Steven’s Blah, Blah, Blog…

The sound of India is the sound of loudspeakers. Really LOUSY ones. It seems that the lower the fidelity, the higher the volume! From Muslim calls to prayer, to shops spewing techno, to roving carts with loudspeakers blaring things in Hindi I can’t begin to understand, to full-on dance-party parades honoring the Goddess of knowledge and the arts, Saraswati, there’s almost always something to pummel the eardrums in Varanasi. India is also the sound of voices: Voices that seem to only have one volume and velocity, both “10″. It doesn’t matter what people are saying to each other; it almost always sounds like an argument, although it only occassionally is. India is also the sound of “Hay-lo Friend!”, as hawkers hawk at you, touts tout at you and scammers scam at you. It’s difficult to get away from all of the noise and hassle. But sometimes you don’t want to… Because Varanasi is the sound of life just getting underway – before the loudspeakers and the yelling. In the early mornings, whether you’re sitting on the ghats or on a boat being rowed along them on the Ganga, people come to the river to bathe, and the sound of a temple bell marks another faithful Hindu making Puja, paying homage to Shiva – the patron God of Varanasi, the clear metallic sound carrying far in the chilly, still air to sooth a mind stretched tight from the noisy attack of the previous day. In Varanasi, the sounds of classical Indian music – perfomed live – also remind the listener that this is the land of Ravi Shankar, Trilok Gurtu and Dhebhashish Battacharriya. Traditional instruments with even stranger names like sarangi, tabla, sitar, and sarod weave exotic melodies to a time-scale pleasingly unfamiliar to the Western ear.

India is the smell of defecation, death and decay. Whether it’s the earthy aroma of cow-shit in the narrow alleys, the putrid stench of garbage in the grimy streets, the unique tang of human excrement in the dusty fields or the smokey smell of bodies being cremated on flaming funeral pyres, the nose gets little rest. On cold nights, the acrid smell of the burning tires that sometimes warm the homeless smells like revolution, but men with guns are everywhere, and the government’s iron grip on the population is absolute. On the flipside, India is also the sweet yet pungent aroma of incense burned at the shops and shrines (sandalwood is my fave) and the rich scents of curries and masalas mixed with the warm smells of frying pokoras and somosas, as the food stalls prepare for the day’s tastey business.

India is a treat for the eye with a wide variety of vivid colors. The traditional sari’s come in shimmering lime, sunny safron, eye-catching fuschia and brilliant turqouise, highlighted by shimmering threads of gold or silver. These bright colors are the perfect compliment to the beautiful, earthy skin-tones of the women who wear them, ranging from a light, New Orleans style “cafe-au-lait,” beige to a rich, dark brown, a’ la Starbucks with just a touch of cream; the perfact pallette too for the bright red, yellow and orange strokes of the tikka that decorates the heads of the local Hindus (and some of the foreigners) nearly every day. Bright flowers of yellow, white and red are everywhere, some adorn stone linga like popcorn chains hung on a Christmas tree, some accenting the incandescant candles that shine, adrift on the Ganga at dusk like little floating lighthouses. Unfortunately, India is also the sight of intense poverty, with its mud and bamboo huts, stark concrete buildings and the dusty grey of dirty, dark-skinned children with bare feet and perpetually runny noses. Gray too is the water that flows through the open sewers in many places, running unchecked into the nearest river or stream.

The people themselves? On the one hand, they can be quite friendly and helpful, and some nearly always wear a smile. I dropped a wad of rupees (the local currency) out of my pocket just today buying a milk-tea or “chai”, and the “chai walla” (the guy that runs the chai stand) pointed it out to me. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was probably more than he would clear that day. On the other hand, the first people I met here in the state of Bihar were downright rude. It seems that everyone that talks to you – and a LOT of people want to talk to you – wants something from you. Mostly, it’s beggars or someone wanting to sell you something. Many times however, people just want to talk with you to practice their English. The problem is, you never know which one it is until it’s too late. Even when you’re pretty sure they just want to talk, the conversation usually goes something like

“Hello. What is your country?”

“America,” I sometimes answer. If I do, what usually follows is smething like

“New York? California?”

“New Orleans”, I reply.

“No New York?”

“No. In the South” I say.

“You like George Boosh?”

“No. Many people in the US don’t like G.B.”

“Good. You like Bill Clinton?”

“Yes, I think he was a good president.”

“Yes, Bill Clinton good. What you think of India (or insert city here)?” Etc.

This usually takes place on a crowded street, when you are trying to get somwewhere, and it gets – literally – mentally challenging after awhile, having to interact on this level over and over again while trying to navigate through unfamiliar territory. Also, if I happen to be buying something at the time, I can feel the price jump when people learn I am from the States. Having been down this conversational path many times, at this point, I usually just say I’m from Canada :)

On the ghats, whether you’re alone near the river’s edge suggestively eyeing the rowboats, or walking 25 meters from the river in deep conversation with a friend, the boatman of Varanasi somehow cannot pass up an opportunity to ask if you want a boat, usually while tilting their head back slightly in order to prevent that ugly red mouthful of beetlenut and saliva dribbling over their blackened teeth and down their chins (shoulda gotten a photo of that) there are hundreds of boats for hire along the gahts, and all one has to do is ask for one, but NO… They have to interrupt (OK, pet peeve). I suppose the boatman feel that if they don’t ask every person that walks by, they might miss out on someone that did want a boat, but just didn’t realize it yet. When you offer a polite “No thank you”, they almost always keep it going with “Very cheap price”, and start following you. “Maybe tomorrow morning?” as you now ignore them. You get the same treatment while walking in the market area. The sellers often come out to sell to you, and often don’t take the first no for an answer, and unfortunately, it’s sometimes necessary to be what we would consider rude just to get them to leave you alone.

Patience is required to do well in India. Food takes a long time to be prepared (unless you order a thali,) because many restaurants have only one or two burners to cook on. And when it comes, there’s a pretty good chance it won’t be the way you like it, or even what you ordered. So get used to it.

OK, so India’s a difficult place, full of contrast. They say you either love it or you hate it, but I’d have to say it’s a place I’m coming to love to hate, or something like that.

I’ve also been feeling a little reticent about my last post. After re-reading it, although nobody said anything, I can see how some might feel I was somewhat glib about a culturally sensitive subject in stating that it was “business as usual” at the cremation ghats in Varanasi. Perhaps I was insensitive, but the cremation of bodies at Manikarnika Ghat is run like a business, because it is a business, and there are business people involved in every aspect of the cremation process from the ghat fee, to the purchase of wood for burning, to the procurement of the lower caste men whose job it is to make sure that the body is fully burned. Even after the bodies are burned, there are those still trying make money from the dead by cleaning the cracks in the stones of the ghats or sifting the sand along the shore of the Ganga in hopes of finding the remains of any gold or silver jewelry worn by the deceased. And it does go on around the clock: I was at Manikarnika ghat at two a.m. once, and I counted fourteen fires burning, the smoke mixing in a macabre way with the damp, cold evening mist hanging above the river. I also posted a couple of photographs of the burning ghats. Although I believe these were taken at a tasteful distance, I can see how some could find them offensive. Therefore, I have removed those, and if I have offended you, I offer my sincere apology.

I’ve been in Bodhgaya – one of the most prominant sites in the Buddhist world – for the last week. Bodhgaya is where Siddhartha Gautama became fully enlightened – and therefore The Buddha – while sitting under the Bodhi Tree. Although that particular tree was destroyed, a descendant flourishes in the shadow of the Maha Bodhi Temple in the same spot its ancestors once occupied. You might want to read about that; it’s a good story. I wanted to visit Bodghaya – and Sarnath, where Buddha first shared his enlightened conclusions regarding the the nature of being – because of my personal interest in Buddhism as one piece of that puzzle that is a happy life. It was also convenient that Bodghaya is on a direct line between Varanasi and Kolkata (Calcutta) by rail :) As my departure date from Varanasi apparaoched, and many of the Sadhus from the Kumbh began to arrive on the ghats, I learned that the Dalai Lama was planning a visit to Bodhgaya, and this cemented my decision to visit this auspicious location. As the leader of the Buddhist community, His Holiness was coming to Bodhgaya to consecrate the interment of sacred relics of The Buddha and two of his first “desciples” in a new structure at Bodhgaya on the grounds of the Maha Bodhi Society of India, founded in 1891 by Anagarika Dharampal, a Sri Lankan monk who was key to the return of Buddhism to India in the late 1800′s, the Muslims having pretty much purged Buddhism from India (as they seem to destroy anything non-muslim) centuries before. Dharampali was also one of the first to bring Buddhism to the West, and he died relatively recently in 1966. When I arrived, there were many hundreds – perhaps more than a thousand – Tibetan Buddhist monks and pilgrims here to participate in a gathering of prominant leaders of Nyingma Buddhist lineage, and the sight and sound of all of these burgundy-clad monks sitting and chanting around the Maha Bodhi Stupa was impressive, to say the least. Many of the Tibetans left soon after I arrived, but I remained with the others waiting for the Dalai Lama, as busloads of safron-robed monks from SE Asia began to pour in. I would have left days ago, had His Holiness not been scheduled to come. I was able to rangle an invitation to the ceremony where the Dalai Lama and the Governor of Bihar (the poorest Indian state, where Bodhgaya is located) spoke after the relics were blessed for interment, and it was something special to hear one of my heros speak at close range on the subject of the nature of mind and the importance of compassion – not just toward our fellow humans, but to ourselves – now, more than ever.

How am I doing? I’m glad you asked. I’ve been travelling now for precisely six months, and I’m having the time of my life. There’s absolutley nothing I’ve ever done that compares with what I’ve experienced the last 180 or so days. Every day I wake up not knowing what I will see, and everything is always brand new. I’ve met hundreds of interesting people from all over the world and from all walks of life, and I know I will continue to do so. It is truely exhilerating. I’ve been sick a couple of times, but nothing serious, fortunately. Sometimes the bed is too hard or too short, but so far, nothing I can’t handle. I’ve now sent all of my cold weather clothing home – actually, it was my down sleeping bag and down jacket I bought in Kathmandu I sent home; I gave the clothes away to those less fortunate – and I’m slowly replacing it with attire more well suited for where I am going. Emotionally, I’m good. Sure, I occassionally think of how nice it would be if I had someone to travel with, and I am occassionaly lonely, but I was sometimes lonely in the States. And then I remember that I am not alone: I am traveling with thousands of others out to see another side of life just like me. And I realize that it is important for me to see these places with all of their poverty and inequities; all of the beauty and filth, all of the tradition progress. It helps keep things in perspective, and it reminds me of just how lucky I am to have been born where I was and who I am. How fortunate to have good friends and family that care about me, because many of the people I see each day do not, and they haven’t got much chance for anything better. And each time that loneliness and self-pity creeps in, I remind myself that there is no way that I could be having the depth and breadth of expereince I am – and therefore getting to know myself so much better – if I were traveling with someone else. But that’s this time; next time, I think it would be nice to have a companion, but who knows? Life is uncertain. Live where you are, and live while you can :)

I’ve extended the validity of my return ticket to the States for an additional six months (it would have expired today, unused), although I doubt I’ll stay that long. My current loose plan (wanna hear God laugh? Tell Him you’ve got a plan!) is to travel south to Chennai (Madras) and buy a Royal Enfield motorcycyle, then circle over to the West Coast through Karela and head north. Maybe I’ll get to see the Dalai Lama again in Daramshala, who knows. My Indian visa expires the end of May, but I could get it renewed… India is a big place, and I do want to see a lot of it. I’ve added a link to an interactive map of India on the sidebar, if you’d like to keep up with me. Also, this Blahg is actually designed to be interactive, in that in addition to comments, those who register can make their own Blahg entries, new categories can be created, etc. A few of you are registerd already, and I invite any and all of you to do so. I think it might be fun to get some discussion going, but as you wish…

My next stop is Kolkata, the cultural center of India, but perhaps the most polluted city in the world. The patron God of Kolkata is Kali the Destroyer. I leave tomorrow night. This should be interesting…

For now, here’s looking at you!

S~

We arrived in Varanasi, the “God City”, at about four am. It was pretty cold, but we decided to carry our belongings down to the ghats on the “Ganga (Ganghes)” River and wait for sunrise, before going in search of a guest house. “We” was Shyen and Val – two women travelers from Singapore – Marcellus from Switzerland and Ryan, an American (both of whom live in Haridwar, a focal point of spiritual exploration in North India). We’d all just endured a nine hour ride from the Nepal/Indian border on a bus driven by a beetlenut crazed driver, who was apparently determined to test the theory that no two material objects could occupy the same point in the space-time continuum. To my relieved surprise, we arrived alive, only to cram the five of us – and all of our gear – into a moto-rickshaw much too small for the load. I think you can see a slice of Val’s eyes somewhere in there behind all of that stuff.

As the sun rose on the ghats, many of the local faithful came to the Ganga to bath and pray, while others came to the water’s edge to work. Farther down the river, at the cremation ghats, it was business as usual, the funeral pyres burning hot and bright, as they do all day and all night, seven days a week. I am told that between 150 and 200 people are cremated at this ghat in a single day, and I’ve counted as many as 13 fires burning at once. How small it felt to know that for centuries – perhaps for millennium – these activities have continued uninterrupted, save for the occasional Muslim invasion of this Hindu “Mecca.”

Just a week before arriving in Varanasi, I’d managed to make my escape from Pokhara. Nepal is experiencing “growing pains” currently, as various factions compete to fill the power vacuum created when the Royals finally relinquished power. Many labor groups are forming, and they are flexing their muscles through the use of strikes or bandhas, which in the case of the transportation union, can bring travel in the country to a standstill. The day I planned to leave, there was a strike, and no buses came to pick up the 100 or so travelers waiting with me at the “tourist” bust station. The following day, I was able to leave Pokhara for Chitwan National Park on a “local” bus, but on the way, the bus was stopped four times by trucks and buses blocking the road, turning what should have been a three hour ride into an eight hour one. I’m not sure what those blockages were about. Although this was a pain-in-the-yo! u-know-what, it did give me time to photograph some of the interesting art work on the trucks or “Ta Tas” that were stopped along with the buses.

Finally, we arrived at the tourist town of Sauraha, across the river from the national park. I’d met Shyen and Val on the bus, as well as Charmaine, Tomer and their wonderful daughter Nia (Sorry for the blurry photo, but ya can’t win ‘em al…). We all accepted a ride from a tout at the bus station to the guest house he represented, and it seemed pretty nice, so we all decided to stay, eager to plan our “jungle adventures.” Unfortunately, the next morning, it became clear that this was not the right place to stay. After walking up on the tail-end of my story complimenting the Nepali people on their fortitude, the manager says “What did you say about the Nepali people?” So i said ” I was just complimenting then on their strength under difficult conditions.” Apparently, he didn’t believe me, as he said something! like “America Asshole” as he turned to walk away. I shrugged it off, and later all of us booked a jungle jeep safari from him, with the understanding that there would be a maximum number of 7-8 people on the jeep.

Unfortunately, when we arrived at the jeep that afternoon, eager to see rhino, crocodiles, etc., there were eleven people slated to ride on the jeep, not including the driver and the guide. This made it impossible for all to sit and impractical for all to even stand. The guy at the jeep said there was nothing he could do, so with great disappointment, we decided not to go that day and returned to the guest house to get our money back. Blah, blah, blahg… To make a really long story merely long, the guy did not want to give our money back and things got really heated. After wasting our entire afternoon on this, Tomer and I were finally able to set things up so that we would be able to go the following day, but only after being given a severe runaround by the guest house manager. Naturally, our entire group checked out of the guesthouse immediately.

Later that night, sitting around the fire at a restaurant on the riverside, the guest house manager showed up. I saw him as I made my way to the bar to buy a beer and in the spirit of reconciliation said “Namaste.” “Don’t ‘Namaste’ me you American MF’er” was his reply. Clearly, the guy has a chip on his shoulder where American’s are concerned… In any case, I laughed and walked back to the fire. Soon I hear the guy say in my direction something involving him, the sex act and my mother, so I walk over and ask him to keep his comments to himself, at which point he pushes me. As I go for him, several people at the bar grab me and him to keep us apart. The guy leaves, and I quickly cool down and return to my seat at the fire. After about ten minutes, I hear this “Ayeeee…” and look up to see the guy running toward me with a bamboo pole, which he breaks on my left side as Tomer and I stand. The g! uys falls as he hits me, and I pick up the broken pole and start wailing him with it, as Tomer pulls out his collapsible baton and gives him a couple of licks on the kneecaps. This pretty much ended the trouble, as the owner of the restaurant made the butt-head leave. And, as much as i don’t like to fight, I have to admit it felt pretty good to have a scrap with someone that was so obviously an a’hole.

The next day, we did the jeep safari, and to our disappointment, saw no rhino. However, we did see gharials and a crocodile fight with a cobra. In the following photo sequence taken just after cobra accidentally swam next to a croc sunning on a log, you can see the cobra in front, followed by the croc, which ultimately was unable to catch the snake. Each of the photos are clickable.

So no rhinos that day, but the following day Tomer, Charmaine, Nia and I took an elephant safari in the community forest next to the park. Yes, we saw rhino that morning: (A mother and a calf) from the elephant, and they were quite interesting to look at: Flabby skin and a thick hide. To protect them from the tigers I suppose, like this one we saw in an enclosure in the par. The animal was purportedly kept in a cage because the mother was a man eater and had to be killed, and because the cub had tasted human flesh, it also was a menace. A beautiful animal, but probably better to put it out of its misery. Unfortunately, these animals (both the rhino and the tiger), although protected, are still poached relentlessly, and are in danger of extinction.

Also endanger of extinction are the traditional ways of living of the Tharu, the people of the Terai, the land between the Himalayan foothills and the Ghangetic plain. Apparently, these traditional ways include the growing and harvesting of marijuana, because I saw a great deal of it growing wild while in the area. And not all of it was leafy; there were also a few plants heavy with buds. While taking a photograph of one plant, I was asked if I wanted to buy some of it, but of course, being the cheap bastard that I am, I declined Mary-Jane was not the only crop on the menu. The mustard were in full bloom all across the Terai.
Soon, having bagged the guest house owner and many photos of rhino, crocodile, the tiger, and locals, it was time to head for India. Except there was one problem: STRIKE! Yes, there was another strike on the day I planned to leave the Chitwan area. In addition, I had found out that the local travel agents were over-charging for the bus tickets to the border, lying about the actual cost of the tickets. Therefore, that day, I decided to move from the town of Sauraha near the park, to the main town on the highway, whewre I was lucky enough to meet Yadav, a local businessman. On the first day of the strike, Yadav and his friend Raj-Kumar took me to Dev Ghat, the second most popular spot to be cremated in Nepal, after the ghats at Pashupathinath. Here I met a 99 year old woman Sadhu, the! keeper of the nearby Shiva lingham. Hare Om…

Unfortunately, the strike persisted for another day, but it was only for a limited area, and Yavad was kind enough to take me and my gear on his motorcycle to a point where it was possible to actually catch a bus to the border, and this was how I finallly made my escape to India. Thanks Yadav.

The border town of Sinauli is a dirty place, as border towns often seem to be, and I was not looking forward to figuring out the ins-and-outs of getting to Varanasi. Luckily, this is where I met Marcellus and Ryan, and they shared their experience with me, as we crossed the border to risk our lives on a bus bound for Varanasi.

My friend in Austin, Texas, Sanjay, who is originally from India, says “India is a full-on assault on the senses”, and he’s right. If Varanasi is any indication, India will be a vibrant and colorful place. Vivid colors, interesting sounds and provocative smells greet you as you walk down narrow alleyways and crowded, dusty streets. Cows roam freely (bulls too), and you have to watch every step, if you want to keep your shoes clean. . Chai, somoza, dhosa and pokaura stands line the way, and the rich smells of curry, cardomum and masala make one’s mouth water in anticipation of the next meal.

Mostly, the people I’ve met have been friendly. Sometimes too friendly. It seems that people just want to talk with you, because you are different. “Hay-lo friend! What is your country?” is a popular opener. Sometimes I chat a little, but this conversation-starter often leads to a proposition o some kind, like “you like hash?” I then move on…
Every three years, the largest religious gathering in the world, known as the Kumbh Mela, takes place in Northern India. Actually, the main event, or “full Mela” happens only once every twelve years. After a full Mela, after three years there is a quarter Mela, then on the sixth year a half Mela, on the ninth another quarter, and themn again a full Mela on twleve years after the last one. It happens that a half Mela was going on at the time i arrived in India, so I decided to go have a look. The first photos I took formed a panoramic view of one small portion of the event, which was HUGE. Feel free the click on the images below.

I thought Burning Man was big, until I saw this event. I only stayed two days, and I wasn’t looking for a spiritual experience, but it was certainly something to see. The second day i was there, i was interviewed by CNN. They thought they might like to share a “foreign” perspective on the event, but apparently, they didn’t feel they wanted to use the interview with me. The CNN video is HERE.

I was also interviewed by a man from the Times of India. He asked me what I thought of the event , and i told him the same thing I told the CNN correspondent, that among other things, I was impressed with the passion with which millions of pilgrims travel long distances to bath in the Ganga, based solely on their faith. I also mentioned that there were some similarities between the Kumbh and Burning Man, the event in the Nevada desert in the US, and that is about all. This is what was written in the paper:

I didn’t say any of that, and I didn’t even know there WAS a “Burning Man” at the Kumbh.

I love India…

I am on my way to Bodhgaya, the place where The Buddha found enlightenment about 2500 years ago. I wonder what I’ll find there… I might stay there a while, and I might not. Then it’s on to Kalkutta. I had originally planned to head north, but now it’s too cold and the people i planed to visit in Himachal Pradesh are are no longer. Hopefully, I’ll see them in the Spring.  Di I mention I am extending my trip? 
Here’s assorted pics from the Khumb.

Ciao!

Steven

 Hello from Pokhara!

As with Kathmandu, I’ve stayed in Pokhara too long. I arrived two here two days before Christmas, and here it is the second of January. After nearly three weeks of trekking, my Kiwi friends Kristen, Glen  and I needed a few days of rest, but it’s now been about ten days.  It’s that difficult week between Christmas and the new year:  Too short to make it anywhere definite, but too long to feel totally comfortable staying in one place. 

Everything was set for me to head south to Royal Chitwan Nat’l Park with my friends Frank and Chris (happy looking fellows, ain’t they?), and then continue to India to rejoin Glen and Kristen in Varinase. When wouldn’t you know it: STRIKE!

Yes, the bus drivers went on strike this morning. After getting up at 6 am and taking a taxi to the bus station, I was surprized to arrive and find a very large number of travelers just sitting, waiting to find out if the buses would travel. NOT!  From what I understand, the reason for the strike is that the local bus operators – which most Nepalese use to get around because they are less expensive - are pissed off because some Nepalese choose to take the more expensive and nicer tourist bus. So the local bus driver organization calls a strike, and no buses run at all.  I guess what the local bus drivers want is for the local people to be able to ride ONLY cheap, dirty, rundown local buses that stop every five minutes to pick up chickens, gaots and whatever, and are always full of local people puking out of the windows. So here I am in Pokhara, hoping I can make my escape to the south by bus tomorrow, but considering other travel options as well.

Of course spending all of this time in Pokhara hasn’t been bad at all. The city offers many interesting things to see, among them Phewa Tal (The local lake) and Peace Pagoda on a nearby hill. There’s been a festival going on here for the last four or five days that has drawn locals from all over the area, offering colorful sights like this and this, as well as many a thought provoking face. I also had time to escape to the local hills, visiting the Bat Cave (ain’t they cute?), the local paragliding takeoff point overlooking Pokhara, and on the way down, meeting some very happy and colorful school-girls.

Hopefully, the next sound you hear from this end will come from India. Well, I think the music on this post does anyway. 

 Wishing each of you a happy 2007 and beyond!

 Steven