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!
Monday, August 27, 2007
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.
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.
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...
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...
Friday, July 27, 2007
Green Sikkim and Green World and Hunger Strikes
Sikkim sometimes reminds me of a "hippie" state... well not really... but it seems to have an activist and self-responsibility flair.
Signs along the road talk about keeping Sikkim Green, and say that Sikkim is pledged to organic farming and foods. One sign says "We do not inherit the Earth from the Past, but we borrow it from our children". There are anti litter signs and signs on protective cages around planted trees. People litter anyways...not used to garbage that doesn't biodegrade. Plastic shopping bags are banned. Newspaper is used to wrap purchased goods, folded into makeshift bags for produce, and even used for disposable food plates.
I think about how many resources are saved by the traditional way of life here. Mud and lathe homes made of local materials and independently of fossil fuel. Brooms made without wooden handles. Short stools used in homes to squat on. Most people are used to squatting for the toilet and also just as a way to "sit" wherever they gather. How much lumber does this all save? What will happen environmentally if they become "devolped" like the West and have chairs and brooms with handles. Multiply that by the population of India, and it is staggering.
I think people are much more limber here from all the squatting. Little stalls like convenience marts are usually hosted by a clerk/owner sitting lotus position in the little booth. I also would love to see a study of bone density and spinal health with all the carrying of loads suspended from the head. Working bones is supposed to be the best prevention against osteoporosis. They ought to be healthy here! The loads I see carried by young and old are amazing. Furniture... large cabinets... wood, produce, you name it. All with a simple locally made rope headband and perhaps a bamboo basket.
Currently there is a hunger strike going on (over 30 days). See http://weepingsikkim.blogspot.com for details. The local tribes and community are protesting a hydro-electric project that threatens local culture socially, environmentally, and physically. It's beautiful to see the empowerment of these people and the interest in cultural preservation. There are 12 participants about 15 meters from my hotel. Everyday local Buddhist monks and community members come and pray and make music, chants, and "puja" for them.
It's fascinating to see how technology and Westernization affect the culture and environment. In Ladakh two years ago, I learned how government sponsored projects bringing electricity to rural communities created poverty... because suddenly people needed cash to pay electric bills. Previously, they were able to grow or barter their necessities. I continually am upset by people's belief that poverty is based on dollar ammounts rather than a person/family's ability to have food, shelter, community and basic needs. And yet I see people pull themselves into it... wanting to have luxuries like the "developed world", and I see world corporations push it for the sake of money.
Speaking of things that smell of permaculture and sustainability, some friends of mine have an organization to teach people how to build sustainably:
http://kleiwerks.org
And I found this website on water collection:
http://raincatcher.org/
Signs along the road talk about keeping Sikkim Green, and say that Sikkim is pledged to organic farming and foods. One sign says "We do not inherit the Earth from the Past, but we borrow it from our children". There are anti litter signs and signs on protective cages around planted trees. People litter anyways...not used to garbage that doesn't biodegrade. Plastic shopping bags are banned. Newspaper is used to wrap purchased goods, folded into makeshift bags for produce, and even used for disposable food plates.
I think about how many resources are saved by the traditional way of life here. Mud and lathe homes made of local materials and independently of fossil fuel. Brooms made without wooden handles. Short stools used in homes to squat on. Most people are used to squatting for the toilet and also just as a way to "sit" wherever they gather. How much lumber does this all save? What will happen environmentally if they become "devolped" like the West and have chairs and brooms with handles. Multiply that by the population of India, and it is staggering.
I think people are much more limber here from all the squatting. Little stalls like convenience marts are usually hosted by a clerk/owner sitting lotus position in the little booth. I also would love to see a study of bone density and spinal health with all the carrying of loads suspended from the head. Working bones is supposed to be the best prevention against osteoporosis. They ought to be healthy here! The loads I see carried by young and old are amazing. Furniture... large cabinets... wood, produce, you name it. All with a simple locally made rope headband and perhaps a bamboo basket.
Currently there is a hunger strike going on (over 30 days). See http://weepingsikkim.blogspot.com for details. The local tribes and community are protesting a hydro-electric project that threatens local culture socially, environmentally, and physically. It's beautiful to see the empowerment of these people and the interest in cultural preservation. There are 12 participants about 15 meters from my hotel. Everyday local Buddhist monks and community members come and pray and make music, chants, and "puja" for them.
It's fascinating to see how technology and Westernization affect the culture and environment. In Ladakh two years ago, I learned how government sponsored projects bringing electricity to rural communities created poverty... because suddenly people needed cash to pay electric bills. Previously, they were able to grow or barter their necessities. I continually am upset by people's belief that poverty is based on dollar ammounts rather than a person/family's ability to have food, shelter, community and basic needs. And yet I see people pull themselves into it... wanting to have luxuries like the "developed world", and I see world corporations push it for the sake of money.
Speaking of things that smell of permaculture and sustainability, some friends of mine have an organization to teach people how to build sustainably:
http://kleiwerks.org
And I found this website on water collection:
http://raincatcher.org/
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Gangtok, Sikkim
Last night I went out to eat for about the third night in a row with an older Englishman and younger Australian guy I met a few days ago. I've been enjoying eating some different foods as I'd been mainly eating the same stuff for days: Puri Sabji for breakfast (fried chapati's and stewed potatoes); Samosa Sabji for lunch (samosas are fried pastries full of vegetables and the sabji is often stewed potatoes and chickpeas); thali for dinner (thali's are complete meals including rice and 3-4 stewed vegetable/dahl toppings... dahl is lentil stew or broth depending on the preparation). Cheap and local and easy, but I was getting bored and I think protein deficient. So eating with Eric and Trent in some different places has been a treat. We went to Little Italy one night and I had what was really a decent pizza... something that can be hard to find in a country where cheese selection is often non-existant, and dough/bread often means chapati. So last night we had Chinese food, and tried to make a special order... some chilis added to the stir fry. Our first hurdle was when we asked for rice. The waiter said, "No, we don't have." Eric said, "You must have rice this is India!". "No." "Rice! Rice!" "Ohhhhh... rice... yes we have rice." Then Eric asked for some chile peppers to be added to a dish. "No, chicken vegetable does not come with chiles." "But you can add some chiles, can't you?" "Ok". The food comes and there are some strange looking bright red round things in it. I think maybe a tomato or some unique Indian vegetable. We taste them, and determine that they are cherries! We decide that the waiter heard "cherries" not "chiles". They must have thought we were so strange! Sometimes I wonder that we communicate anything. There is so much difference in accents and pronounciations.
Finding a good place to eat can be a cherished treasure. Eating local food is usually a good bet, but even still it varies. One Samosa Sabji comes with a vegetable broth/soup; another may come with a more hearty stew. The place I like to get my Puri Sabji comes with 4-6 large light puri's, and refills of stewed potato sabji... a good deal for about 20rs. One day they were out of Puri Sabji, so I got their vegetable chowmein: it was a tea saucer full for 18rs... not a very good deal. Western food, can be a real crap shoot (sometimes literally, because they don't know how to prepare it safely); pizza can be anything from a chapati with some sort of soft cheese to an airfilled dough with a more real cheese, to full blown woodfired oven cooked dough with sauce. Trent had Hawaiian pizza at a place that prides itself as a western style bakery the other night. He couldn't find the ham on the pizza, untill I pointed to a little piece of pinkish substance, and I don't think he ever found the pineapple that was supposed to be on it. The dough was full of air and sugar.
I try to eat local foods as much as possible, but usually find I prefer a little variety from time to time. We are so spoiled in the West. The locals here eat virtually the same thing everyday. Rice and rice and rice, and stewed vegetables and dahl. The vegetables are usually cooked to death. I can't really discern much difference in the spices.
Simple things can become so complicated.
A couple days ago, a couple of younger English guys showed up at the guesthouse. It's been raining everyday. Umbrellas are important here. Jerome's umbrella was broken already, only a few days old... so I took him to the umbrella repairman. I got mine about two weeks ago when I decided a rain coat or poncho just weren't so handy around town. I made the mistake of not trying it out myself when I bought it. From the start it would occassionally close itself. The metal tab that slides out of the shaft was sticky. It was also shaped to gradually so as to not form a good ledge for the sliding and holding mechanism to rest on. Within a week, it was no longer working. I tried to work on it myself a little; my local friend said there are "umbrella wallahs"... umbrella fixers. Sure enough, I remembered seeing men sitting on the side of the street with assortments of umbrella parts. So I sought one out. He held up a new catch to replace my old one. I thought this would mean disassembling the umbrella, but he merely slid the old one out through the slot, and inserted the new one. Less than five minutes. He charged me the tourist price of 25 rs. I imagine locals pay half that. I wondered why the umbrella manufacturer couldn't have just made a decent product to begin with. But this is typical of India. There are so many people here, so many customers, that quality doesn't matter. Someone will buy whatever you make. And labor is so cheap, that most anything will have a repairperson.
It can be frustrating. A few weeks ago I bought a manual pencil sharpener. It was only 3 rs (about 0.10 US$), but it didn't work. The pencil was rather flaky for that matter. Last week I went in search of some glue to afix photos to thicker paper in an attempt to make postcards myself. Finding a suitable glue was an ordeal. I told the first shop what I wanted, and they gave me some glue they said would work. It didn't. The paper peeled right off of the photo... it might have worked in a photo album, but not for going through the postal service. Then I tried to find "Fabquick" suggested by a local friend, and I ended up with super glue. It worked, but was difficult to work with and expensive. I went to a couple of shops and they tried to sell me a glue stick, which I just didn't trust to be permanent. So I gave up and bought envelopes... not wanting to spend more money on glue that didn't work. Everything takes longer and has more complications than you think here. Communication is probably the biggest factor besides it just being a different culture and world here.
I often go to the View Point... about a 10 minute walk from the guesthouse, its a relatively quiet pathway around the side of the hill that Gangtok sits on. From it, there is a nice view of the valley and river below, as well as surrounding hills. That is there is a view when it is not cloudy, which is rare this time of year. Many days, you just see the white of the clouds rolling by. The first day I went, I me a husband, wife, and their little girl selling peanuts, popcorn, and some snack I can't remember the name of made with dried noodle, fresh herbs and onions and peppers chopped in.... and then tea. One day the girl was practicing her ABC's. They are the sweetest family... always with broad, genuine smiles for me. Often when I walk the main street here after dinner (it is closed to cars after 6pm), I hear a "Hello" and see the man or his wife smiling at me. They speak about as much English as I speak Nepali and Hindi, so we can't communicate much. But I cherish seeing them. It can be relatively rare to find genuine, beaming smiles of friendship here. So often relationships are based on needs and expectations. And so often people are caught up in their own world... I know I often am. And I appreciate that they take me as they get me... sometimes I buy some snacks from them... sometimes I don't... there is never any pressure. They obviously trust their abundance.
Finding a good place to eat can be a cherished treasure. Eating local food is usually a good bet, but even still it varies. One Samosa Sabji comes with a vegetable broth/soup; another may come with a more hearty stew. The place I like to get my Puri Sabji comes with 4-6 large light puri's, and refills of stewed potato sabji... a good deal for about 20rs. One day they were out of Puri Sabji, so I got their vegetable chowmein: it was a tea saucer full for 18rs... not a very good deal. Western food, can be a real crap shoot (sometimes literally, because they don't know how to prepare it safely); pizza can be anything from a chapati with some sort of soft cheese to an airfilled dough with a more real cheese, to full blown woodfired oven cooked dough with sauce. Trent had Hawaiian pizza at a place that prides itself as a western style bakery the other night. He couldn't find the ham on the pizza, untill I pointed to a little piece of pinkish substance, and I don't think he ever found the pineapple that was supposed to be on it. The dough was full of air and sugar.
I try to eat local foods as much as possible, but usually find I prefer a little variety from time to time. We are so spoiled in the West. The locals here eat virtually the same thing everyday. Rice and rice and rice, and stewed vegetables and dahl. The vegetables are usually cooked to death. I can't really discern much difference in the spices.
Simple things can become so complicated.
A couple days ago, a couple of younger English guys showed up at the guesthouse. It's been raining everyday. Umbrellas are important here. Jerome's umbrella was broken already, only a few days old... so I took him to the umbrella repairman. I got mine about two weeks ago when I decided a rain coat or poncho just weren't so handy around town. I made the mistake of not trying it out myself when I bought it. From the start it would occassionally close itself. The metal tab that slides out of the shaft was sticky. It was also shaped to gradually so as to not form a good ledge for the sliding and holding mechanism to rest on. Within a week, it was no longer working. I tried to work on it myself a little; my local friend said there are "umbrella wallahs"... umbrella fixers. Sure enough, I remembered seeing men sitting on the side of the street with assortments of umbrella parts. So I sought one out. He held up a new catch to replace my old one. I thought this would mean disassembling the umbrella, but he merely slid the old one out through the slot, and inserted the new one. Less than five minutes. He charged me the tourist price of 25 rs. I imagine locals pay half that. I wondered why the umbrella manufacturer couldn't have just made a decent product to begin with. But this is typical of India. There are so many people here, so many customers, that quality doesn't matter. Someone will buy whatever you make. And labor is so cheap, that most anything will have a repairperson.
It can be frustrating. A few weeks ago I bought a manual pencil sharpener. It was only 3 rs (about 0.10 US$), but it didn't work. The pencil was rather flaky for that matter. Last week I went in search of some glue to afix photos to thicker paper in an attempt to make postcards myself. Finding a suitable glue was an ordeal. I told the first shop what I wanted, and they gave me some glue they said would work. It didn't. The paper peeled right off of the photo... it might have worked in a photo album, but not for going through the postal service. Then I tried to find "Fabquick" suggested by a local friend, and I ended up with super glue. It worked, but was difficult to work with and expensive. I went to a couple of shops and they tried to sell me a glue stick, which I just didn't trust to be permanent. So I gave up and bought envelopes... not wanting to spend more money on glue that didn't work. Everything takes longer and has more complications than you think here. Communication is probably the biggest factor besides it just being a different culture and world here.
I often go to the View Point... about a 10 minute walk from the guesthouse, its a relatively quiet pathway around the side of the hill that Gangtok sits on. From it, there is a nice view of the valley and river below, as well as surrounding hills. That is there is a view when it is not cloudy, which is rare this time of year. Many days, you just see the white of the clouds rolling by. The first day I went, I me a husband, wife, and their little girl selling peanuts, popcorn, and some snack I can't remember the name of made with dried noodle, fresh herbs and onions and peppers chopped in.... and then tea. One day the girl was practicing her ABC's. They are the sweetest family... always with broad, genuine smiles for me. Often when I walk the main street here after dinner (it is closed to cars after 6pm), I hear a "Hello" and see the man or his wife smiling at me. They speak about as much English as I speak Nepali and Hindi, so we can't communicate much. But I cherish seeing them. It can be relatively rare to find genuine, beaming smiles of friendship here. So often relationships are based on needs and expectations. And so often people are caught up in their own world... I know I often am. And I appreciate that they take me as they get me... sometimes I buy some snacks from them... sometimes I don't... there is never any pressure. They obviously trust their abundance.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Sikkim: Temi Tea Garden
Two weeks ago, Bhychung, a young man on the staff at the New Modern Central Lodge where I'd been staying in Gangtok, was laid off for the slow season. I found out after he had left and I was sad to not have been able to say goodbye. Bhychung always smiled and didn't gossip or tease, and never asked me for anything. Many of the other staff seemed to have ulterior motives. I searched the bus depot and jeep stand hoping to say farewell to Bhy. Fruitless in my search I wandered out to the viewpoint, a nice quiet area overlooking surrounding valleys. To my joy, there was Bhy, sitting on a bench. We chatted a bit. We watched workers clear a fallen tree by hand saw and human power. On their shoulders, four workers carried each log suspended on crosspieces lashed to the log. The strongest appeared to be a wrinkel faced 50-60 year old man who showed superior strength and grace to the 20 somethings assisting him. We watched him balance on the near vertical slope and heave logs up as the others pulled by rope from above.
Bhy and I enjoyed a hike down to the river through local farm villages: terraces of corn surrounding simple mud and thatch houses. I sang and prayed at the raging river. Then we hiked back up the steep hill. Bhy invited me to his village: Temi Tea Garden, Namchi, South Sikkim. He said we could jeep there the next day and do some treks together. I said I'd sleep on it. My pendulum said to go for it. And so the next day I met him at the jeep stand for the 2.5 hour ride to his home. I fought some car sickness on the winding roads... typical steep switchbacks of Sikkim. You can usually see your destination from a viewpoint, and practically throw a stone on it, yet the switchbacks and hills make a long journey out of it.
We arrived about midday at his village which was a smattering of farm houses amidst a vast tea estate. His home was rather like a compound of simple daub and wattle barracks around a central kitchen/home/living room complex. The coupound was shared by his grandmother, mother (his father deceased), several siblings and their spouses, and several aunts/uncles. Bhy and his brother Binod were my main companions. A couple siblings spoke some English, but to much of the family, communication was limited.
The household activity revolved around the central water spigot of spring water in the center of the compound, the kitchen hearth where the meals were cooked and eaten. There was also a living room with TV (a sattelite dish outside). The hearth made of clay was typical of those I've seen trekking in Nepal. About 15 inches high, 2 feet deep, and 4 feet wide, the hearth had a central hole about 12 inches into which the ends of firewood pieces could be stuck. Several burner holes for pots like on a cookstove were over top. A stove pipe carried some of the smoke out, slots in the roof took the rest. It was made out of adobe/clay. Burning embers were dipped in water to make charcoal for later fires. The family sat around the hearth on little wood stools (maybe 3 inches high). For a squatting culture, this is comfortable... the dishes were done squatting on one's haunches around the spigot... the toilet is a traditional squat toilet. One of the Aunties would laugh and bring me a stool when I tired of squatting by the water spigot to wash my feet.
Meals consisted of rice, a potato based curry, often dahl or lentils, some vegetables (beans, bitter melon, or squash). Three times a day! I sometimes grew bored... mainly because they wanted me to be well fed and often heaped my plate up with rice... too much rice for my tastes! All in all it was delicious though. Sometimes some sour milk left over from making curd was served as well.
About three doe goats and their offspring, a cow and calf made up the livestock. The cow provided milk for the family. The goats were raised to sell for mutton at 100 rs/kg. Terraces of corn with some squash and vegetables surrounded the compound. And a shade house for ornamental plants completed the compound.
I stayed in Binod's room (he stayed at his aunt's) which was one room in a row of three making a sort of barracks. The walls were paper thin and when the toddler on the other side moved in the night, I felt it.
The tea estate was the big employer in the area. Bhy's mom worked at a guest house on the estate. His sister in law picked tea. I think one Uncle worked for the government.
The day started at 5 am with dishes being washed, teeth being brushed, the cow being milked and animals fed. At 6 am the little nieces and nephews were singing and reciting their lessons outloud guided by parents or uncles. I got to help escort the 3 little children to school (about 20 minutes walk) a couple times. This was one of Binod's "duties". Binod, 19, had quit school a couple years ago after completing 8th grade; he did "duty" for the family which consisted of cutting a couple of baskets of fresh fodder for the livestock, chopping wood, escorting the children to and from school, and errands. The fodder was cut from the undergrowth in the nearby tea estate. It took maybe an hour to hour and a half for him to fill the large basket that would be suspended from his head. I helped a couple of days and was not very fast with the sickle and didn't dare try a big load without working up to it for fear I'd hurt my neck. The onlookers laughed and laughed at "the big man with the small basket!"Binod says he wants to make money to have luxury. I find it odd. He doesn't realize the luxury of time he has in his life. He cuts fodder for a a couple hours per day, chops some wood, escorts the younger children to and from school and a few other chores. Maybe it adds up to 4-6 hours per day. Hard to say. He works a bit, watches TV a bit. Maybe plays card with relative. Visits with some friends. I know few people in the states who have such a relaxed life. Most are running around finding money to support their gadgets, then maintain their gadgets, in an endless cycle. Binod and his family seem to have what we say are the important things: family, food, shelter. They have a TV and phone. A car would be useless as there are share jeeps by the dozen passing by the nearest roadhead. Most of the village is connected by paths that cut across the steep switchbacks. Roads would be inefficient and environmental disasters.
The home is relatively comfortable and appropriate for the local conditions. Most of it is made from local materials except the metal roof, which has replaced the bamboo/thatch roofs of the past. The lumber, mud, daub, plaster... all are local, cheap. Some houses/buildings have roofs of flattened tins. I love the recycling here. Newspaper is used to wrap things at stores and even folded into makeshift bags. Sikkim has a ban on plastic shopping bags. Unfortunately corporate marketing still brings in plenty of plastic wrappers for things like candies, tobacco, detergent, processed foods. Locals are used to the past when they could just throw garbage over the bank and it would biodegrade. Hillsides are covered with litter now that doesn't biodegrade. Binod told me that the government pays people to pick it up. I'm not sure that happens or that it happens everywhere. Binod chastises me for always bringing my garbage home. It can be a real challenge to balance imposing my standards from my culture on another, and educating, and just trying to BE. After a week or two, I cringe and throw a potato chip bag on the ground. Binod laughs. I pray for environmental forgiveness.
The day we go out to cut fodder together with a sickle and basket, it is raining. Bhy asks if I want mosquito repellant. He is slathering kerosene on his legs. I decline. I haven't noticed many mosquitoes and usually don't use repellent in any case. I think about telling him that fuel is toxic. But I don't want to impose my reality on him. I wonder when someone will educate the community about the harmful effects of kerosene, and then sell them some chemical product like DEET which also has harmful effects, yet makes some corporation a lot more money.
It takes me a long time to fill the small basket I've chosen; I've never carried a basket from my head before, so I don't want to strain anything. I'm surprised how long it is taking me. They make it look so easy to gather a large amount of fodder from herbage that is maybe 6 inches high on average. Somehow they make a even cut about 1.5 inches off the ground. We are cutting the undergrowth from around the tea plants on the tea plantation. Tea pickers are above us on the hillside, laughing at me... the big man with the little basket. It took some effort for me to convince Bhy and Binod that I should cut fodder with them. They are so honoring of their guests. I tried sweeping one day, and immediately got the broom taken away from me.
I spend two weeks with Bhy's family. The first week, Bhy and I went trekking to Maenam Hill (10,300 ft) by Ravangla. Mist, rain, leeches. I had my first real bought with leeches. In West Sikkim, I had a few bite between my toes without me noticing. Now, my feet were getting attacked. Trying to scrape them off, I learned the meaning of the phrase "You bloodsucking leech!" They hold on like super glue. It reminded me of how some of the touts hang onto tourists for money.It took a long time to hike to Ravangla from Bhy's village. We passed a group of road workers and Bhy used my camera to take some pictures. A roadsign said Ravangla was 8 km. We figured two hours. We hiked and played the game of guessing the distance on the next roadsign. It said 12 km! The next one was unreadable. Bhy said the bus would come by. Eventually it did. Luckily we took it (we debated thinking we must be nearly to Ravangla). We took lunch in Ravangla and bought some vegetables (onions, radish, carrots), crackers, and snacks to tide us over for the night. We then started through the state forest to Maenam hill amidst heavy rain. Bhy took the water bottle and filled it from water running over the ground, saying it was good water because it was running over soap plant. I didn't believe him. Later I looked at the water and it was very clear. I tasted it and it tasted very good. It was fine. I learned a lesson about wilderness water. The rain was fairly heavy, and so we decided to stay in one of the rest houses... an open sided shelter with concrete floor. I would later curse that concrete floor. In the meantime I had one of the best meditations ever with visions of travel to Ladakh, memories of hikes in college, memories of my farming days, thoughts of friends and family, and a real feeling of empowerment. That ended quickly when I lay down to sleep. We had just two blankets and a bamboo mat. I had left my sleeping bag behind when I realized that it hadn't gone through a suitable quarantine from the lice infestation I had a few weeks before (I think 4-6 weeks sealed in a bag will break the cycle, if I remember correctly). The concrete sapped all of our heat. Luckily with the two of us we could share body heat, and we were cold enough we had no hangups about that. (Actually, like in many traditional cultures, it is common for guys to sleep together here.) It wasn't that cold temperature wise, yet cold enough to be miserable. We got up at 5 am and took off for the peak of Maenam hill. By 7 am we were on top enjoying a sunny view above the clouds. Kachenjunga (I believe is is the third highest peak in the world ...Everest, K2, then Kachenjunga) is the local peak to see. I got sunburned in the thin air. We blew a conch we found at the hilltop altar... Hindu tridents as well as Buddhist pictures of the Dalai Lama.
We returned to Bhy's house for a day or two of recovery. Some of my leech bits got slightly infected and irritated by my sandal straps. Bhy and Binod treated me to my first taste of "chang" ... a fermented millet drink, kind of like a milky wine in taste. I liked it. It felt somewhat nutritious and not like empty calories. The "high" is different than alcohol... more dreamy. The chang was served in a local house. We tried it on several more occasions and learned that the strength varied alot depending on how long it had fermented. The first three times it was mild and relatively "harmless." The last evening we went, it was strong... very strong! It was cheap at 20 rs/ kg.
Then Bhy and Radeep (a friend of his) and I hiked Tendong Hill (8,000+ feet). It was a nice day hike from his house. There was a monastery on top. A few days later we bused to Namchi together and saw Sandruptse, a huge Buddha statue...it was very powerful and I had some good prayers there. We walked through the "rock garden" a ornamental garden. Played a bit on the seesaws and swings and sauntered into Namchi. We had planned to spend the night and have some pictures printed from my camera, but printing prices were too high. Bhy had used my camera to take pictures of his family and wanted them printed out.
The remaining days were spent hanging around the home and village. It rained daily. I got back in touch with my painting. The family was mesmerized by this. I ended up buying them some paints and papers. Bhy's sister had me make some illustrated ABC charts for her.For me it was hard at times. Communication with much of the family was extremely limited. Bhy and Binod were my main companions, but even with them communication could be difficult. Many times we discovered we were understanding things two different ways, when we thought we were on the same page. Often, someone would just come up and say "you come here now". One morning at 7am, Binod said, "come with me, we are going to the village." I didn't know for what, for how long, but got prepared within five minutes. It turns out he was distributing some papers to different families for his mother. We enjoyed a nice hour walk around the village before coming back for breakfast. I got so if asked if I were hungry, I would always say "a little bit", because I never knew the days plan. There was no privacy. Writing or painting in a journal is an invitation for someone to come along and look through the journal. That seems common here.
They have very strong community and family. We have very strong individualism. In Tashiding, I told some locals I was gay, when they asked why I wasn't married. They asked if my mother and family was terribly upset. I said not, that my family respects what I need to do to be happy. They said they couldn't do anything without family, friends, community overlooking and directing them. They can't fathom traveling or being or doing things alone. Both cultures have their advantages and disadvantages. The way Bhy's family lives, child care is shared between parents, aunts/uncles, grandparents. Resources like land, food, money, TV and phone are shared. There is great security. But there is a sacrifice to individuality and being oneself.
I was quite sad to leave the day I finally left. I realized I had fallen in love with this family and their simple life. I enjoyed simple walks with friends and meeting their friends and family around the village. Quiet. Peaceful. Serene. Simple. I think it must have been something like this years ago, perhaps in the village my father grew up in. I'll miss my new found family and look forward to seeing them again if and when I make it back to Sikkim.
West Sikkim
I started in Pelling, a town full of hotels. I forget the exact statistics: 200 residents, 500 hotels or somethings. It's not a bad place, at least when the hotels are empty. There were a smattering of Bengali tourists escaping the heat of the Plains when I was there, and a handful of westerners. The food and lodging is cheap.
The sights are Sanga Choeling Monastery, Pemyangtse Monastery, and Rabdentse Ruins.
Trekking up to Sanga Choeling, me and my friend Esben were caught in the rain. We took refuge under an overhang with a road crew and chatted with them. Esben, who has spent a year in Mumbai, did most of the talking with his conversational knowledge of Hindi.
I stayed a couple nights at Sanga Choeling Monastery where there is a guesthouse run by the monks. Very peaceful. Very sweet. It sits upon a steep hilltop like a fortress above the town. The clouds flow through the chortens. The Gompa has some tantric paintings on the walls and an older monk does a nice daily puja. A couple adult monks, and the rest are little children who have classes daily.
One day a little monk sat by me cleaning his nails with an old razor blade; his hands were pretty filthy. He was maybe 8 or 10 yo. A couple nights later I was by the kitchen hearth watching the little monks boil potatoes in a steam cooker. They weren't done the first time, so they repacked them and put them on the hearth again. Then the older monk told them to mash the potatoes. They peeled them hot with their tough little hands and mashed them between their fingers. Amazing how much responsibility they give the little tykes here, I thought. I prayed he had washed his hands! It was all reheated anyways, and tasted good... a potato dahl curry. And it sat well in my stomach.
There is much more trust here. Usually, I find little kids just want to do what adults do, but we in the West tend to put them off, not taking the time to teach them, to let them do what they are able to do... telling them they are not old enough. Then we kick them out at 18 yo and expect them to know how to do all the things we didn't teach them. But here children are given what they can handle. Little kids have little baskets to carry things in.
One day, I went with the monk on the hour long walk to Pemyangtse Monastery where a Rinpoche was giving a special blessing. I was amazed at how the little kids walked without complaint or grimace. I sat for a couple hours on the floor enjoying the good energy I felt from the Rinpoche ... then my knees and legs began to cramp so I went outside. I chatted with a couple of monks outside and learned that they and the locals do not commonly feel energy. I was surprised because I figured they could. I learned that because of my Reiki experience and energy awareness, I was special even here. I had wondered why I hadn't found some of the mystical experiences I expected here in India.
Afterwards, the monks from Sanga Choeling and I sauntered home to Sanga Choeling, a group of playful boys wandering the road. It was fun.
The next day I started my trek to Ketchopari Lake. It took 6 hours. It was grueling as I took the shortcuts across the switchback road. The short cut was paved with cement for quite aways. This is not a good thing in a humid country on a steep slope. Moss covered cement is slippery! and so I had to go slowly. Then, like many paths here, the cement ended and the trail turned to rock or dirt and grew smaller until it was a mere footpath. Then it came to houses and cornfields and split. So I had to stop and guess which way to take several times. Often someone would be nearby that I could ask "River?".... and they would point.
I saw some lumbermen in the woods. Two men using a pitsaw... a large crosscut ripsaw ... to make boards out of a log. One on a platform, the other underneath, on either end of the saw. It was impressive. They didn't even rest between boards. I passed another similar operation a bit later. Funny, at Sanga Choeling, I had inspected some boards being used to build a shop there, and thought the saw marks were those of a pitsaw.
I was weary by the time I got to Ketchapari Lake. I met a fellow who said he was staying at the monastery and he guided me there. I discovered that he was running a guesthouse by the monastery. I had the impression that I could stay at the monastery and became mistrustful of the gentlemen. I eventually learned that he was correct and there was no lodging at the monastery. I enjoyed a night up on this hilltop "village"... a monastery, a smattering of houses among cornfields and pasture.
The next morning I checked out the Holy Lake of K., and a monk guided me around. Allegedly because of its spiritual significance, a leaf never settles on the water even though it is surrounded by trees. There were quite a few Bengali tourists. I found it amusing that the Hindus did not know to spin the Buddhist prayer wheels in a clockwise direction! They obviously hadn't read a Lonely Planet Guidebook!
I trekked to Yuksom. The path was better marked and more level than the day before. Yuksom proved a nice village with Dzo (Yak / cow crosses) teams wandering through. Yuksom is a gateway to the mountains. I spent a couple nights here in the pleasant village. Some day hikes to the Coronation Throne and Dubdhi Monastery. My knees were sore, so I rested them a bit. Food and lodging were cheap and good here. Some other tourists to socialize with.
Then I jeeped to Tashiding. Tried to trek to some hot springs with Leon, and Israeli guy. It started raining and we couldn't find the way. A local family invited us in for tea and encouraged us to stay the night, saying the hot springs were flooded. Leon went on. I turned back at the next steep part... wanting to save my knees. I stayed with the family. It was strange. They had invited us before when we stopped for tea. Now when I returned, it was not offered. A neighbor boy spoke a little English, and eventually it was ok for me to stay. They put me in a room It was like 3 or 4 pm. No tour. Grandpa had invited me. He was dour faced. His wife or daughter was quite grimfaced and expressionless. She occassionally looked in on me. The neighbor boy hung out for a while. And some small kids. Occassionally, grandma would look in with her cataracted eyes, but not say anything. Tea was brought in. Grandpa came in and motioned "food". seeming to ask if I had food. So I pulled out my biscuits and offered them to him. He refused and indicated I should eat them. So I did. Thinking this was my dinner. I shared them with the little boys. Grandpa had indicated I shouldn't give them much. I couldn't resist giving them more. After a while, Grandpa signed me and I realized he was asking if I eat meat... he indicated goat or cow with horns, then chopping. I made the mistake of saying yes. Eventually rice came in on a plate. Then dahl.... but when I poured the dahl on the rice, it turned out to be a meat stew. Mutton, I think. Rank tasting. I didn't want to be impolite so I forced it down, only to be given a second bowl. I prayed it would settle ok. Soon it was dark and I walked outside, virtually forcing my way out... until they understood I wanted to relieve myself and a boy pointed to the burlap sack sided outhouse. Then I went in and grandpa and uncle were making my bed. It was a long night until morning when I heard Grandpa yelling at family members. It didn't seem like a happy house. They brought me tea in my room. I didn't wait for breakfast. I packed and left. I debated whether to give them money, but didn't want to insult them. I gave them my remaining biscuits, which Grandpa took readily.
It was a long hike back down to the river gorge and up the steep hillside to Tashiding. But I got to the guesthouse by 9 am and enjoyed a proper breakfast. Leon showed up hours later. He never found the hot springs, but enjoyed a much nicer homestay.
Tashiding had a beautiful monastery with a "resident" stone mason who carves om mani padme om into stones continually. Beautiful work. A peaceful devoted man. The monastery was having a ceremony and I sat with the monks a while enjoying the chanting.
I ended up getting approached for Reiki by a man with marital problems which were interesting to hear about and harder to discuss across cultural and lingual boundaries. Then several of his friends came in for sessions. I found it felt awkward because I am used to being able to communicate complicated concepts with my clients regarding intentions and the modality.
After Tashiding, I jeeped to Ravangla where I found a town into drinking with alcohol sold in every other shop. I was told a guide was required for Maenam Hill... the trek I wanted to do. And it rained heavily. I went to a Bon Monastery where I ended up spending the night. I enjoyed it alot.
Then I escaped to Gangtok, where I thought I might find a gay scene in a city of 250,000. Not!
The sights are Sanga Choeling Monastery, Pemyangtse Monastery, and Rabdentse Ruins.
Trekking up to Sanga Choeling, me and my friend Esben were caught in the rain. We took refuge under an overhang with a road crew and chatted with them. Esben, who has spent a year in Mumbai, did most of the talking with his conversational knowledge of Hindi.I stayed a couple nights at Sanga Choeling Monastery where there is a guesthouse run by the monks. Very peaceful. Very sweet. It sits upon a steep hilltop like a fortress above the town. The clouds flow through the chortens. The Gompa has some tantric paintings on the walls and an older monk does a nice daily puja. A couple adult monks, and the rest are little children who have classes daily.
One day a little monk sat by me cleaning his nails with an old razor blade; his hands were pretty filthy. He was maybe 8 or 10 yo. A couple nights later I was by the kitchen hearth watching the little monks boil potatoes in a steam cooker. They weren't done the first time, so they repacked them and put them on the hearth again. Then the older monk told them to mash the potatoes. They peeled them hot with their tough little hands and mashed them between their fingers. Amazing how much responsibility they give the little tykes here, I thought. I prayed he had washed his hands! It was all reheated anyways, and tasted good... a potato dahl curry. And it sat well in my stomach.
There is much more trust here. Usually, I find little kids just want to do what adults do, but we in the West tend to put them off, not taking the time to teach them, to let them do what they are able to do... telling them they are not old enough. Then we kick them out at 18 yo and expect them to know how to do all the things we didn't teach them. But here children are given what they can handle. Little kids have little baskets to carry things in.
One day, I went with the monk on the hour long walk to Pemyangtse Monastery where a Rinpoche was giving a special blessing. I was amazed at how the little kids walked without complaint or grimace. I sat for a couple hours on the floor enjoying the good energy I felt from the Rinpoche ... then my knees and legs began to cramp so I went outside. I chatted with a couple of monks outside and learned that they and the locals do not commonly feel energy. I was surprised because I figured they could. I learned that because of my Reiki experience and energy awareness, I was special even here. I had wondered why I hadn't found some of the mystical experiences I expected here in India.
Afterwards, the monks from Sanga Choeling and I sauntered home to Sanga Choeling, a group of playful boys wandering the road. It was fun.The next day I started my trek to Ketchopari Lake. It took 6 hours. It was grueling as I took the shortcuts across the switchback road. The short cut was paved with cement for quite aways. This is not a good thing in a humid country on a steep slope. Moss covered cement is slippery! and so I had to go slowly. Then, like many paths here, the cement ended and the trail turned to rock or dirt and grew smaller until it was a mere footpath. Then it came to houses and cornfields and split. So I had to stop and guess which way to take several times. Often someone would be nearby that I could ask "River?".... and they would point.
I saw some lumbermen in the woods. Two men using a pitsaw... a large crosscut ripsaw ... to make boards out of a log. One on a platform, the other underneath, on either end of the saw. It was impressive. They didn't even rest between boards. I passed another similar operation a bit later. Funny, at Sanga Choeling, I had inspected some boards being used to build a shop there, and thought the saw marks were those of a pitsaw.
I was weary by the time I got to Ketchapari Lake. I met a fellow who said he was staying at the monastery and he guided me there. I discovered that he was running a guesthouse by the monastery. I had the impression that I could stay at the monastery and became mistrustful of the gentlemen. I eventually learned that he was correct and there was no lodging at the monastery. I enjoyed a night up on this hilltop "village"... a monastery, a smattering of houses among cornfields and pasture.
The next morning I checked out the Holy Lake of K., and a monk guided me around. Allegedly because of its spiritual significance, a leaf never settles on the water even though it is surrounded by trees. There were quite a few Bengali tourists. I found it amusing that the Hindus did not know to spin the Buddhist prayer wheels in a clockwise direction! They obviously hadn't read a Lonely Planet Guidebook!
I trekked to Yuksom. The path was better marked and more level than the day before. Yuksom proved a nice village with Dzo (Yak / cow crosses) teams wandering through. Yuksom is a gateway to the mountains. I spent a couple nights here in the pleasant village. Some day hikes to the Coronation Throne and Dubdhi Monastery. My knees were sore, so I rested them a bit. Food and lodging were cheap and good here. Some other tourists to socialize with.
Then I jeeped to Tashiding. Tried to trek to some hot springs with Leon, and Israeli guy. It started raining and we couldn't find the way. A local family invited us in for tea and encouraged us to stay the night, saying the hot springs were flooded. Leon went on. I turned back at the next steep part... wanting to save my knees. I stayed with the family. It was strange. They had invited us before when we stopped for tea. Now when I returned, it was not offered. A neighbor boy spoke a little English, and eventually it was ok for me to stay. They put me in a room It was like 3 or 4 pm. No tour. Grandpa had invited me. He was dour faced. His wife or daughter was quite grimfaced and expressionless. She occassionally looked in on me. The neighbor boy hung out for a while. And some small kids. Occassionally, grandma would look in with her cataracted eyes, but not say anything. Tea was brought in. Grandpa came in and motioned "food". seeming to ask if I had food. So I pulled out my biscuits and offered them to him. He refused and indicated I should eat them. So I did. Thinking this was my dinner. I shared them with the little boys. Grandpa had indicated I shouldn't give them much. I couldn't resist giving them more. After a while, Grandpa signed me and I realized he was asking if I eat meat... he indicated goat or cow with horns, then chopping. I made the mistake of saying yes. Eventually rice came in on a plate. Then dahl.... but when I poured the dahl on the rice, it turned out to be a meat stew. Mutton, I think. Rank tasting. I didn't want to be impolite so I forced it down, only to be given a second bowl. I prayed it would settle ok. Soon it was dark and I walked outside, virtually forcing my way out... until they understood I wanted to relieve myself and a boy pointed to the burlap sack sided outhouse. Then I went in and grandpa and uncle were making my bed. It was a long night until morning when I heard Grandpa yelling at family members. It didn't seem like a happy house. They brought me tea in my room. I didn't wait for breakfast. I packed and left. I debated whether to give them money, but didn't want to insult them. I gave them my remaining biscuits, which Grandpa took readily.
It was a long hike back down to the river gorge and up the steep hillside to Tashiding. But I got to the guesthouse by 9 am and enjoyed a proper breakfast. Leon showed up hours later. He never found the hot springs, but enjoyed a much nicer homestay.
Tashiding had a beautiful monastery with a "resident" stone mason who carves om mani padme om into stones continually. Beautiful work. A peaceful devoted man. The monastery was having a ceremony and I sat with the monks a while enjoying the chanting.
I ended up getting approached for Reiki by a man with marital problems which were interesting to hear about and harder to discuss across cultural and lingual boundaries. Then several of his friends came in for sessions. I found it felt awkward because I am used to being able to communicate complicated concepts with my clients regarding intentions and the modality.
After Tashiding, I jeeped to Ravangla where I found a town into drinking with alcohol sold in every other shop. I was told a guide was required for Maenam Hill... the trek I wanted to do. And it rained heavily. I went to a Bon Monastery where I ended up spending the night. I enjoyed it alot.
Then I escaped to Gangtok, where I thought I might find a gay scene in a city of 250,000. Not!
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Kali Kali Kali Ghat to Darjeeling
Kolkata: My last day in Kolkata I went to visit Kali Temple at Kali Ghat. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with tourist places. I took the subway from Park St, near Sudder St. The subway worked easily enough... go to a ticket window to get the ticket, then board the train. I intently peered out the windows at every stop looking for the English signs denoting the name of the station. I got out at the right stop, and didn't have a decent map of Kolkata, so I remembered the general direction to the Kali Temple and started walking. I found myself in a delightful local neighborhood on a small market street lined with stalls selling vegetables and fruits and meats. Not many people and very few cars. Definitely not a tourist area as no one approached me. So refreshing. I wandered onwards and discovered some crematoriums along the river. I checked one of the them out, not sure if it was the temple or not. Onwards I strolled through the quiet neighborhood until a man sitting at a tea stall called and waved me over. I decided to ignore my initial response to keep walking in a land full of touts. My action proved good as I was treated to some chai by some local business men. Only one spoke much English. The others asked questions through him. It was nice and sincere. Plus we were able to communicate some more complicated thoughts beyond the usual: what is your name? where are you from? first time india? are you married? why not? We talked of exchange rates and prices in the US... so many times people think that US money is as big in the states as it is in India. After a good 30 minutes, I left with a fond memory of some nice folks. As I walked onwards, I passed a group of young men playing caroom. They motioned me over and bought me chai. I felt a bit uncomfortable as they seemed to make fun of me. Soon a friend of theirs showed up who spoke better English. We enjoyed some nice talk as well. My suspicions were confirmed when he berated one of his friends for joking about me in Hindi. He showed me his motorcycle... a prized possession. He was the only son in a family of six and enjoyed monetary benefits for the fact. He explained how he was a bit wreckless with the money buying motorbikes. After 30 minutes or so, I parted... on parting he told how he'd be happy to play tour guide for me and my friends at 500 rs / day.
I was ready for some down time as I left... the strain of communication, and the unsurety of where one stands with a group can be draining. I found my way to Kali Temple and was led in by a self appointed guide. It was a mob scene of Hindis. I'm not sure if I saw any other tourists. I warily, and hesitantly stepped in to the mayhem. My guide said I needed to wash my hands with flowers and as I stood a bit spellbound by the massive crowd and commotion, he got some flowers and incense for me. I smelled a rip off, but wasn't bold enough to leave. He said the goods were 10rs, and that I could pay later. He took me to the front of the long line and into a crowded anteroom and led me through the crowd to a viewing point of the Kali statue which was hidden behind crowds. There was fighting and pushing in the room where the statue was. Luckily I wasn't Hindu so I wasn't able to go there. After several minutes of me thinking I ought leave, the crowd parted for a moment and I saw Kali. Then my guide led me out and around to another anteroom where a "priest" stood by a decorated tree. He led me through praying for my family and hanging my flowers on the tree. Then came the "money shot". He showed me a book where visitors signed and put how much they donated. On the page were Japanese visitors who allegedly gave 2500rs or more each... like $75 USD. He asked me to write down what I wanted to donate. He wanted me to write down the amount before I looked in my wallet, which I ought to have done as my thought was to give 20 rs, or maybe 40rs. My guide had slyly pointed to an area which he said was a kitchen out of which they fed the poor. I doubted it. The priest suggested 500rs and indicated that I would be honoring my country as I signed in the guestbook. I looked in my wallet and unfortunately only had a 100rs note and a 5 rs note. I wasn't bold enough to only give 5rs. So I gave the 100rs. The guide and priest suggested I ought to give more, but backed off when I shaked out my wallet and showed them there was nothing more. They quickly dismissed me and somehow waved my payment for the flowers and incense and also for the shoe stand where you leave your shoes for the mandatory barefoot approach to the sacred space.
I quickly left. Angry at the ripoff scheme and at myself for falling into it. The temple didn't feel at all powerful to me and my prayers didn't feel answered. I spent my last 5 rs on some fresh pressed cane juice, and proudly showed my empty wallet when beggars approached me. I spied a lot of red thread in the nearby street stalls, and realized I ought to have bought some and wrapped my wrist before I went in. The priest had wrapped my wrist as a blessing with the same colored yarn. I realized that a good practice when visiting such temples would be to first buy the yarn outside, the wrap yourself so that the touts would think you had already been ripped off. I stewed a bit angry at the perversed spirituality of stripping tourists of ridiculous sums for blessings that didn't feel real. I thought how much futher my 100rs would have gone at Mother Teresa's. Then I tried to let go of my anger. I walked down a side alley to a river and watched a couple of guys sift through river sludge for things of value. Some kids swam. About 8 m upstream a little boy shit in the river and a young man peed. An older man came with his offerings for the river (flowers and such for the gods). He threw them in along with the plastic bags he they came in from the vendor. No sense of pollution here. I tried not to let it stretch my mind. You just have to watch sometimes as an outsider in a foreign culture and try not to judge.
Later that night, Martina and I boarded the train to NJP... the nearest train station to Darjeeling. It was a typical train ride in India. We road 2nd class sleeper which is fan as opposed to air conditioned. The seats are long benches that serve as cots. Three people sit on a bench. When it is time to sleep, two benches folded against the wall above the lowest one are dropped down and everyone goes to bed. It is reasonably comfortable, more so than reclining seats used in the U.S. on buses and trains. The vinyl was sticky and grimy... if I'd been smart I'd have packed a sheet or something. I awoke early and watched the villages of the plains pass by. Mud thatch houses and water buffalo. We pulled into NJP station early in the morning and found four other westerners in our car. We decided to travel together to Darjeeling.
First we had breakfast at a local place near the restaurant. There was no menu and we ordered what the locals were eating. Puri sabji. Puri are fried chapati. Sabji is stewed potatoes, sometimes with chickpeas. Me and another fellow ordered some curd. When we paid the bill, we found out the error of making assumptions. They tried to charge us 40 rs each for the puri sabji, which usually runs 10-15rs in such places; and 20 rs for each curd, which is normally 5-10rs. We balked and argued the prices and ended up just leaving what we felt was appropriate. It was then that one of our travel mates said that in the train station restaurant prices are regulated and cheap! I had steered away from the train station vendors because in the U.S. such places are usually more expensive.
We took at share taxi to Shiliguri where we got a jeep for Darjeeling. It was a long 4 hour ride on winding roads. The first thing different was the driving habits. In the mountains, they actually back up. And horn honking is used to signal approaches on blind curves. The roads are often single lane or one and a half. So sometimes one vehicle backs up to a wider spot so oncoming vehicles can pass. Mountain drivers in India, I feel are some of the best drivers in the world. Often passing each other with only an inch or two of clearance!
The mountain villages provided quite different scenery from the hubbub of Kolkata. Steep hillsides. Steep switchbacks on the roads. We passed a baby defecating on a piece of newspaper in the road. We arrived in Darjeeling to find most of the hotels full of Bengali tourists. It took a couple hours to find a place that had rooms for us all and was reasonably priced. We settled in to the hill station of Darjeeling.
I was ready for some down time as I left... the strain of communication, and the unsurety of where one stands with a group can be draining. I found my way to Kali Temple and was led in by a self appointed guide. It was a mob scene of Hindis. I'm not sure if I saw any other tourists. I warily, and hesitantly stepped in to the mayhem. My guide said I needed to wash my hands with flowers and as I stood a bit spellbound by the massive crowd and commotion, he got some flowers and incense for me. I smelled a rip off, but wasn't bold enough to leave. He said the goods were 10rs, and that I could pay later. He took me to the front of the long line and into a crowded anteroom and led me through the crowd to a viewing point of the Kali statue which was hidden behind crowds. There was fighting and pushing in the room where the statue was. Luckily I wasn't Hindu so I wasn't able to go there. After several minutes of me thinking I ought leave, the crowd parted for a moment and I saw Kali. Then my guide led me out and around to another anteroom where a "priest" stood by a decorated tree. He led me through praying for my family and hanging my flowers on the tree. Then came the "money shot". He showed me a book where visitors signed and put how much they donated. On the page were Japanese visitors who allegedly gave 2500rs or more each... like $75 USD. He asked me to write down what I wanted to donate. He wanted me to write down the amount before I looked in my wallet, which I ought to have done as my thought was to give 20 rs, or maybe 40rs. My guide had slyly pointed to an area which he said was a kitchen out of which they fed the poor. I doubted it. The priest suggested 500rs and indicated that I would be honoring my country as I signed in the guestbook. I looked in my wallet and unfortunately only had a 100rs note and a 5 rs note. I wasn't bold enough to only give 5rs. So I gave the 100rs. The guide and priest suggested I ought to give more, but backed off when I shaked out my wallet and showed them there was nothing more. They quickly dismissed me and somehow waved my payment for the flowers and incense and also for the shoe stand where you leave your shoes for the mandatory barefoot approach to the sacred space.
I quickly left. Angry at the ripoff scheme and at myself for falling into it. The temple didn't feel at all powerful to me and my prayers didn't feel answered. I spent my last 5 rs on some fresh pressed cane juice, and proudly showed my empty wallet when beggars approached me. I spied a lot of red thread in the nearby street stalls, and realized I ought to have bought some and wrapped my wrist before I went in. The priest had wrapped my wrist as a blessing with the same colored yarn. I realized that a good practice when visiting such temples would be to first buy the yarn outside, the wrap yourself so that the touts would think you had already been ripped off. I stewed a bit angry at the perversed spirituality of stripping tourists of ridiculous sums for blessings that didn't feel real. I thought how much futher my 100rs would have gone at Mother Teresa's. Then I tried to let go of my anger. I walked down a side alley to a river and watched a couple of guys sift through river sludge for things of value. Some kids swam. About 8 m upstream a little boy shit in the river and a young man peed. An older man came with his offerings for the river (flowers and such for the gods). He threw them in along with the plastic bags he they came in from the vendor. No sense of pollution here. I tried not to let it stretch my mind. You just have to watch sometimes as an outsider in a foreign culture and try not to judge.
Later that night, Martina and I boarded the train to NJP... the nearest train station to Darjeeling. It was a typical train ride in India. We road 2nd class sleeper which is fan as opposed to air conditioned. The seats are long benches that serve as cots. Three people sit on a bench. When it is time to sleep, two benches folded against the wall above the lowest one are dropped down and everyone goes to bed. It is reasonably comfortable, more so than reclining seats used in the U.S. on buses and trains. The vinyl was sticky and grimy... if I'd been smart I'd have packed a sheet or something. I awoke early and watched the villages of the plains pass by. Mud thatch houses and water buffalo. We pulled into NJP station early in the morning and found four other westerners in our car. We decided to travel together to Darjeeling.
First we had breakfast at a local place near the restaurant. There was no menu and we ordered what the locals were eating. Puri sabji. Puri are fried chapati. Sabji is stewed potatoes, sometimes with chickpeas. Me and another fellow ordered some curd. When we paid the bill, we found out the error of making assumptions. They tried to charge us 40 rs each for the puri sabji, which usually runs 10-15rs in such places; and 20 rs for each curd, which is normally 5-10rs. We balked and argued the prices and ended up just leaving what we felt was appropriate. It was then that one of our travel mates said that in the train station restaurant prices are regulated and cheap! I had steered away from the train station vendors because in the U.S. such places are usually more expensive.
We took at share taxi to Shiliguri where we got a jeep for Darjeeling. It was a long 4 hour ride on winding roads. The first thing different was the driving habits. In the mountains, they actually back up. And horn honking is used to signal approaches on blind curves. The roads are often single lane or one and a half. So sometimes one vehicle backs up to a wider spot so oncoming vehicles can pass. Mountain drivers in India, I feel are some of the best drivers in the world. Often passing each other with only an inch or two of clearance!
The mountain villages provided quite different scenery from the hubbub of Kolkata. Steep hillsides. Steep switchbacks on the roads. We passed a baby defecating on a piece of newspaper in the road. We arrived in Darjeeling to find most of the hotels full of Bengali tourists. It took a couple hours to find a place that had rooms for us all and was reasonably priced. We settled in to the hill station of Darjeeling.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Kolkata Kolkata Wahe Guru
Hi Everyone,
Just to let you know I arrived safely and happily into Kolkata (Calcutta), India, yesterday. The trip was grueling because it was a 6am flight... which I discovered after I bought the ticket. It turned out to be in Bhutan's Drukair Airlines. To avoid paying a huge taxi fare, I took the last airport bus from Khao San Rd in Bangkok at 11pm. I was sad to leave Thailand. I was dreading India. It can be so intense and I remember the worst of it from my previous visit. Yet, my pendulum and spirit called me to go on to India.
I spent a sleepless night in the airport. The flight went smoothly... on the plane I slept. And in 2 hours I was in Kolkata at their International airport which was small and grimy and looked ancient. Customs/immigration went smoothly. There I met Martina, a Czech woman, who asked if I wanted to share a cab. As we awaited our baggage at the carousel, I laughed at the sign that read "in case of missing baggage, fill out a 'Baggage Irregularity Form'!" That sounds like bueracrat-speak for "we lost your bag". Martina's bag turned out to be "irregular" in the sense of being missing. She laughed about it remembering that as she packed she considered consolidating things into her carry on, and that she had been thinking it would be nice to travel lighter. She practices Buddhism and the important things in the missing bag were just prayer items. The official who helped her fill out the form, gave the standard reply "have no worries, relax... no problem"; they always say that when you have everything to worry about and they have nothing to worry about. I envied Martina as we walked from the airport and I carried my 30 lb backpack.
I had watched the Indians in the airport, the mannerisms, and was wondering what I am doing here. Such a crazy place. Maybe I would just turn around and go back to Thailand. As we attempted to walk a couple of km to the bus stop, every taxi and rickshaw stopped to ask us where we were going and did we want a ride. Martina was wearing down in the heat and the attention. We got to the bus stop and got such confusing information, that we finally negotiated with taxi drivers. Martina wanted to go to the Mother Teresa House to see about volunteering. I was curious to check that out, but also wanted to check into a hotel on Sudder St (the backpacker/cheap accommodation ghetto). Finally we negotiated 150 rs for Mother Teresa's, and 180rs to take one of us there and one to Sudder St. As we drove off, the taxi driver laughed and talked to his friends in Hindi, holding up two fingers. I realized he was going to try to cheat us by claiming it was 150 rs each instead of total. Now I remembered the advice of the Indian guy we asked for information: "make sure you get a metered taxi". Hindsight is always the best. The traffic was horrendus and drivers drove as they do only in India: never look back, never back up, always move forward, always honk your horn. Four lanes like this... well not really lanes because any place on the road is fair game for merging and swerving. They always manage to get twice as many cars/vehicles in the space as we might think would fit. Clearances between vehicles is inches. In one of the merges, a taxi hit ours. Our driver cursed and got out, but no damage was done. Martina and I could only laugh with adrenaline as we saw near accidents. We passed a cow ambling down the highway. Then we passed a man squatting and peeing (an Indian technique for being discreet) in the sewer drain in the curb of the meridian. Our driver yelled out at him as we passed.. just for the fun of harrassing him.
I decided to just go with Martina to the Mother Teresa House and hope it was close to Sudder St. We arrived there. Turns out there are several "houses"/locations. We arrived the place where the Sisters/Nons live. We got to see Mother Teresa's tomb. Then some local men who were in some sort of Christian organization took us for the five minute walk to a children's infirmary where we toured with some others through the facility. It was strange... I felt like I was in a zoo. The wards had cribs and one was filled with children with conditions that looked like autism and ms. Though it felt strange to be touring through, some how the atmosphere was very good and seemed ok for the children. We went to another ward where the children seemed healthy. Several adopted me to play with a ball. One rascal started climbing up the wire mesh on the door to work the sleve bolt latch!
Overall the energy and atmosphere seemed very nice and very beautiful and healing. Volunteers watched the children and cleaned beds etc. As we were leaving one of the Sisters said I would be very handsome without my piercings, and said I ought not follow others! I laughed because if I were following others, I wouldn't have piercings at all! Funny how some Christians can be so judgmental.
Martina and I walked through the streets... 30 minutes to Sudder St. It was intense, and hot. Many stares directed at us. And always the rickshaws and taxi drivers jabbering at us to see if we wanted a ride. Some children grabbed onto us begging for food, pointing at their bellies, pleading in English. We were wavering on giving in, though we only had big bills from the ATM. The children said and a man said "no money, food!" The man came along saying we should buy them food. As we stopped a the first shop, all there was were biscuits and cookies: white flour, white sugar... nothing healthy. Martina nearly bought a package, then the man came up and said we should buy something else next door. The shopkeeper yelled at him. I realized the ploy then. You buy something for an inflated price, the product gets returned to the store, and the whole gang makes money. It took a few minutes to loose the whole crowd.
After a long 30 minutes we found a hotel with a dorm room on Sudder St. The last 50 meters, a tout walked along with me trying to get me to see the 300 rs rooms. We got dorm beds for 70rs. I went out walking. I found myself bubbling with joy inside. Something here for me I guess. Interesting sights on every step. Alleys with goats, human powered rickshaws, barefoot children, women in sari's, and men in dress slacks and button shirts. Smells of charcoal for the food stands, urine, incense occassionally waft up through the overwhelming exhaust fumes. A bizzare mix of poverty in a world culture. Pavement and dust, barefoot and dress shoes, human powered rickshaws and Chevorlets. The men who pull the rickshaws seem as content as anyone else. Some work barefoot. Others in flip flops. Street vendors sell western clothes that look much like they wear in Thailand; made in China I guess.
Funny, in January I had a vision that I was to return to India. By the time I left San Francisco 7 weeks ago, I was really wanting to just stay in San Francisco. And now that I am here everything feels right. Just being here, I feel like I am in a meditative state, and everything feels clear.
We went to a free dance program listed in the Lonely Planet. Turns out it is a dance school where they teach traditional Indian dance to children. We got to watch a rehearsal for their recital on Saturday. It was beautiful and cute. I thought of Kim and Paul and Sarah and Mom in their recitals!
Then we went to the Planetarium. Luckily they had a show at 6:30pm in English, not Hindi. An older Hindi woman narrated through the program in very proper English. It took her a whole paragraph to say "turn your cell phones off". Midway through the show, she saw someone turn theirs on, and she went on a two minute spiel asking the to turn it off, explaining that cell phones disrupt the show, and that if they can't go without their phone for 30 minutes, they should leave. Well, she was right, that cell phone sure did disrupt the show! All this was in the Queen's English with an Indian accent. Her monologue about the stars and planets was nonstop and a bit hard to understand and at times I felt a bit dizzy with it all. When the show ended and we walked outside to the mayhem of 6 lanes of cars following the Indian rule of the road "no matter what, always honk you horn", I thought to myself how nice the peace of the planetarium was, but then I thought how it wasn't really that peaceful with the Hindi woman's monologue.
As we tried to navigate our way back home to Sudder street, a nice Hindi man pointed us the right way, suggested we walk on the park side of the street... it was much quieter and better air than the other side of the six lanes of exhaust belching cars. He said he was walking our way. And chatted. And I thought how nice it was to meet a simple kind soul without the pretext of money. Then he suggested some sights to see and conveniently pulled out two handwritten sheets of sights in Kolkata arranged by compass direction and along with bus numbers. Pretty soon he suggested we might buy him a drink as he was between jobs. He was one of the sweetest hustlers I had run across. Quite helpful. We gave him a few rupees.
Today, Martina and I walked through the traffic and heat and crowds to the Railroad Ticket Office and then had to fill out a form for a ticket request. After an hour, we got a ticket for tomorrow night to New Jalpaiguri (the way to Darjeeling). We ran into a group of three, an Argentinian couple from the plane, and a guy from Belgium that was in my guest house in Bangkok. They got tickets to Darjeeling as well, but apparently we got the last tickets for tomorrow; they had to get tickets for the next two days.
We roamed around with them. I introduced them to some Indian foods. As we walked back we dodged the crazy traffic crossing the roads. We stopped at a bank so they could get some smaller notes. As I waited a security guard came up and asked what I was doing. I told him I was waiting for friends to change money. He said they can't exchange money (foreign) here. I tried to explain that they were changing 100rs notes for 20 rs notes, and he said they couldn't do that. Meanwhile they were at the teller doing exactly that. I finally said, "No tension, no tension, no problem!" And laughed at myself finally able to use that Indian line on an Indian!!!!
Just to let you know I arrived safely and happily into Kolkata (Calcutta), India, yesterday. The trip was grueling because it was a 6am flight... which I discovered after I bought the ticket. It turned out to be in Bhutan's Drukair Airlines. To avoid paying a huge taxi fare, I took the last airport bus from Khao San Rd in Bangkok at 11pm. I was sad to leave Thailand. I was dreading India. It can be so intense and I remember the worst of it from my previous visit. Yet, my pendulum and spirit called me to go on to India.
I spent a sleepless night in the airport. The flight went smoothly... on the plane I slept. And in 2 hours I was in Kolkata at their International airport which was small and grimy and looked ancient. Customs/immigration went smoothly. There I met Martina, a Czech woman, who asked if I wanted to share a cab. As we awaited our baggage at the carousel, I laughed at the sign that read "in case of missing baggage, fill out a 'Baggage Irregularity Form'!" That sounds like bueracrat-speak for "we lost your bag". Martina's bag turned out to be "irregular" in the sense of being missing. She laughed about it remembering that as she packed she considered consolidating things into her carry on, and that she had been thinking it would be nice to travel lighter. She practices Buddhism and the important things in the missing bag were just prayer items. The official who helped her fill out the form, gave the standard reply "have no worries, relax... no problem"; they always say that when you have everything to worry about and they have nothing to worry about. I envied Martina as we walked from the airport and I carried my 30 lb backpack.
I had watched the Indians in the airport, the mannerisms, and was wondering what I am doing here. Such a crazy place. Maybe I would just turn around and go back to Thailand. As we attempted to walk a couple of km to the bus stop, every taxi and rickshaw stopped to ask us where we were going and did we want a ride. Martina was wearing down in the heat and the attention. We got to the bus stop and got such confusing information, that we finally negotiated with taxi drivers. Martina wanted to go to the Mother Teresa House to see about volunteering. I was curious to check that out, but also wanted to check into a hotel on Sudder St (the backpacker/cheap accommodation ghetto). Finally we negotiated 150 rs for Mother Teresa's, and 180rs to take one of us there and one to Sudder St. As we drove off, the taxi driver laughed and talked to his friends in Hindi, holding up two fingers. I realized he was going to try to cheat us by claiming it was 150 rs each instead of total. Now I remembered the advice of the Indian guy we asked for information: "make sure you get a metered taxi". Hindsight is always the best. The traffic was horrendus and drivers drove as they do only in India: never look back, never back up, always move forward, always honk your horn. Four lanes like this... well not really lanes because any place on the road is fair game for merging and swerving. They always manage to get twice as many cars/vehicles in the space as we might think would fit. Clearances between vehicles is inches. In one of the merges, a taxi hit ours. Our driver cursed and got out, but no damage was done. Martina and I could only laugh with adrenaline as we saw near accidents. We passed a cow ambling down the highway. Then we passed a man squatting and peeing (an Indian technique for being discreet) in the sewer drain in the curb of the meridian. Our driver yelled out at him as we passed.. just for the fun of harrassing him.
I decided to just go with Martina to the Mother Teresa House and hope it was close to Sudder St. We arrived there. Turns out there are several "houses"/locations. We arrived the place where the Sisters/Nons live. We got to see Mother Teresa's tomb. Then some local men who were in some sort of Christian organization took us for the five minute walk to a children's infirmary where we toured with some others through the facility. It was strange... I felt like I was in a zoo. The wards had cribs and one was filled with children with conditions that looked like autism and ms. Though it felt strange to be touring through, some how the atmosphere was very good and seemed ok for the children. We went to another ward where the children seemed healthy. Several adopted me to play with a ball. One rascal started climbing up the wire mesh on the door to work the sleve bolt latch!
Overall the energy and atmosphere seemed very nice and very beautiful and healing. Volunteers watched the children and cleaned beds etc. As we were leaving one of the Sisters said I would be very handsome without my piercings, and said I ought not follow others! I laughed because if I were following others, I wouldn't have piercings at all! Funny how some Christians can be so judgmental.
Martina and I walked through the streets... 30 minutes to Sudder St. It was intense, and hot. Many stares directed at us. And always the rickshaws and taxi drivers jabbering at us to see if we wanted a ride. Some children grabbed onto us begging for food, pointing at their bellies, pleading in English. We were wavering on giving in, though we only had big bills from the ATM. The children said and a man said "no money, food!" The man came along saying we should buy them food. As we stopped a the first shop, all there was were biscuits and cookies: white flour, white sugar... nothing healthy. Martina nearly bought a package, then the man came up and said we should buy something else next door. The shopkeeper yelled at him. I realized the ploy then. You buy something for an inflated price, the product gets returned to the store, and the whole gang makes money. It took a few minutes to loose the whole crowd.
After a long 30 minutes we found a hotel with a dorm room on Sudder St. The last 50 meters, a tout walked along with me trying to get me to see the 300 rs rooms. We got dorm beds for 70rs. I went out walking. I found myself bubbling with joy inside. Something here for me I guess. Interesting sights on every step. Alleys with goats, human powered rickshaws, barefoot children, women in sari's, and men in dress slacks and button shirts. Smells of charcoal for the food stands, urine, incense occassionally waft up through the overwhelming exhaust fumes. A bizzare mix of poverty in a world culture. Pavement and dust, barefoot and dress shoes, human powered rickshaws and Chevorlets. The men who pull the rickshaws seem as content as anyone else. Some work barefoot. Others in flip flops. Street vendors sell western clothes that look much like they wear in Thailand; made in China I guess.
Funny, in January I had a vision that I was to return to India. By the time I left San Francisco 7 weeks ago, I was really wanting to just stay in San Francisco. And now that I am here everything feels right. Just being here, I feel like I am in a meditative state, and everything feels clear.
We went to a free dance program listed in the Lonely Planet. Turns out it is a dance school where they teach traditional Indian dance to children. We got to watch a rehearsal for their recital on Saturday. It was beautiful and cute. I thought of Kim and Paul and Sarah and Mom in their recitals!
Then we went to the Planetarium. Luckily they had a show at 6:30pm in English, not Hindi. An older Hindi woman narrated through the program in very proper English. It took her a whole paragraph to say "turn your cell phones off". Midway through the show, she saw someone turn theirs on, and she went on a two minute spiel asking the to turn it off, explaining that cell phones disrupt the show, and that if they can't go without their phone for 30 minutes, they should leave. Well, she was right, that cell phone sure did disrupt the show! All this was in the Queen's English with an Indian accent. Her monologue about the stars and planets was nonstop and a bit hard to understand and at times I felt a bit dizzy with it all. When the show ended and we walked outside to the mayhem of 6 lanes of cars following the Indian rule of the road "no matter what, always honk you horn", I thought to myself how nice the peace of the planetarium was, but then I thought how it wasn't really that peaceful with the Hindi woman's monologue.
As we tried to navigate our way back home to Sudder street, a nice Hindi man pointed us the right way, suggested we walk on the park side of the street... it was much quieter and better air than the other side of the six lanes of exhaust belching cars. He said he was walking our way. And chatted. And I thought how nice it was to meet a simple kind soul without the pretext of money. Then he suggested some sights to see and conveniently pulled out two handwritten sheets of sights in Kolkata arranged by compass direction and along with bus numbers. Pretty soon he suggested we might buy him a drink as he was between jobs. He was one of the sweetest hustlers I had run across. Quite helpful. We gave him a few rupees.
Today, Martina and I walked through the traffic and heat and crowds to the Railroad Ticket Office and then had to fill out a form for a ticket request. After an hour, we got a ticket for tomorrow night to New Jalpaiguri (the way to Darjeeling). We ran into a group of three, an Argentinian couple from the plane, and a guy from Belgium that was in my guest house in Bangkok. They got tickets to Darjeeling as well, but apparently we got the last tickets for tomorrow; they had to get tickets for the next two days.
We roamed around with them. I introduced them to some Indian foods. As we walked back we dodged the crazy traffic crossing the roads. We stopped at a bank so they could get some smaller notes. As I waited a security guard came up and asked what I was doing. I told him I was waiting for friends to change money. He said they can't exchange money (foreign) here. I tried to explain that they were changing 100rs notes for 20 rs notes, and he said they couldn't do that. Meanwhile they were at the teller doing exactly that. I finally said, "No tension, no tension, no problem!" And laughed at myself finally able to use that Indian line on an Indian!!!!
Sugar and Spice: Wed, 23 May 2007
Yesterday I arrived back in Bangkok on an overnight bus from Krabi/Ao Nang where I spent the last three weeks. The bus arrived in Bangkok at Khao San Rd at 4:30am. Khao San Rd is the backpacker's ghetto. It's a bit hectic, but convenient for booking travel and being around other travellers.
I ate noodle soup at a street vendor stand within the walls of the Temple and Monastery here. A guard, I think from 7-11 got some soup to go. It was packaged in a plastic bag sealed with a rubber band--common packing for street food around here. He added some condiments to his bag of soup---quite a few spoonfuls of sugar (enough to kill a diabetic), and several tablespoons of crushed dried chilis (enough to burn a house down both coming and going!). He didn't really speak English but if I understood his sign language correctly he was saying the sugar and spice would cure a hangover!
I was sad to leave Krabi... more specifically the beaches of Tonsai and Railay... the climber's paradise. I spent about three weeks there after arriving with some young Frenchmen, climbers I met in Phuket. We travelled from Phuket via Phang Nga together. We enjoyed a local bus ride. The local buses are full of chrome and brightly painted colors. Even large speakers and the driver put on some upbeat music as we started the ride. It was like a dance bus.
The public transportation is so wonderful in Thailand, like much of Asia. You can find a variety of trucks, minivans, buses, motorcycles, trains, and taxi's to get around. Often in towns and cities, covered pickup trucks with benches roam up and down the main throughfares every few minutes. Buses run between towns and cities such that you can practically just show up at a bus station and get anywhere.
Cyril, Ben, and I spent a couple of days in Phang Nga, where we enjoyed the atmosphere of a local, rather than tourist town. We enjoyed local dishes such as rice porrige with meat for breakfast, spicy papaya salad and sticky rice, and corn on the cob (not very sweet here). Everything was priced nearly half of the tourist towns like Phuket, or the island of Ko Phan Ngan, where one is held ransome by the boats and lack of local markets because it is merely a tourist place.
We dodged rain storms to check out local caves and waterfalls. One cave by a Buddhist Temple was called the Heaven and Hell Cave. We entered the cave through a tunnel constructed to look like a dragon. Inside the huge cave were some altars. Outside were amusement park like figures depicting Heaven, Hell, and Judgment. Bizzarre! A monk was collecting donations as we left and activated some of the moving figures: a corpse figure sprang out of a coffin making goulish noises! We were startled and laughed! We determined that most every figure made some noise or action when coins were deposited. Rubber plantations surrouned the town as well as magnificent limestone cliffs.
We took a boat ride to nearby islands: James Bond Island were some scenes were filmed for a Bond movie, and Koh Panyee, a Muslim stilt village adjacent to a rock jutting out of the sea. On the Island we followed the Tsunami evacuation signs (we were looking for some rock climbing crags). The led us through the village on stilts to a path. The signs showed an image of a building/shelter. Yet when we got to the end of the boardwalk through town, we found a muddy narrow path that seemed to mainly lead to the diesel generators that provided the town with electricity. It didn't seem like anything that would be very safe or fun with a horde of people fleeing from a tsunami. I decided I wouldn't want to be there during a tsunami. Perhaps it is just the beginning of government's disaster infrastructure. It makes me wonder how much of our own disaster preparations in the US are as adequate as we might believe. We got to hang out for a few moments with a pet monkey a village women held out to us. It was wearing a diaper. She encouraged us to take photos as she thrust it into each of our arms. Then of course she asked for money to feed the monkey. I'm sure she made a good living from it. And it was quite a bit sweeter than the lady outside a temple in Bangkok who had a caged bird and asked me to pay money to set it free!
From Phang Nga, we took another local bus to Krabi. We got off the bus and were accosted by a couple men asking where we were going. I reared up my defenses... well used to touts and scams at bus stations... and put them off. When Ben and Cyril came along as we discussed how to get to the beaches of Railay, it turned out that the men were actually helpful and honest and directed us to a "sangthew" (pick up truck taxi) that was priced correctly. I felt bad. I hate to mistrust people, but many areas there are such scams. When I arrived on Kho Phan Ngan a few weeks ago, I put off a boatman who quoted me a price of 150 baht because I had read in the guidebook that the price was 50 baht... yet the guidebook was outdated.
We got to Railay and found the cheapest bungalows. Railay is quite a resort place with expensive hotels and concrete in which you might as well be in Hawaii or Florida as you will likely pay similar prices and merely get Western culture. Ironic because one of the expensive hotels viewed over trash heaps in the next lot. And another caught wind of sewage. Most of them would catch wind of burning plastic as garbage was burned daily. Obviously development is poorly managed and very much an ecological disaster.
Our bungalow was pretty, though away from the beach were the mosquitos swarmed. We took turns between the two beds and my hammock with mosquito net hung on the porch. The first night was the owner's little girls birthday and so there was a party with family and bungalow guests at the bar. The little girl was cute. I think she was five or six. And she was ready to celebrate! She danced and loved to pop the numerous balloons that were tied around. An early teenage nephew was obviously gay and it was fun to see him accepted into the family. Everyone laughed at his dancing which was better than the others. He was quite feminine. I asked if he was the birthday girls brother, and I was told he was the mother's sister's daughter. At first I thought her English was simply poor, but the next day I realized that perhaps they honor the boy's tendicies and refer to him as a girl. Thais are very open and accepting on some levels. One of my friends from San Francisco has a Thai boyfriend who was aghast when he learned that in the US some families disown gay children, or that some are beat up.
We bought some beer at the bar and soon were hungry. The family shared some birthday food with us. I soon found myself eating chicken salad, so they said. It was crunchy and also soft. I feared it was raw chicken. But I figured if they all were eating it that it wouldn't kill me. I was hungry and a bit tipsy after a beer on an empty stomach and so I ate on. It was terribly spicy too. Soon plates were brought for my accomplices and we began to talk and try to figure out what it was. Finally we talked with the mother and she pointed to her elbows and we figured out we were eating chicken cartilage and maybe feet. In Laos last year some locals shared chicken feet roasted on a stick with me... not much meat and chewy!
A few days in Railay, then we moved to Tonsai, the nearby beach where it's the center of the climber's heaven. One of the bars is next to climbing routes. Ben and Cyril were much more experienced than me and were nice enough to set up a couple easier routes for me. They left after a few days, and a German women, Julia adopted me into her climbing "family". She and her Aussie climbing partner Dave, were quite experienced and enjoyed lead climbing and setting up ropes for me and other less advanced climbers to climb. Our family changed as members came and went along the travel circuit. A German guy, Flo and me became the last of it when Julia left. I spent most of my time working through my fear of heights, clinging to the earth as if I might fall off! Towards the last days I got some strength and confidence. The trick to climbing is trusting the ropes... it's all about knowing how to use the gear. Done properly, you have little to worry about.
Weather was a bit rainy. I moved in which Julia to a little bamboo bungalow. I put my hammock on the porch. It was quite cozy. The first day it started to rain just as we had cleaned up for dinner. We sat on the porch. The wind blew harder. We felt a few drops of rain coming in on the porch and we stashed clothing and gear farther inwards. The gale picked up as we sat like Ma and Pa Kettle on the porch. Soon we found ourselves under shawls from the coolness, and my poncho draped like a tarp over us with just our heads poking out. The rain drove in harder and at last we relented to taking shelter inside the dark small bungalow. Torrents of water washed around the bungalows which all sat on stilts. It was the monsoon. Most days we were dampened by showers, a couple days were total washouts. The last days were quite sunny.
Much of the climbing routes were on overhangs and were fairly dry if you could get to them.
Days usually started meeting for breakfast and picking some routes to climb. A few climbs. Lunch. Then maybe some more climbs or the beach. The community of travelling climbers was sweet with many options to climb with different people, chat, and play cards.
I have many stories, but it is time to prepare for my flight to Calcutta, India at 6 am. Not the best time as I will likely have to take a bus at 11pm unless I want to pay twice as much for a taxi.
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