Rishikesh is stunning. I am sitting at the DevRaj Coffee Corner at the Laxman Jhula bridge at dusk. The ganges river winds between soaring green mountians and the temples nestled on the banks look like 10 story castles in a children book. There are two walking bridges, the laxman jhula, where I am staying, and ram jhula where many of the ashrams are located, about 2 kil away. There are many foreigners here. Mostly Brits and israelis. My Indian friend tells me that the Israelis come here after their 2-3 years of mandatory military service is done. Everyone here seems to be on some sort of yogic spiritual journey which includes hours and hours daily to loll about in cafes and smoke until you can't see throuh the haze. People come here to stay until their visas run out.
My favorite cafe/hang out spot so far is the pyramid cafe in laxman jhula, on recommendation from a 65 year old french lady i met at the farm. You have to climb a fairly steep hill about 200 meters to get to it. It's cosy, away from the chaos, and has a great view of the river and town. They serve all organic here and they even make their own kombucha! (the vinegary carbonated drink with live cultures that repulses pretty much everyone but Camilla and me.) They have wi-fi access and phenomenal vegetarian food, which explains how I've managed to spend half my waking hours there.
I had day four of cooking lessons today and then just laid out on the roof and read all day, feeling guilty that I wasn't power walking to all the pilgrimage destinations. Then an Israeli girl materialized on the roof with a thick rope, attempting to tie it to the rickety balcony guardrail. She is trying to teach herself how to tightrope walk. Apparently her guru can do it, so she thought she'd try it on our roof. After we deduced that this particular roof might come crashing down, based on the spiderweb of faultlines at the base of the railing, she went back to her own roof. In the distance, over the ashrams of rishikesh, I could see her very steadily and successfully navigate the rope accross her roof. An odd but im sure very pleasureable way of wearing out your visa.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Guru on the Gangez
I've seemed to have unwittingly attracted a tour guide/eager companion - a nice young guy who leads treks in the mountains and speaks English very well. Two days ago he showed me some waterfalls near town and yesterday he took me to see the Beatles ashram (of monkey-substance fame). It is a stunning piece of land with these beehive looking meditation rooms made of small stones. The ashram has been slowly retreating back into the earth for the last 17 years, and is covered in vines, wild chickens and monkeys. And of course handfuls of tripping hippies that appear to have been sitting there since the 1970s. I have a particluar affinity for historial spaces, especially spaces where great art was created. The story goes that the Beatles wrote much of the White Album while staying there with their families.
On the way back along the path next to the Ganges river, my friend asked me if I wanted to meet a guru with 7 foot long dred locks. I mean really, who wouldn't? He took me to a teeny tiny hut down on the beach and inside was a fire, an alter to several gods, three painted, dusty men in loin cloth, the guru, and his famous dred locks wrapped about his torso and legs. They are so heavy that he has to fashion them into clothig to keep his neck aligned. They were either so stoned or so enlightened that I don't think they were consciously aware of our presense. After about two hours in there, i verified it was a lot of both.
So we sat next to them and mused about Indian gods v. christian god (only one? How boring. How many wives did he have?) and about the population of america (only 250 million people? How quaint.) About an hour in, the cushion I had been leaning against moved and I realized that it was a man under a blanket. Even more startling was his clean-shaven face and tidy hair and western looking sweater, when compared to the other guys, who were essentially covered in dried mud and decades of dredlock growth. Realizing that he spoke some English, I asked him how long he had lived in rishikesh? He said he lives in Agra, but was just visiting rishikesh to pray with the long-dreded guru. He comes once a year. He's a political scientist who works for a non-profit, and needed respite from the city. And dred-guru is his spiritual teacher.
An American might rent a room on the pacific ocean and down several bottles of Pinot Noir to get away from the madness of city life. An Indian might snuggle up on the corner of his guru's Ganges shack and get stoned for a week. Tomato, tomaaaaaato. We're not that different after all.
On the way back along the path next to the Ganges river, my friend asked me if I wanted to meet a guru with 7 foot long dred locks. I mean really, who wouldn't? He took me to a teeny tiny hut down on the beach and inside was a fire, an alter to several gods, three painted, dusty men in loin cloth, the guru, and his famous dred locks wrapped about his torso and legs. They are so heavy that he has to fashion them into clothig to keep his neck aligned. They were either so stoned or so enlightened that I don't think they were consciously aware of our presense. After about two hours in there, i verified it was a lot of both.
So we sat next to them and mused about Indian gods v. christian god (only one? How boring. How many wives did he have?) and about the population of america (only 250 million people? How quaint.) About an hour in, the cushion I had been leaning against moved and I realized that it was a man under a blanket. Even more startling was his clean-shaven face and tidy hair and western looking sweater, when compared to the other guys, who were essentially covered in dried mud and decades of dredlock growth. Realizing that he spoke some English, I asked him how long he had lived in rishikesh? He said he lives in Agra, but was just visiting rishikesh to pray with the long-dreded guru. He comes once a year. He's a political scientist who works for a non-profit, and needed respite from the city. And dred-guru is his spiritual teacher.
An American might rent a room on the pacific ocean and down several bottles of Pinot Noir to get away from the madness of city life. An Indian might snuggle up on the corner of his guru's Ganges shack and get stoned for a week. Tomato, tomaaaaaato. We're not that different after all.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Delhi Belly
A month plus in India does not make me an expert on anything but the daily confusion of an American tourist, but let me see if I can take a stab at the source of the phenomenon called "Delhi Belly".
Delhi Belly is what occurs when foreigners get a crippling bout of food poisoning in India. Even putting this to print is really tempting my own fate, but I have always had a relatively strong stomach. Once in France, Nikki, Camilla and I ate the same salmon for lunch and the two of them spent the night on the train writhing in agony while I did not feel a thing. So we'll see how it goes in the remaining 28 days here. Fingers crossed.
Lonely Planet guidebook explicitly tells you not to eat street food unless it has been fried in front of your face, not to drink fruit lassis (smoothies), not to eat salad and not to eat any fruit that lacks a peel. I have so far had fruit, salad and lassi and have been fine.
The cause of the Dehli Belly is not poisonous apples or lettuce, nor an intolerance of hot spices, but the bacteria that abounds on every surface in the country. I'm trying not to speak disparingly of the hygene habits of an entire people, but it is fair to say that American hygene far exceeds the norm here. The result is that an indian's constitution can simply handle more bacteria in their diet than we frail Americans. Hence, the Delhi belly.
Yesterday, after climbing a steel ladder in an abandoned (except for monkeys) ashram, I noticed a peculiar yet identifiable brown substance on one of my fingers. I immediately began rummaging in my purse for my antibacterial wipes only to realize that they were missing. Bottled water and vigorous rubbing would have to do until I found a bathroom. Well bathrooms in India do not offer soap or even toilet paper. (One might put two and two together to determine this as the source of Delhi Belly.)
So I spent the rest of the day obsessively compulsively wiping, wetting, and smelling my finger to direct if any offending microbials remained. At one point I considered holding the finger over an open flame and then just decided to leave it ungloved and out of my pants pocket hoping the frostbite would sever it.
Cows do their business all over the streets. People inevitably walk in the dung, walk in their homes, then sit on their floor and prepare a meal. This is how we do it in the home of my cooking teacher, Purnima. If a piece of cauliflower jumps out of the pan onto the floor, she makes a noble and obvious effort to wash it off before she puts it back in the pan, but I'm sure that this show of concern is only for my benefit.
What can one do? Live on the handful of Powerbars I brought with me? No, I just have to close my eyes and eat the food and convince myself that a little dirt never hurt anyone. Or at least not yet.
And I'll remember the antibacterial gel next time I'm climbing monkey ladders.
Delhi Belly is what occurs when foreigners get a crippling bout of food poisoning in India. Even putting this to print is really tempting my own fate, but I have always had a relatively strong stomach. Once in France, Nikki, Camilla and I ate the same salmon for lunch and the two of them spent the night on the train writhing in agony while I did not feel a thing. So we'll see how it goes in the remaining 28 days here. Fingers crossed.
Lonely Planet guidebook explicitly tells you not to eat street food unless it has been fried in front of your face, not to drink fruit lassis (smoothies), not to eat salad and not to eat any fruit that lacks a peel. I have so far had fruit, salad and lassi and have been fine.
The cause of the Dehli Belly is not poisonous apples or lettuce, nor an intolerance of hot spices, but the bacteria that abounds on every surface in the country. I'm trying not to speak disparingly of the hygene habits of an entire people, but it is fair to say that American hygene far exceeds the norm here. The result is that an indian's constitution can simply handle more bacteria in their diet than we frail Americans. Hence, the Delhi belly.
Yesterday, after climbing a steel ladder in an abandoned (except for monkeys) ashram, I noticed a peculiar yet identifiable brown substance on one of my fingers. I immediately began rummaging in my purse for my antibacterial wipes only to realize that they were missing. Bottled water and vigorous rubbing would have to do until I found a bathroom. Well bathrooms in India do not offer soap or even toilet paper. (One might put two and two together to determine this as the source of Delhi Belly.)
So I spent the rest of the day obsessively compulsively wiping, wetting, and smelling my finger to direct if any offending microbials remained. At one point I considered holding the finger over an open flame and then just decided to leave it ungloved and out of my pants pocket hoping the frostbite would sever it.
Cows do their business all over the streets. People inevitably walk in the dung, walk in their homes, then sit on their floor and prepare a meal. This is how we do it in the home of my cooking teacher, Purnima. If a piece of cauliflower jumps out of the pan onto the floor, she makes a noble and obvious effort to wash it off before she puts it back in the pan, but I'm sure that this show of concern is only for my benefit.
What can one do? Live on the handful of Powerbars I brought with me? No, I just have to close my eyes and eat the food and convince myself that a little dirt never hurt anyone. Or at least not yet.
And I'll remember the antibacterial gel next time I'm climbing monkey ladders.
Monday, December 7, 2009
This morning, I stood in a steam filled bathroom, drenched in hot water flowing like manna from heaven. I could ruminate on the pleasures of my first non-bucket shower in weeks all day long.
Just wanted to share.
Last night I ran in two British ladies who'd ID met at the farm, so we stuck together and had a nice dinner together. It's nice to see familiar faces in such a foreign place.
Just wanted to share.
Last night I ran in two British ladies who'd ID met at the farm, so we stuck together and had a nice dinner together. It's nice to see familiar faces in such a foreign place.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Rishikesh
Ahhh rishikesh. I feel like the locations have been getting better. Dehradun (the city near the farm) was way too intense although not as bad as Delhi. Rishikesh has a beautiful charm to it. The Ganga (Ganges river) is a stunning milky pale green. As we walked over the second bridge to laxman jula, the people hushed their voices in reverence of the holiest river in India. I had to walk about 20 minutes to get to the hotel a friend recommended. On the way down a steep hill, a group of elderly Indian women started
laughing and talking to me in Hindi. The ones closest to me grabbed my arm to steady themselves down the hill, all the while looking up at me a smiling with gapped smiles and gold-adorned faces. Lovely ladies. Hate that I know so little Hindi.
On the way to my recommended hotel, an older man asked me if I needed a room. I'd already declined several offers, but my bag was getting heavy so I followed him to his newly built hotel run by his son and his sweet wife. I have a clean room, my OWN shower and toilet with HOT WATER and a mirror. By the looks of my reflection it seems I could have used a mirror in my room weeks ago. But hey, I've been living on a farm! And the best part? $3 per night. I really like what I see so far in his town so I might be here for a week or so. If I can overcome the intimidation factor I might even join a yoga seminar in the birhplace of yoga! We'll have to see about that as there are copious westerers who look quite serious about their yoga studies here and I am clearly an imposter. Odd how the most critical eyes come from other foreiners?
And this is being sent via a wireless cafe at 75 cents an hour. It is cheaper to live here than in my own home.
laughing and talking to me in Hindi. The ones closest to me grabbed my arm to steady themselves down the hill, all the while looking up at me a smiling with gapped smiles and gold-adorned faces. Lovely ladies. Hate that I know so little Hindi.
On the way to my recommended hotel, an older man asked me if I needed a room. I'd already declined several offers, but my bag was getting heavy so I followed him to his newly built hotel run by his son and his sweet wife. I have a clean room, my OWN shower and toilet with HOT WATER and a mirror. By the looks of my reflection it seems I could have used a mirror in my room weeks ago. But hey, I've been living on a farm! And the best part? $3 per night. I really like what I see so far in his town so I might be here for a week or so. If I can overcome the intimidation factor I might even join a yoga seminar in the birhplace of yoga! We'll have to see about that as there are copious westerers who look quite serious about their yoga studies here and I am clearly an imposter. Odd how the most critical eyes come from other foreiners?
And this is being sent via a wireless cafe at 75 cents an hour. It is cheaper to live here than in my own home.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Where to go from here?
It's really hard to put into words all that has happened over the past two weeks of the course. Today the remaining attendees are catching rickshaws, buses, trains and planes scattering them about India and the globe. I will head via bus to Rishikesh tomorrow.
Yesterday during our final lecture, an older French woman asked the Prime Minister of Tibet a question. They each struggled in English to understand each other, English being neither their second nor probably third language. It struck me that all these people - Indians, French, Germans, Japanese, Portugese - were participating in the course in what was not their mother tongue. It felt like an incredibly generous gift, one that I couldn't return if I had to. If the course had been in any other language, I wouldn't have been unable to understand. So one of my goals when I return is to become proficient in at least French or Spanish. It's hard to be a global citizen when insisting that everyone know your language.
The theme of the course was "Gandhi & Globalization". We were exposed to the very real, tangible result of our way of life, how what we consume and shape the world, affects the global south and the ecology of the planet.
On a very cynical level, at several points during the course, I felt like taking out a red white and blue switch and flogging myself. Whenever the "west" was mentioned, it was in a negative connotation. Whenever he U.S. was mentioned, it was followed by a scowl. When I brought up the excessive population, I was shot down immediately and lectured that 1 American child consumes the resources of 30 Indian children. Ironically enough it was he Americans who jumped on me. I had already been aware of this statistic, and it's implication. But still it felt that I garnered a different response simply because of nationality.
My initial reaction was to defend my own country, our way of life, our military adventures around the world. But the objective facts are not on my side.
In assisting my young Austrian friend with her Tibetan article and interview with PM Rimpoche, I summoned all my recently acquired international relations knowledge to explain to her exactly why international law doesn't really matter. Why the UN will never force China to move on the Tibetan issue (or on Darfur) because China has veto power. Why the US can use torture, even though it's against the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, without consequence. And why at the end of the day, in the world we've created, the country with the most dollars and the most tanks win. She is an incredibly intelligent 19 year old with a good understanding of world events. And yet when I finished explaining why no one can do anything about Tibet, she looked at me like I was crazy. How do ethical people, intelligent people, capable and powerful people let this happen? After living in the world for a while, you start to accept things as unchangable But through the eyes of a (relative) child, you can see the madness.
We've all decided that it will be hard going back to our daily lives. Hard to constantly explain why we don't eat meat without sounding preachy and holier-than-thou. Hard to pay taxes that support violent endeavors but don't pay for the healthcare of my loved ones. Hard to ease into consumerist world around us. Even this paragraph sounds preachy! I don't want to be that girl. But I have seen a sort of raw truth come from our experiences here and overlooking it does not mean it ceases to exist. My challenge will be to bring what I've learned into my world and share it wiht others when hey are curious, rather than force it upon them.
So yes, I'm setting out to the wilds of India. I am much more comfortable with the country than when I arrived. I've learned a few steps of the dance of the busy city streets. I no longer fear the rickshaws rides. I know a bit of Hindi. I think I will be fine. I'll try to update as I go!
Yesterday during our final lecture, an older French woman asked the Prime Minister of Tibet a question. They each struggled in English to understand each other, English being neither their second nor probably third language. It struck me that all these people - Indians, French, Germans, Japanese, Portugese - were participating in the course in what was not their mother tongue. It felt like an incredibly generous gift, one that I couldn't return if I had to. If the course had been in any other language, I wouldn't have been unable to understand. So one of my goals when I return is to become proficient in at least French or Spanish. It's hard to be a global citizen when insisting that everyone know your language.
The theme of the course was "Gandhi & Globalization". We were exposed to the very real, tangible result of our way of life, how what we consume and shape the world, affects the global south and the ecology of the planet.
On a very cynical level, at several points during the course, I felt like taking out a red white and blue switch and flogging myself. Whenever the "west" was mentioned, it was in a negative connotation. Whenever he U.S. was mentioned, it was followed by a scowl. When I brought up the excessive population, I was shot down immediately and lectured that 1 American child consumes the resources of 30 Indian children. Ironically enough it was he Americans who jumped on me. I had already been aware of this statistic, and it's implication. But still it felt that I garnered a different response simply because of nationality.
My initial reaction was to defend my own country, our way of life, our military adventures around the world. But the objective facts are not on my side.
In assisting my young Austrian friend with her Tibetan article and interview with PM Rimpoche, I summoned all my recently acquired international relations knowledge to explain to her exactly why international law doesn't really matter. Why the UN will never force China to move on the Tibetan issue (or on Darfur) because China has veto power. Why the US can use torture, even though it's against the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, without consequence. And why at the end of the day, in the world we've created, the country with the most dollars and the most tanks win. She is an incredibly intelligent 19 year old with a good understanding of world events. And yet when I finished explaining why no one can do anything about Tibet, she looked at me like I was crazy. How do ethical people, intelligent people, capable and powerful people let this happen? After living in the world for a while, you start to accept things as unchangable But through the eyes of a (relative) child, you can see the madness.
We've all decided that it will be hard going back to our daily lives. Hard to constantly explain why we don't eat meat without sounding preachy and holier-than-thou. Hard to pay taxes that support violent endeavors but don't pay for the healthcare of my loved ones. Hard to ease into consumerist world around us. Even this paragraph sounds preachy! I don't want to be that girl. But I have seen a sort of raw truth come from our experiences here and overlooking it does not mean it ceases to exist. My challenge will be to bring what I've learned into my world and share it wiht others when hey are curious, rather than force it upon them.
So yes, I'm setting out to the wilds of India. I am much more comfortable with the country than when I arrived. I've learned a few steps of the dance of the busy city streets. I no longer fear the rickshaws rides. I know a bit of Hindi. I think I will be fine. I'll try to update as I go!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
What did we do back in the olden days?
We've been spoiled with wireless internet on the farm all this time and when it went out last week we were like puppies without chew toys. So much has happened during the course, but I can't go into it now because there is a queue behind me of salivating internet junkies trying to get their fix on the one computer we must share. I will write more as soon as I get some access. Doing fine and eataing (too) well!
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