along the level trail. After an eternal 30 minutes I came to the edge of the level trail and saw it drop deep down into clove. No way was I going to go down any rugged trail, only to have to come up again. I decided if the summit was over there, I'd skip it. I turned around and headed back from whence I came, anxious to get down the mountain and seeing about heading towards Overlook Mountain, or at least to Echo Lake, where there was a lean-to.

I felt pretty wiped out by the time I got back down off Indian Head Mountain, and returned upon the Devil's Path to where it met the Overlook Trail, the old quarry road from the 1840s. I turned towards Overlook Mountain and Echo Lake. There was a lean-to, called Devil's kitchen, nearby. There I could decide whether to bed down, or head to Echo Lake.

I appreciated the relatively level Overlook trail. I appreciated the gentle scenery and wondered why my infatuation with mountains? A stroll through the woods can be as fulfilling as the challenge of a summit. I suppose I like both.

I soon approached the lean-to at Devil's Kitchen from a blind side. The open side faced off towards a stream and ravine on the left. I got about 12 feet from the lean-to, when all of the sudden, a black bear scrambled out looking over his shoulder in a panic! I shouted "Hey you!" before I'd even thought about speaking. I laughed. My mind began to worry. I hadn't anticipated bears. The guidebooks for the Adirondacks mentioned bear and preparations for such profusely. I had been relieved not to run across any mention of bears in my Catskill guidebooks. I wondered about my stash of nuts, apples, and dried appricots. I knew that one way to avoid trouble with bears was to avoid the usual camping spots where bears learn to search and find food. I had kind of wanted the shelter of a lean to, though.

As I walked by the lean-to, I was grateful that the bear had run before I got to the open side and cornered him in there. The lean-to was dark, and blackened from it's history of camp fires in the fire pit right in front of it. The lean-to appealed little to me now... it seemed a bit claustrophobic, especially if the bear considered it a good hangout.

Now, I felt that my option was only Echo Lake. I proceeded round the clove, over a wooden foot bridge spanning a rushing creek that tumbled quickly down the mountain. Soon I came to a "Y" in the trail where I couldn't tell which way to go. I choose the low way, knowing I'd soon see a trail marker in either case. I got about 30 feet down the trail, when I saw the bear staring at me straight ahead about 50 feet. I now realized that the trail curved around the cove and we were pretty much opposite from the lean-to.

We stared at each other, the bear and I. I yelled and waved my arms. He stared. I considered retracing my steps, but remembered something about bears being attracted to fear. I didn't want to give him the wrong idea. We continued to stare at each other until he decided to run. I was thankful. I walked down the trail towards where he had been, only to find the trail ended in the brush. I felt bad, having bothered him needlessly. I felt worse as I realized, that he had scurried up the hill and was bound to be in the vicinity of the proper trail.

I nearly stepped in fresh bear dung, obviously left by the bear after he'd scurried out of the lean-to. And I laughed at the thought of scaring the shit out of the bear. I hoped that he wouldn't return the favor as I returned to the "Y" in the trail and now took the high road. I proceeded cautiously for several hundred yards, and gladly discovered no sign of the bear. Another half hour, and I felt clear of his territory.

I strolled along the contour of the hill on the Overlook Trail, imagining wagons and men working here in times past. Another quarry showed up on the left, with a bit of an overlook onto the Hudson Valley. The trail was on the edge of the mountains.

Dusk approached as I turned down the side trail to Echo Lake. Steady down hill, the trail led to a valley. I heard the most amazing singing, like a choir. I wondered that I could hear sounds from the village of Woodstock. Wearily trudging down the trail, I was thankful to be close to my bed-spot for the night. Soon I realized the singing must be coming from the Lake itself. I would not be camping alone. I felt a bit sad at that, but at the same time was greatful, for I felt safer in bear country knowing others were nearby.

The sun just setting, I wandered past the lean-to and saw a group sitting by Echo Lake. About 15 or so. Two man/woman couples, and a gaggle of small children. Their angelic singing came to a halt just as a approached. They heard my footsteps and looked over. A man greeted me. He said they'd be camping on the other side of the Lake, leaving me the lean-to. Simple, clear, joyful, he told how they'd hiked in from the Woodstock side, and would be traveling on toward's Platte's Cove, where they lived, the next day. The women's simple dresses gave me every reason to assume they lived in the community where I'd stopped for information. He said they wanted to see if there was indeed an Echo at Echo Lake. Someone started a song with a syllable and the rest joined in in perfect harmony, like a professional choir. The children gazed back, smiles gleaming at me, when the mountains told the truth that there was indeed a beautiful echo here. These peoples joy was inspiring. They soon left me alone as they retreated around the lake.

I strung up my hammock between two trees about 15 feet from the Lake. I ate my cheese sandwich and some almonds and apricots. The air cooled quickly and I nestled into my sleeping bag. Fish jumping in the lake startled me a few times... still wary of the bears. Then a group of wild dogs or coyotes howled from the top of the trail into the valley. I worked through my fears, remembering it was rare that animals attacked humans. I prayed the critters leave me alone and stay at bay tonight.

The wind picked up and cooled my back in the hammock. I tried to find a nearby level spot to sprawl out, but couldn't. I returned to the hammock. The wind picked up, and finally, I just decided to sprawl out on the ground beneath me. I remembered how I had learned to sleep on a sheet of plastic on cement on my barefoot pilgrimage for Shiva in Bihar, India. And so I knew I could easily sleep here. I threw my piece of plastic down, my thin pad, and nestled into my sleeping bag into the arms of the solid Mother Earth. It was amazing how well this quieted my busy mind. I drifted to sleep.

In the morn, I awoke before dawn and started hiking out by sunrise. The air was brisk, though I don't believe it frosted in the woods. I got to the car, and ate some nuts. I then drove over to the Escarpment Trail in Haines Valley.

Escarpment Trail, gives the most views for the effort... so said the men at the visitor center yesterday. And they were right. Sunset Rock, and Inspiration Point gave amazing views over the Hudson Valley. Inspiration Point served and probably still serves painters with plenty of inspiration. There were names carved into the flat rock outcropping from the late 1800's and early 1900's when the area was in it's prime as a tourist location.

After looping round the end of the Escarpment Trail, I drove to the Kaaterskill Falls trailhead and virtually sprinted up the rocky ravine to see New York's highest waterfall.

An hour later I was enroute through New Jersey to the burbs of Philadelphia, reeling in the joy of my footage through the Catskills. I can't wait to return and spend days and weeks exploring more of the Catskills.

Surprise in the USA!

I arrived in Delaware a few days ago after my 40 hour journey from Rishikesh, India.

My sister picked me up from the airport with my 8 yo nephew who didn't know about my arrival. He stoically said, "It's Uncle Rob!"

Later that night we visited my parents and I hid in a big cardboard box for my Mother to open. She was truly surprised! And truly happy to see me! It was the best gift I could have given her for her upcoming 80th birthday!

My niece arrived for her Thanksgiving college break the same day. And we've been enjoying family time for the last 5 days or so.

The culture shock has not been as bad as I expected. I try to see it as just being in yet another different place and surroundings. Let it just BE how it is. Oddly I have found rubbish bins to be strange. I was chewing gum the other day and I kept wanting to just throw it on the ground or someplace, which is the appropriate action in India where rubbish bins are few and far between. It strikes me how clean it is here in the suburbs. I went bouldering with my nephew and brother in law yesterday and though there were a few bottles and litter around the park which my brother-in-law found incomprehensible, it seemed immaculate to me.

I feel a bit claustrophobic since so much of my life in Asia is more outdoors. The places I have stayed have no central heating, and so the outdoors seems closer... seeping in through the less tightly constructed walls. In Asia I notice the bad air from pollution of burning rubbish and less stringent vehicle emissions regulation. Here I notice the bad air of wall to wall carpets and tightly constructed buildings. Her in the suburbs I am surrounded by trees, but the focus is inside the house.

The jet lag hits me about supper time everyday and I find I can barely keep my eyes open after that. I stand bemused in front of the refrigerator trying to find breakfast or lunch. It's been 8 months since I did any food preparation with the cheap availability of food on the travel circuit in India and Thailand.

Being in the USA brings up the consciousness of "what am I doing with my Life?"... expectations, judgments... that don't come up on the travel circuit where people just BE and DO outside the peer pressure and cultural expectations of their own country. The issue of abundance comes up more quickly here in the USA considering in India I could easily live on $5-10/day. I try to live my life as one of complete trust that doing what is in my heart will always be supported by God/Universe. And really when I reflect on my life, that has always been true, and yet I fall into the fear based paradigms of our culture easily.

On the flight over here, I considered really living on the edge and just returning to Asia and trusting that things would work out even though I would arrive with barely enough money for a return ticket to the US. In the travel books about vagabonding, people have different approaches to world travel. Some work and save up in their home country. Others arrive penniless in some foreign destination and find work/living situations on the fly. Some develop work opportunities that can travel like journalism, blogging, photography, tour guiding, etc.

I've been researching selling my photos and writing to stock photo companies and/or magazines, self publishing on the internet, and other ways to generate income. I've been looking into internet possibilities to generate passive income. The site http://workingnomad.com intrigues me. I was really excited about the possibility of publishing on demand (P.O.D.) like on lulu.com until I found negative reviews on that sort of thing on the self publishing websites. A previous Reiki client emailed me and I managed to provide her with a distance Reiki session that she was quite happy with. It was a nice reminder of the "mystical" experience.

I find it best not to think too much... not to think about "here" and "there". Such thoughts boggle my mind. No sense of home or place leaving me feeling homeless or at home wherever I am. Too many familiar things around the world for me. If I think about it I can miss something from India or Thailand or San Francisco or here. If I think about it I can see the absurd differences in the way people live. The streets here in suburbia so quiet and orderly and clean. The streets I traveled a few days ago over there full of dust and noise and masses of humanity. Here a honk is a relatively rare blast of anger. There it's an ever present announcement of presence.

I perused a copy of Rolf Pott's Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-Term World Travel in the bookstore the other day. Two things in the book jumped out at me. One was Pott's most traumatic experience... too many choices! He describes how looking in the ads for air travel in Bangkok provided him with so many cheap options to travel to so many places that he went into shock! I feel that way often as I realize that really I could do anything. I could settle down. I could travel by the seat of my pants. The more I trust in God and Universe, the more options are possible. And the harder it is to choose. The more I learn how to meditate and generate my own inner peace, the more I realize that my choices don't matter. And the harder it is to choose. The second gleaning from Pott's book was that much of culture shock is the impossibility of relating to and communicating experiences from across the world to those that haven't experienced it.

I find people ask me simple questions, for which there are no simple answers. "What do people do for fun there?" It's a 10 minute answer. There is less separation between work and play in India. Children work younger, more responsibility at a younger age. Adults play later. Work is communal. Fun. Kids have fun kicking plastic bottles like soccer balls. Or sometimes play cricket or badminton in the street. Discos aren't big, but people sing their prayers together on the Holy Ganges.

So often trying to converse about my experiences is a non sequitor. It's like a bird asking a fish what kind of worms they eat. Maybe the fish eats worms. But it's an entirely different experience in an entirely different context.

In India there isn't the judgment that manual labor is "bad" and better replaced with a machine. Wait a minute, there is the caste system so there is a judgment. But machines are infinitely expensive. People make gravel by hand. With a hammer. Some even happily. Shovels usually have a rope for two- person operation: one works the handle and the other assists with the rope. Western values of Human Rights are legislating human-powered/walking rickshaw wallahs out of business, but not human-powered/tri-cycle rickshaws.

Meanwhile Americans suffer from carpal tunnel, back problems, and obesity sitting in climate controlled offices staring at computers. To the Western mind anything is better than digging a ditch by hand. And then comes the new generations sitting at a desk all day and paying to go workout in a gym later. And the Third World chases the "West". In Sikkim and Laos I saw TV satellite dishes on most every bungalow. Cell phones interrupt meals in the dung strewn alleys of Varanasi. And the barber in Rishikesh appears to live with his family under a sheet of poly plastic next to the barber booth/stall. Cows milked by hand in a manger along a back alley in the city of Varanasi give creamy unprocessed milk and curd that seems so wholesome from street fed cows. Unlike the watery processed milk products in the US. But then I read in the news about an investigation that has found Varanasi milk from some sources full of toxic chemicals from illegal drugs to increase milk production in these medieval mangers.

I watch the people Christmas shopping at the Mall. For the price of a large TV or a fancy computer, a family in India could live for a year. A room in a suburban house here has more stuff in it than a whole farm village in Sikkim. I remember the village family that put me up one rainy evening in Sikkim. They had a few clothes, a pot or two to cook on, some tick mattresses. Some livestock. Maybe a couple of shovels. There was no clutter in that house! The price of my sleeping bag and specialty outdoors clothes could easily pay for all their material possessions and probably buy a goat as well.

I saw a man using a leaf blower to blow fallen leaves towards his lawn tractor to suck them up. In India I've seen lawns in botanical parks cut to a 1 inch height with a machete. On the hill farms I've seen people use nothing more than a hand sickle for cutting and gathering fodder. Not even a rake or pitch fork. The money from the suburban man's lawn equipment could likely support a family for a year in India.

I watch my niece and nephew eat meals carefully and politely with silverware. In India they "play" with their food and eat it with their hands. The dahl (lentil stew) is mixed with the rice with the hand and scooped up into the mouth. Like many things in India, it's the opposite of suburban USA.

I wish I had more pictures of simple local scenes and culture in India. Just a simple street is such a different experience.

My brother-in-law asks why I go there? why do I want to go back? The answer is I don't know. I feel called to go there. It's not easy. It's full of crazy experiences. And somehow all that craziness is a gift. I guess part of that gift is learning to surrender and keep your center. There are also things you can do there that you just can't do here, like walking barefoot in the mountains from village to village and not seeing a car for days. There is a gift of experiencing another culture and gaining perspective on your own. There is a gift in experiencing ways of life that are centuries and millenia old before they disappear in the abyss of modern technology and "development". There is a freedom gained by being outside of your culture and your preconditioned cultural thinking.

Speaking of perspective, I saw an episode of Planet Earth - The Complete BBC Series, a DVD series by the BBC, the other day and it had some of the most amazing photography I have ever seen. There is also an interesting DVD called Riding Solo To The Top Of The World about an Indian man's solo journey and film of himself motorcycling to Ladakh; you can see the trailer at http://www.dirttrackproductions.com/trailers/ridingsolo/index.html.