Monthly Archives: February 2011

Monks, Nuns and Indian Rum!? : Macleod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama

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My nun friends are going to miss me. And I will miss them. Mcleod Ganj has been a pretty lovely experience and much needed reprieve.
 To backtrack, I’ve been in the home of the Dalai Lama and countless Buddhist monks and Tibetan refugees for about a week now.
At first, I was quite lonely, despite the novel (for India) amount of smiling faces and “Namastes,” but after a few days, and shacking with a rad Brit named Siân Kidd, a marionette puppeteer who stayed to do a wood carving course.
Through an Australian monk doing his PhD I met a vague French girl who introduced me to a head monk guy who led me up some winding paths and stairs up a mountain (Mcleod Ganj is a hill station- my buns have been woken up) to some stone huts where 3 Buddhist nuns were living while on their one month holiday from the monastery. They were enthusiastic to learn English (enthusiastic being one of the words they keenly soaked up.) So every day, I went up the hill and hung out with the nuns in their hut, and they made me chai and we read folk tales and played word games and practiced pronunciation. Let’s be honest. I have no idea how to teach. Something in the arts MAYBE, but English!? Where to begin? But they were SO CUTE. And appreciative. They called me “Teacher.” (Kristina is hard to pronounce: ends up like Qwuistina at best.) Their names were Thukjay, Sonom, and Tenzin.

On the same day I began that, a monk approached me over lunch in a monastery run restaurant wondering if I could teach his sister English. I hung out with the monks for several hours and he (Sonom Gyatso) told me about Tibet, and how fabulous ALL Western people are. (I don’t know what TV shows he’s been watching, but obviously not ‘Two and a Half Men.’) I need not mention what he said about Chinese people. Earlier I had gone to the Dalai’s house including the Tibet museum. Tragic. Tragic. Tragic. How are these people not completely bitter!? Too much meditation mastering the emotions. GET ANGRY.
His sister never ended up coming, but I did end up tutoring a sweet little monk named Buga everyday who worked at the restaurant and spoke next to no English. So every day we practiced everything from ‘foot’ to ‘fork’ to ‘pencil.’ In the end we even mastered “open/close the door” and basic ‘yes it is…/no it is not’ questions. Sweetheart.
I managed to drag my sorry buttocks out of bed one morning to watch the sun rise over the mountains from my modest little balcony. A pivotal moment.

On another occasion I dragged myself to a morning mediation and yoga class with a jolly little man named Shivim. Sitting still for 40 minutes was admittedly painful (literally- it was cold!) but the yoga proved worthwhile as the sun shone in over the mountains. 15 years of dance somewhat paid off and I managed to not fail completely (I think I faked it pretty darn well actually!?)
But let’s not kid ourselves, I’m not turning spiritual on y’all or remotely WHOLESOME…
I went to an Indian pub. Had local “Apple Wine.” The cheapest brand. Tasted like vinegar.
On another occasion, on the night Siân and I shacked up we decided to celebrate her new independence (her mates were moving on to Thailand) and trotted off for some Indian Gin and Rum (about 2 & 3 $, respectively) and got crunk under the stars on the hotel restaurant balcony, with lightening flashing behind the mountains. We then retired for some ukulele in the room. After what we thought was some half decent harmonizing a knock came at the door- surprisingly not to tell us to shut up but because 3 Aussies and an Austrian had heard “Space Oddity” and had to invite us. Cal, Tim, Emma and Elizabeth. So we jammed with a guitar and not one but two (full sized- HEAVY) didgeridoos. Yes, the Australians had met a random Sadhu man in Rishikesh who made didges had all made one. Because they’re Australian. (I was sorry I forgot my pet beaver and maple syrup.) So Sian and I tried to learn ‘circle breathing’ (i.e. breathing in and out simultaneously) and jammed on everything from “Build Me Up Buttercup” to Bowie and Beatles to “Hey Ya.” Rad.
 I also took a Tibetan cooking class to make “momos” (Tibetan dumplings.) Extremely simple, though the chef was comically serious and made us take COPIOUS notes. Now if I can just convert them to wheat free…

Tomorrow we move on to Rishikesh, pretty much the yoga capital of the world, then I’ll eventually meet up with Keegan in Delhi, who, by the sounds of it, didn’t have the epic Himalayan skiing adventure he was stoked up for and is somewhat keen to leave the country. But first I have more shopping to do. Okay I admit it. In a town full of the most reputably UNMATERIALISTIC people IN THE WORLD, I have become addicted to shopping. A shawl here, some Tibetan silver there… but a girl has to kill time somehow right? And in my defense, shopping in Mcleod Ganj is a workout on these hills. I’m going to need some serious yoga when I get to Rishikesh.

…Oh  and I’m seriously fashionable now. Staying warm means clashing striped pajamaish attire which I wear 24 hours a day. And Gramma thanks again for the thick knitted socks. Time to head South!

I want that instrument! Is it a lyre?

Delhi and beyond…

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We’ve found the cold. Admittedly where I am is not nearly as cold as where Keegan is heading as I type. We’re in the foothills of the Himalayas. The sun is shining on snow-capped peaks outside my window. I am in Mcleod Ganj. The mountaintop town of the Dalai Lama, and countless Tibetan refugees and Buddhist monks. As a matter of fact, it appears the Dalai Lama has returned home as of yesterday- obviously he received word of my impending visit.
From Mangalore, where I last left off, we flew North through Mumbai to Delhi- cheating perhaps, by not taking the 4 day train for reasons that could may be summed up in “4 day Indian train.” And no, do not conjure to mind visions of the Wilson brothers sipping chai in “Darjeeling Limited,” conjure squat toilets.
Upon arriving in Delhi we headed to ‘Paharganj’ area which is loaded with budget accommodation. Unfortunately when Lonely Planet refers to something as “seedy,” they aren’t joking. A few times we’ve found out the hard way that Lonely Planet is quite a serious matter. So after being incessantly hawked and stalked by drunk teenagers trying to get commission, and not particularly taking to the dank pink cell with no windows, we haggled with some ruthless rickshaw drivers to take us to “Majnu-Ka-Tilla,”the Tibetan colony, which, though less central, became our little oasis from chaotic Delhi.
The area was not much more than winding back alleys- though noticeably more clean, kempt and not to mention charming than the rest of Delhi. Here maroon robe clad Buddhist monks hung out drinking redbull,  the Dalai Lama on tv. In an internet café, I found myself explaining to a monk the premise of the video game “Grand Theft Auto” that some 6 year old Tibetan kids were engrossed in. We shared a chuckle. Another was engrossed in Youtube videos of that amazing 5 year old ukulele prodigy. The world is oh-so small.
On the first night arriving in Majnu- or “Tibet” as we referred to it, everywhere was booked. Funny, because the ever charming Paharganj seemed to have endless free rooms. Completely randomly we ran ran into Andrew. Not sure if I mentioned him previously but Andrew and Juliana were a Canadian couple living in Berlin we met our last day in Hampi. Andrew had raced a rickshaw from Rajastan to Kochin. A dinky Indian 3 wheeled buggy through Indian traffic for 7 days. 7 days. And lived. Remember him? Hard to forget. Juliana had already gone back and he was leaving the next morning at 5am. Long story short, we met him for dinner and he invited us to share his double room, which was huge. Crown moulding and a balcony overlooking the river. For the same price as that little pink cell. Sweet. Over dinner we also met a Russian, “Olga,” who translated Buddhist literature and had hung out for 2 weeks in an all male Buddhist monastery, because she had a monk friend. Rad. We shared nasty “Kingfisher” beers back at the room.
While sitting in a square by a Buddhist temple I was taking a picture of, 3 somewhat raggy children approached me and asked me to take their picture. They were very excited to see themselves on the screen. They then started chattering excitedly and dragged me, sadly wary of beggars (even children) off. But they just wanted ice cream. I felt bad for thinking they just wanted my money at first, but India really hardens you. But these kids were sweet. I bought them ice cream, there now being about 6 of them. Word spread quickly. Kids began pouring from everywhere, looking at me with the most adorable eyes. Obviously I couldn’t discriminate. I have no idea how many icecreams I bought. But there was some happy kids in that square, and the ones who knew scraps of English thanked me. SO CUTE.

On multiple other occasions we bought bags of dry rice (and if Keegan was buying- cookies, if I was- lentils) for a young boy who quickly learned to seek us out.
Keegan needed warm clothing for his jaunt north so we went on several missions about the city each day, seeing everything from upscale spic/span malls to crowded/chaotic winding markets and bizaars. We eventually learned that the subway was brand new and very efficient so we were able to give the rickshaws a break. They were also very popular. Major routes made sardine cans look like desolate plains. But that’s okay, because at major stops, 50 people would surge off at once- and only 70 would surge on.
We went to the Taj Mahal. We can officially leave India. The Taj Mahal is in Agra, a 2 hour train out of Delhi. Booking said train in advance was a bureaucratic nightmare. You know that nightmare- or maybe you’ve only seen it in the movies. Where you wait in one line up to be told to wait in a different line up to be whisked off by some guy seeming to be an official, into a rickshaw to be taken several blocks away to the “official” booking office, realizing all the while of coarse that this is a classic scam, and walking back to the office, to the rickshaw drivers dismay, meanwhile being touted by a young guy claiming to be a student and not to trust anyone and that the REAL office was actually over HERE but we weren’t trusting ANYONE so we walked back, meeting a French couple along the way and waited in a long line to be told to stand in another line to be told I had filled out the form wrong and the train was booked on the return and no they were not polite. (Though at least the ladies queue was considerably shorter.)
Then we got to wake up a 430 am to make the train. It was smaller than I expected. But don’t get me wrong. Blindingly gorgeous. And yes, I got the picture I set out to take:

At an upscale mall we found a schmancy grocery mart where we splurged on granola and organic cookies. And SOY MILK. It was heaven. We appreciate the little things. Also so bought wine which was enjoyed while watching tv,  flipping through beyond cheezy Bollywood channels and infomercials.
So after 6 or so days in Delhi. Oh and p.s. “Delhi Belly” is no myth. We took the overnight train North. Didn’t sleep a wink. 2 snorers one beside, one below, having a snoring contest. Though the adjacent hippo soon won out. There was also a birthday party. All night. And no we didn’t opt for the “AC” class. Squat toilets. Indian train. Delhi belly. On the bright side I finished my first game of solitaire every thanks to a man who didn’t speak English. I thought he was just staring trying to figure out what I was doing. Or just staring per usual. The world is small.
So I jumped off the train in Pathankot, Keegan stayed on till Jammu. Heading to Kashmir and hopefully Leh, if the passes are open. From Pathankot, a bent old man I named Rafiki cycle rickshawed me to the bus stand where I caught the 5 hour bus up to Mcleod Ganj. Not much to say about it yet. Lots of monks and smiling faces. Met some fellow travellors including a rad marionette puppeteer from London. With her (Sean, sp?) and her friend Jimmy went to a bar last night and had local Apple wine. Which tasted like vinegar. It was cheap.
I hope Keegan is warm. I hope I see the Dalai Lama. Both are unlikely. For now, the sun is shining, and I’m off to meet some female monks from England.
                                                                                                                                                         

Delhi and beyond…

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We’ve found the cold. Admittedly where I am is not nearly as cold as where Keegan is heading as I type. We’re in the foothills of the Himalayas. The sun is shining on snow-capped peaks outside my window. I am in Mcleod Ganj. The mountaintop town of the Dalai Lama, and countless Tibetan refugees and Buddhist monks. As a matter of fact, it appears the Dalai Lama has returned home as of yesterday- obviously he received word of my impending visit.
From Mangalore, where I last left off, we flew North through Mumbai to Delhi- cheating perhaps, by not taking the 4 day train for reasons that could may be summed up in “4 day Indian train.” And no, do not conjure to mind visions of the Wilson brothers sipping chai in “Darjeeling Limited,” conjure squat toilets.
Upon arriving in Delhi we headed to ‘Paharganj’ area which is loaded with budget accommodation. Unfortunately when Lonely Planet refers to something as “seedy,” they aren’t joking. A few times we’ve found out the hard way that Lonely Planet is quite a serious matter. So after being incessantly hawked and stalked by drunk teenagers trying to get commission, and not particularly taking to the dank pink cell with no windows, we haggled with some ruthless rickshaw drivers to take us to “Majnu-Ka-Tilla,”the Tibetan colony, which, though less central, became our little oasis from chaotic Delhi.
The area was not much more than winding back alleys- though noticeably more clean, kempt and not to mention charming than the rest of Delhi. Here maroon robe clad Buddhist monks hung out drinking redbull,  the Dalai Lama on tv. In an internet café, I found myself explaining to a monk the premise of the video game “Grand Theft Auto” that some 6 year old Tibetan kids were engrossed in. We shared a chuckle. Another was engrossed in Youtube videos of that amazing 5 year old ukulele prodigy. The world is oh-so small.
On the first night arriving in Majnu- or “Tibet” as we referred to it, everywhere was booked. Funny, because the ever charming Paharganj seemed to have endless free rooms. Completely randomly we ran ran into Andrew. Not sure if I mentioned him previously but Andrew and Juliana were a Canadian couple living in Berlin we met our last day in Hampi. Andrew had raced a rickshaw from Rajastan to Kochin. A dinky Indian 3 wheeled buggy through Indian traffic for 7 days. 7 days. And lived. Remember him? Hard to forget. Juliana had already gone back and he was leaving the next morning at 5am. Long story short, we met him for dinner and he invited us to share his double room, which was huge. Crown moulding and a balcony overlooking the river. For the same price as that little pink cell. Sweet. Over dinner we also met a Russian, “Olga,” who translated Buddhist literature and had hung out for 2 weeks in an all male Buddhist monastery, because she had a monk friend. Rad. We shared nasty “Kingfisher” beers back at the room.
While sitting in a square by a Buddhist temple I was taking a picture of, 3 somewhat raggy children approached me and asked me to take their picture. They were very excited to see themselves on the screen. They then started chattering excitedly and dragged me, sadly wary of beggars (even children) off. But they just wanted ice cream. I felt bad for thinking they just wanted my money at first, but India really hardens you. But these kids were sweet. I bought them ice cream, there now being about 6 of them. Word spread quickly. Kids began pouring from everywhere, looking at me with the most adorable eyes. Obviously I couldn’t discriminate. I have no idea how many icecreams I bought. But there was some happy kids in that square, and the ones who knew scraps of English thanked me. SO CUTE.
On multiple other occasions we bought bags of dry rice (and if Keegan was buying- cookies, if I was- lentils) for a young boy who quickly learned to seek us out.
Keegan needed warm clothing for his jaunt north so we went on several missions about the city each day, seeing everything from upscale spic/span malls to crowded/chaotic winding markets and bizaars. We eventually learned that the subway was brand new and very efficient so we were able to give the rickshaws a break. They were also very popular. Major routes made sardine cans look like desolate plains. But that’s okay, because at major stops, 50 people would surge off at once- and only 70 would surge on.
We went to the Taj Mahal. We can officially leave India. The Taj Mahal is in Agra, a 2 hour train out of Delhi. Booking said train in advance was a bureaucratic nightmare. You know that nightmare- or maybe you’ve only seen it in the movies. Where you wait in one line up to be told to wait in a different line up to be whisked off by some guy seeming to be an official, into a rickshaw to be taken several blocks away to the “official” booking office, realizing all the while of coarse that this is a classic scam, and walking back to the office, to the rickshaw drivers dismay, meanwhile being touted by a young guy claiming to be a student and not to trust anyone and that the REAL office was actually over HERE but we weren’t trusting ANYONE so we walked back, meeting a French couple along the way and waited in a long line to be told to stand in another line to be told I had filled out the form wrong and the train was booked on the return and no they were not polite. (Though at least the ladies queue was considerably shorter.)
Then we got to wake up a 430 am to make the train. It was smaller than I expected. But don’t get me wrong. Blindingly gorgeous. And yes, I got the picture I set out to take.
At an upscale mall we found a schmancy grocery mart where we splurged on granola and organic cookies. And SOY MILK. It was heaven. We appreciate the little things. Also so bought wine which was enjoyed while watching tv,  flipping through beyond cheezy Bollywood channels and infomercials.
So after 6 or so days in Delhi. Oh and p.s. “Delhi Belly” is no myth. We took the overnight train North. Didn’t sleep a wink. 2 snorers one beside, one below, having a snoring contest. Though the adjacent hippo soon won out. There was also a birthday party. All night. And no we didn’t opt for the “AC” class. Squat toilets. Indian train. Delhi belly. On the bright side I finished my first game of solitaire every thanks to a man who didn’t speak English. I thought he was just staring trying to figure out what I was doing. Or just staring per usual. The world is small.
So I jumped off the train in Pathankot, Keegan stayed on till Jammu. Heading to Kashmir and hopefully Leh, if the passes are open. From Pathankot, a bent old man I named Rafiki cycle rickshawed me to the bus stand where I caught the 5 hour bus up to Mcleod Ganj. Not much to say about it yet. Lots of monks and smiling faces. Met some fellow travellors including a rad marionette puppeteer from London. With her (Sean, sp?) and her friend Jimmy went to a bar last night and had local Apple wine. Which tasted like vinegar. It was cheap.
I hope Keegan is warm. I hope I see the Dalai Lama. Both are unlikely. For now, the sun is shining, and I’m off to meet some female monks from England.
                                                                                                                                                         

Lush jungles and spice plantations: Kerala. But we want the beach!

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For those who need be visually stimulated. Pictures! http://cid-555be8206d79d3b3.photos.live.com/browse.aspx/India3?sa=447958638

Mom, I’m alive, not lying in an Indian ditch.

 

Where to begin? India is exhausting, I can’t even keep up in my journal. I have to write it in point form. So without further ado:
-I can’t afford toilet paper.
It has now become a luxury item. (In India, they splash themselves.) Admittedly it was because the local atm was broken. But it was still paramount.
-Train/bus station squat toilets no longer phase me.
-We stayed 5 nights in Hampi, I spent a whole day just walking. Got very lost. Kept walking. Everywhere you go is ruins. Ornate temples. In the middle of no where. And boulders. We stayed 2 nights across the river where the sunsets from our hammock left little to be desired. We climbed 600 steps to Hanuman temple for a fantastic view of the boulders. This place goes on forever. We met a couple from Canada living in Berlin, the guy had raced a rickshaw from Delhi to Kochin. Read: the length of India. For shits. Or charity. Or was it a death wish?
-We saw 5-6 wild elephants, including a mother a baby.
-In order to get to such wildlife preserve, we had a LONG haul. 10 hour sleeper train, from Hospet (near Hampi) to Bangalore, arriving at 630 am. Took another train to Mysore (4hrs), then rickshaw to the bus station where chaos ensued but a crippled beggar eventually pointed out a bus for us… which had no windows (bad sign?) More buses & rickshaws and many hours later. We reached Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary. And found out it’s closed for several months.
…
BUT, as it was Keegan’s 19th, I wanted to spring for somewhere- less groady shall we say? So at the homely guest house Pachyderm Palace, sweetheart host Venu cooked us feasts for every meal (Keegan even got a beer on his bday!) While the next morning his son Dilleep took us on a jungle jeep ride in the early morning – on which we saw jungle fowl and bison (yes dad, chicken’s and cows exist in the wild.) A guide then took us on a 7 hour hike up through the mountains to awesome views and a cave with millions of bats. We also so black and maqaw (sp?) monkeys and a malabri (sp?) a small red jungle cat with a fluffy tail.
After dinner that night we, an artsy couple from UK who had hung out with us that afternoon, and all of Venu’s extended family PILED into the jeep and we went for a little safari, on which we saw the elephants and bison. Strangely we ended up at a circus. And I mean that literally and figuratively.  A church lit up like time’s square in the middle of the tackiest and most chaotic night fair you’ve ever been to. Like an acid trip…or what I’d imagine it to be. Corny games and junk food? Check. Tacky balloons and other such junk for purchase? Check. Hindus ROLLING and CRAWLING around a Christian church in order to get lucky? ….Check!? ….
….
Righto.
Moving on then.
We pulled another loooong travel day to try and find the coast. Maybe a quiet beach? I’ll spare you the details, but lets say we spend a lot of time on our ass. A days worth of CONSTANT honking takes a lot out of you. Roads are baaad. SO, avoid Indian transport if a) you have to pee, b) are not wearing a sports bra.
On a positive note, the bus wound through the lush Keralan jungle past many spice plantations.
Kappil beach was gorgeous. Deserted. Too bad by the time we got there the sun was setting and there was nowhere to stay. We stayed in a gem of a motel. GEM. Neither of us brushed our teeth. The sink was just- too beautiful.
Righto.
So we booked it to Mangalore to Moti Mahal. With a CLEAN pool, gym, and 3 restuarants. AND A SCALDING HOT SHOWER. We scrubbed.
Shopping in India is slightly less efficient. We never thought we’d long for a Wallmart. AIRCONDITIONING IS GOD. Indian stores consist of grimy stalls with a specific stall for everything. I.e. don’t think you can buy a pencil the same place you buy you soap!
All in all, we’re clean, and quickly planning our departure Northward.  To the cold. Real cold. None of this, its 35 degrees and Indians are wearing fleece earmuffs nonsense.    
                                            
Things happen very quickly in India. You learn a lot. About you priorities, likes dislikes. I like cleanliness. And recycling.

Hampi!

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Pictures are posted here: http://cid-555be8206d79d3b3.photos.live.com/browse.aspx/India2?sa=63514745

Anjuna beach was a nice reprieve. We stayed two nights at “Tantra” which resembled what you would imagine in Morocco where people are lounging on cushions with low tables sans hookah. I bought a loose linen shirt in the market for triple the norm ($6!?) just so the lady would leave me alone. She didn’t. I later bought loose harem style pants from the only man in town who let me look in peace. We ditched the shirt along with a huge pile of other stuff when we left, pack immediately felt lighter but already plotting what else to ditch.
We took a rickshaw to the city of Panagi (Panjim) then a bus to Margoa (Madgoan).  After realizing we missed the train to Hampi we stayed the night in Margoa at the relatively swank Hotel Tanish. And by swank I mean it had hot water. The LUXURY! (1200 Rs; $24)  We tried our first Indian sweets/baking which are basically pure sugar, perhaps deep fried. They’re not about subtlety here. After waking up early the next day we found there was no train. So we took a 6 hour bus which wound through the lush jungle mountains to Hubli, then waited a long time playing our ukes with no clear idea when the next bus would come. A guy from Japan and a girl from Spain were in the same boat. On a whim, we hopped on a bus to Koppal which took about 4 hours.
 The roads are very bad, combined with a bus driver with no regard for human life and you frequently find yourself flying a foot in the air off your seat. Everything you heard about driving in India is true. I honestly don’t know why they bother painting lines on the road. Maybe they’re for the cows to abide them cause the drivers sure don’t.
 In Koppal we got a 1 hour bus to Hospet and finally took a rickshaw to Hampi, which looked surreal in the dark. Arriving around 11, we settled for our driver’s “friend’s” place (we knew he’d get commission) which had fluorescent green walls and an awful bug net that draped over and in your face. It was beyond groady but we were mostly just miffed that we paid too much (500 Rs; $10!) I slept horribly and in the morning vomited at least 10 times- you can thank my dad for requesting more avid description. I’m not sure how I got sick as the only substantial meal I had had was at a super posh restaurant with amazing view (buffet breakfast, 120 Rs; $2.50).
In any case Keegan brought me porridge. I miss porridge. I miss healthy raw vegetables and I could really go for kale or cold borscht.
Don’t get me wrong, Indian food is tantalizingly scrumptious, they definitely know their spices. Unfortunately for a celery muncher such as myself however, a typical Indian meal (acknowledging that cuisine varies greatly per region) comprises of vegetables overcooked past recognition in copious amounts of oil & butter which is usually eaten with a white bread such as “chapatti”- a tortilla. Delicious but heavy (particularly as a mildly wheat intolerant vegan). But what can you do.
We changed rooms to “Gopi” guest house which has a roof restaurant with a fantastic view. Hampi is surreal. Giant teetering boulders as far as the eye can see with amazingly opulent and detailed temples, monuments and structures cropping up everywhere. Strangely the 700 year old, 500,000 people civilization only lasted 100 years before a Muslim attack ended it permanently.
When I was feeling slightly better we walked a ways to the waterfalls. Nagi was our unrequested guide. People tend to announce rather than ask. Afterwards we cut through a banana plantation to the river and shared a coconut as the sun set. The river bank is lush with banana and palm trees and looks like a dreamy oasis. On the way back we got lost as the bugs were coming out, getting very muddy and later washing off in the river as the locals do.
It is very hot. I am continuously fantasizing about heading North early, before the whole country warms up. I did not think I would miss/appreciate home this much so quickly. It’s barely been a week. I am not necessarily home sick but definitely sick, and away from home.