Tearing myself away form the snowy peaks, I left early the next morning for Dharamsala. I had to first take a bus to Jammu which I was told would take about 7 hours; accounting for Indian time, I figured about 9 which left me plenty of time to catch one of the buses to Dharamsala from there. There was nothing in particular to hold us up on the way; we didn't run over any cows or have to change buses, but it took a whopping 13 hours! In what universe does 7 translate to 13!? The bus ride was beautiful (its saving grace)--we were traveling through mountain passes nearly the whole time so I was more surprised than irritated, until I got to Jammu and found out I'd missed the last bus to Dharamsala by a half hour. Then I was irritated. After an unpleasant night in Jammu, I caught an early bus--my guidebook said 5 hours, the bus station said 6, it took 7. And a half. (That's reasonable Indian time I suppose.) Thankfully, when I arrived in Dharamsala, my troubles vanished like the rabbit in the hat. The beauty of the place was impossible to escape, the air was fresh, and best of all, the first guesthouse I tried had a cute little room with a view for super cheap.
Dharamsala is a very special place and to explain why, I must again delve into a quick background explanation. Many of you worldly folks must already know of Tibet's plight particularly in light of the recent Olympic torch controversy (or at least you recall the "FREE TIBET" t-shirts that were popular in Hollywood a few years back thanks to Brad
Pitt), but I'll admit that I had hazy knowledge of the big picture, so I will relate a short history in case you have some haze that needs clearing. Of course Tibet's history and relationship with it's neighbors is much more complex than what I can comprehend of it in such a short time, but here's one version: Tibet and it's people have existed independent of other nations for centuries upon centuries under various leaders including most recently (1600's to date) the spiritual and political leader-His Holiness, the Dali Lama and subsequent successors to the position. At no time in history was Tibet ever recorded to be a part of China, nonetheless in 1949, China decided it had been, and set out to reconquer its territory. Peace runs in the veins of the Tibetan people (they will go out of their way not to hurt any living thing down to the smallest insect as per the principles of Buddhism), thus when the Chinese army stormed in, there was no contest--Tibet's attempt at military defense was crushed and the atrocities committed against the Tibetan people began. It was China's will, under the pretense of creating cultural unity, that Tibetan artifacts, currency and significant buildings be destroyed. The Tibetans were terrorized, well over a million Tibetans were senselessly killed and the vast majority of Tibetan cultural heritage was blasted to bits. These happenings have every mark of a genocide and it is my guess (and my hope) that the label will be officially applied in the coming years, but meanwhile things are still extremely tense and it was really a slap in the face to Tibet's leaders that China hosted such a globally significant event this summer and was allowed to traipse right through Tibetan territory in opening celebrations.
Anyway, Dharamsala enters the scene when the 14th Dali Lama and those Tibetans willing and able to follow escaped Tibet and established the Tibetan Government in Exile--all of this generously permitted by an independent India--and Dharamsala was the chosen spot. As a result of this influx, the place (specifically McLeodganj--the tourist hub some 8 km north) is abuzz with Tibetan people, culture, food and handicrafts. What a welcome and refreshing change of pace this was! The knit socks with playful patterns, chunky beaded jewelry, bells and other crafts were extra tempting after facing so much of the kitchy toys, souvenirs and bangles at typical Indian gift shops. The streets were peaceful--Tibetan shop owners smile warmly when tourists pass instead of peppering them with entreaties like "looking, yes? just looking, no have to buy, looking, looking!". Even the beggars are more courteous, giving a nod and wishing passers by a good day regardless of the availability of spare change.
My first morning there, I met a girl my age--Rose--over Tibetan porridge (yum) and we went around together the next couple of days. There were a few walks/hikes to be done and we did those (one was to Bagsu waterfall where we averted out eyes as too many men stripped to their tighty whities for a dip--I'm so utterly disgusted with male bravado these days--decency is not in the repertoire of Indian men). We also went to a couple of movies in this funny makeshift theater--The Darjeeling Limited and 7 Years in Tibet--both appropriate for sure and good flicks taboot. We also visited the Tsuglagkhang complex where the Dali Lama resides and there's a great museum about Tibet's history there as well. Tibetan flags bring color and life to the whole town but in the area around the complex and the nearby temple, there was such an overload of them, barely a space between two trees was left unfilled. I was lovin it. I went and checked out an amchi (traditional Tibetan medicine) clinic--looked like all they had was dog kibble in various jars... --got a Tibetan massage (more research) which was much nicer and probably more beneficial than dog kibble. The lady who worked on me really dug into my kinks with reckless abandon--just how I like it! Needless to say, it was tough for me to leave this place too, but time was limited therefore, at 4am on Sunday morning, I was on the bus to Amritsar.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Accumulating Stories for My Grandkids Continues
11pm Friday night saw me leaving for Bangalore, 2am, I arrived and got an expensive and long and cold rickshaw ride to the airport. 3am-6am, waiting... Finally boarded the plane, my eyelids closed and when I opened them, I was in Delhi. I was exhausted and anxious to get to my room. ( I had booked ahead to save myself the trouble of finding a place on arrival and to ensure that a nice safe place to stay was waiting for me.) Up to this point, I'd been constantly surprised by how wrong my preconceptions of India had been. I recalled that before I left, an Indian women visiting my neighbor had told me that Northern India (including cities such as Delhi and Calcutta) was the 'real India' (it sounded like a warning the way she put it). Immediately I understood what she meant. Absolutely filthy, obnoxiously noisy, extremely crowded--these were my impressions of Delhi from the get go and they matched my previous notions dead on. It's not like I haven't come across filth, noise and crowds (have I ever), but Delhi trumped just about anywhere I'd been in all three categories. My driver spoke no english, zippo, zero, and we spent 2 frustrating hours forcing our way through streets much too narrow to accommodate our vehicle stopping every 30 meters to ask directions and everyone gave different ones. I winced as our small van came within inches of hitting rickshaws, dogs, carts, fences, people; I was in a constant wince. Eventually, we arrived and I'd planned to take a nap but figured I should secure my next day train ticket to Agra first.
Long story short, I ran into a plethora of road blocks and irritations and was really not in the best of spirits when I arrived hours later at a travel agency (not the first I'd been to) to ask about jumping on a tour of Old Delhi. (I did not have the will nor the wakeful brain cells needed to navigate it myself at this point.) Suddenly, my luck changed. A young, well spoken travel agent named Janna saw that I was about to break and helped me figure out how to configure the next couple of weeks travel to get to the places I had in mind beginning by booking a package deal that included a plane ticket to Srinagar and 2 nights room and board in a houseboat plus he threw in a driver to take me around Delhi that afternoon! Splendid! And he invited me for dinner that evening--the cherry on top. I rode off in my air condition sedan to see Humayun's Tomb and Akshardham Temple--two sprawling and magnificent complexes (very old and very new respectively) that took me far from the unpleasantness of Delhi's chaos and dirt. Dinner at Janna's house was delicious, after which I enjoyed my nice room until too late--gotta get my money's worth--and then fell into a deep dreamless slumber.
The next morning began abruptly. My deep slumber lead to oversleeping and I was biting my nails all the way to the airport so that I barely registered Janna on the driver's phone telling me there was a strike in Srinagar but not to worry--it was perfectly safe. I made my flight with no trouble and began reading my lonely planet's Srinagar section. 'DO NOT under ANY circumstances' it said ' book a package deal from Delhi that includes a stay in a houseboat.' It went on to list a bunch of really convincing reasons why not to do this. Although I could not imagine that Janna, who was so exceptionally kind, would deceive me, a rather large knot formed in my stomach. As the plane descended over the snow capped peaks of the Himalayas, I was temporarily distracted from my fears by their beauty but when the plane touched down the knot was right back in its place.
To appreciate this next portion of the story, a little background information is necessary. Srinagar is in Kashmir which is the northern most state in India at the very tippity top. In 2000, Bill Clinton named Kashmir the most dangerous place on earth. Here's why: when India gained independence from British colonization, it was disputed whether ownership of Kashmir should go to India or to Pakistan and much bloodshed took place at the border as a result. Truth be told the people of Kashmir would generally prefer neither; they would like to be free to be Kashmiri if you will, without India or Pakistan's interference. As it were, things did not turn out that way and much to Kashmir's dismay and frustration India sent in a heavy military occupation to keep things under control--also a violent business, at least at first. In the recent couple of years past, both India and Pakistan have relaxed their efforts making for a much calmer situation, however, the place is still overrun with Indian military patrol. I don't know if this analogy works, but I'm putting it in anyway, because it makes sense to me. Say Kashmir is Texas. Bare with me here. Both Mexico and the US want Texas, but the US clearly has it (Mexico is Pakistan and the US is India in this wierd parallel). Texas however would prefer to be a lone ranger. Even as a part of the US, Texas flies its own flag, and its people appear to have more state loyalty than they have allegiance to the nation as a whole. Think how Texas would react if the US sent in a bunch of soldiers to make sure there was no funny business and to keep Texas pride and flag flying, as it were, to a minimum. Agree that the Texans wouldn't just take it lying down? ok.
Back to topic--every so often, the Kashmiri people attempt to protest India's hold with some sort of strike or demonstration. When I was on my way there, one such protest was in the works and in order to prevent it from being carried to fruition, a curfew had been placed on Srinagar and no one was allowed to move about or even leave their homes. As you can imagine, this caused some difficulty on the way from the airport to the houseboat (which I was dreading anyway due to the warning I'd just belatedly received in print). Keep in mind that I did not know what a curfew looked like, let alone that that's what all the fuss was about, when I tell you my jeep was stopped in excess of 15 times (I lost rack) by armed military personnel on the way. Some stops were longer than others and I had to show my passport and flight ticket stub (thank goodness I still had it) a number of times.
We reached the houseboat eventually and it turned out to be fine and I was served decent food and there was no sketchy anything to worry about after all. Phew. That afternoon, I took a really relaxing and scenic shikara (certain loungy partially covered boat) ride around Nagin and Dal lakes and got a chance to admire the reflection of the mountains in the glassy water. For the next two days, I had arranged a trek outside the city. Mustafa, the houseboat owner (who looked exactly like someone who's name would be Mustafa by the way) guessed the curfew would be lifted (they usually only last between a few hours and a day) or that if it weren't we'd be able to pass anyway once we explained out purpose and because we would be leaving the city, not entering it.
At 9am sharp I was packed and ready to go when I was informed that the curfew was being much more heavily enforced than usual and we couldn't leave. Mustafa had gotten a permit from the magistrate but they wouldn't accept it or even let him come and tell me himself--he had to call and send a neighbor. I groaned at this news and my heart sunk; I'd been dreaming about trekking in the Himalayas for so long and now, because I was on such a tight schedule, I couldn't extend my stay in Srinagar which meant I might only get one day in. Confined to the houseboat, I tried to enjoy the day, but even the warm sun and pretty surroundings couldn't cheer my spirits. Mustafa said there was a chance we may be able to leave that afternoon, but hours passed with no word.
At 5pm, I'd just resigned myself to another night in the houseboat and was practicing yoga on the roof as a means to keep from falling into the pit of despair when Mustafa showed up and said to be ready in 5 minutes. I was and we hopped into the car with the military escort he'd procured through various friends and bribes. I wrongly assumed that having a man in uniform along with us would make the check points a breeze. The first time we were stopped, it was for almost 20 anxious minutes. The escort we had, you see, was a Kashmiri soldier and the military on patrol was Indian, so the rivalry I mentioned earlier was in play here. I breathed a sigh of relief when we were allowed to pass. We dropped off out escort but were stopped 4 times more before exiting the city bounds. Each time I thought we'd have to turn back especially when the road was blocked by two rows to barbed wire, but they moved it aside for us with some persuasion, and in a couple of hours we arrived at the house where we'd be spending the night. It belonged to a gypsy family, a title which means they're hill people who move up and down the mountains with the change of seasons. One of the women lead me down a treacherous hillside in the pitch black and we stepped into the sparse yet cozy room where we drank tea and ate dinner and drank more tea before bedtime. Though we couldn't communicate because of the language barrier, it was pleasant to observe family life as usual going on around me and I went to bed content and excited.
During my sleep, I had a nightmare that it was raining and we couldn't go. I started awake and relaxed ...until I looked outside. Torrential downpour. I knew I had been getting too lucky with the weather, but did my first real shower have to come on the worst day possible?! We had breakfast and I alternately played with the adorable kids and wallowed in my disappointment until about 10:30am when the rain had let up enough that I could go.
Because of the downpour, the paths were too slippery and dangerous for us to go up any steep inclines so we were forced to stay in the valley, another let down, but I was happy to be going at all. The hiking was nice, if a bit wet (actually quite a bit wet and if I hadn't been so happy just to go at all, I might have been complaining) and there were still pretty spots for photos and so on. On our way back, me and my guide stopped for hot coffee at the tent of Mustafa's friend Rafiq. Rafiq sat like a king wrapped in blankets at the end of the tent opposite the entrance puffing away on his cigarette and sipping from his mug. He was fantastically cheerful and easy to talk to, he insisted that I have a second steaming hot mug of coffee and an extra cookie--he said he could tell I'd been a bit down when I entered and as the liquid ran through my veins infusing them with its warmth, I realized he was right and admitted so, but I was really feeling much better already. When we left the tent, the rain had stopped and the clouds had given way to magnificent glimpses of snow dusted peaks. The first snowfall of the season had happened while we were sleeping.
The air was brisk, the colors were fresh after the rainfall and the rest of the walk along the river flew by and I wanted more so I got Mustafa to agree to let me walk part way along the route back. By the time I'd scarfed down a late lunch and got on my way, the mist had cleared a bit more leaving behind one of nature's masterpieces on display. From the river at the bottom of the valley, green and brown mountains rose sharply on either side forming a V which elegantly framed a monstrous snowy summit displaying it in all its glory decorated by a few small lingering clouds. I craned my neck to continue to view this surreal picture and snap just one more photograph in attempts to package it up for later enjoyment (no use I'm afraid except to jog my memory of the real thing). Lost in admiration I somehow went astray (though I didn't notice any turn offs) and luckily the father of the gypsy household where we'd stayed spotted me and pointed me in the right direction--up a steep muddy hillside to a narrow steeper path covered in loose rocks which after some amount of time lead to the correct road. Oops. It pulled at my heartstrings to leave such an amazing spot so quickly, but after all, I had places to go.
It was on that walk that I came to an important conclusion about the nature of myself. Let me explain; there are two kinds of people in the world--you are either a mountain person or a beach person. This does not mean that you cannot thoroughly enjoy both locations--for many years, I thought I could be an inbetweener, but these of course only exist in myth and fable. One landscape will always edge out the other even if by the smallest degree. Over the course of my travels I have had a unique opportunity to access this quality in myself as I have moved rapidly from beaches to mountain ranges and vise versa in Vietnam, Thailand and now India. Allowing for a small margin of error due to the potentially unfair powers of persuasion the Himalayas have merely by being themselves, I think I can finally conclude that I am a mountain person at the core. Beaches may warm my heart and hands, but mountains whisper to my soul.
Long story short, I ran into a plethora of road blocks and irritations and was really not in the best of spirits when I arrived hours later at a travel agency (not the first I'd been to) to ask about jumping on a tour of Old Delhi. (I did not have the will nor the wakeful brain cells needed to navigate it myself at this point.) Suddenly, my luck changed. A young, well spoken travel agent named Janna saw that I was about to break and helped me figure out how to configure the next couple of weeks travel to get to the places I had in mind beginning by booking a package deal that included a plane ticket to Srinagar and 2 nights room and board in a houseboat plus he threw in a driver to take me around Delhi that afternoon! Splendid! And he invited me for dinner that evening--the cherry on top. I rode off in my air condition sedan to see Humayun's Tomb and Akshardham Temple--two sprawling and magnificent complexes (very old and very new respectively) that took me far from the unpleasantness of Delhi's chaos and dirt. Dinner at Janna's house was delicious, after which I enjoyed my nice room until too late--gotta get my money's worth--and then fell into a deep dreamless slumber.
The next morning began abruptly. My deep slumber lead to oversleeping and I was biting my nails all the way to the airport so that I barely registered Janna on the driver's phone telling me there was a strike in Srinagar but not to worry--it was perfectly safe. I made my flight with no trouble and began reading my lonely planet's Srinagar section. 'DO NOT under ANY circumstances' it said ' book a package deal from Delhi that includes a stay in a houseboat.' It went on to list a bunch of really convincing reasons why not to do this. Although I could not imagine that Janna, who was so exceptionally kind, would deceive me, a rather large knot formed in my stomach. As the plane descended over the snow capped peaks of the Himalayas, I was temporarily distracted from my fears by their beauty but when the plane touched down the knot was right back in its place.
To appreciate this next portion of the story, a little background information is necessary. Srinagar is in Kashmir which is the northern most state in India at the very tippity top. In 2000, Bill Clinton named Kashmir the most dangerous place on earth. Here's why: when India gained independence from British colonization, it was disputed whether ownership of Kashmir should go to India or to Pakistan and much bloodshed took place at the border as a result. Truth be told the people of Kashmir would generally prefer neither; they would like to be free to be Kashmiri if you will, without India or Pakistan's interference. As it were, things did not turn out that way and much to Kashmir's dismay and frustration India sent in a heavy military occupation to keep things under control--also a violent business, at least at first. In the recent couple of years past, both India and Pakistan have relaxed their efforts making for a much calmer situation, however, the place is still overrun with Indian military patrol. I don't know if this analogy works, but I'm putting it in anyway, because it makes sense to me. Say Kashmir is Texas. Bare with me here. Both Mexico and the US want Texas, but the US clearly has it (Mexico is Pakistan and the US is India in this wierd parallel). Texas however would prefer to be a lone ranger. Even as a part of the US, Texas flies its own flag, and its people appear to have more state loyalty than they have allegiance to the nation as a whole. Think how Texas would react if the US sent in a bunch of soldiers to make sure there was no funny business and to keep Texas pride and flag flying, as it were, to a minimum. Agree that the Texans wouldn't just take it lying down? ok.
Back to topic--every so often, the Kashmiri people attempt to protest India's hold with some sort of strike or demonstration. When I was on my way there, one such protest was in the works and in order to prevent it from being carried to fruition, a curfew had been placed on Srinagar and no one was allowed to move about or even leave their homes. As you can imagine, this caused some difficulty on the way from the airport to the houseboat (which I was dreading anyway due to the warning I'd just belatedly received in print). Keep in mind that I did not know what a curfew looked like, let alone that that's what all the fuss was about, when I tell you my jeep was stopped in excess of 15 times (I lost rack) by armed military personnel on the way. Some stops were longer than others and I had to show my passport and flight ticket stub (thank goodness I still had it) a number of times.
We reached the houseboat eventually and it turned out to be fine and I was served decent food and there was no sketchy anything to worry about after all. Phew. That afternoon, I took a really relaxing and scenic shikara (certain loungy partially covered boat) ride around Nagin and Dal lakes and got a chance to admire the reflection of the mountains in the glassy water. For the next two days, I had arranged a trek outside the city. Mustafa, the houseboat owner (who looked exactly like someone who's name would be Mustafa by the way) guessed the curfew would be lifted (they usually only last between a few hours and a day) or that if it weren't we'd be able to pass anyway once we explained out purpose and because we would be leaving the city, not entering it.
At 9am sharp I was packed and ready to go when I was informed that the curfew was being much more heavily enforced than usual and we couldn't leave. Mustafa had gotten a permit from the magistrate but they wouldn't accept it or even let him come and tell me himself--he had to call and send a neighbor. I groaned at this news and my heart sunk; I'd been dreaming about trekking in the Himalayas for so long and now, because I was on such a tight schedule, I couldn't extend my stay in Srinagar which meant I might only get one day in. Confined to the houseboat, I tried to enjoy the day, but even the warm sun and pretty surroundings couldn't cheer my spirits. Mustafa said there was a chance we may be able to leave that afternoon, but hours passed with no word.
At 5pm, I'd just resigned myself to another night in the houseboat and was practicing yoga on the roof as a means to keep from falling into the pit of despair when Mustafa showed up and said to be ready in 5 minutes. I was and we hopped into the car with the military escort he'd procured through various friends and bribes. I wrongly assumed that having a man in uniform along with us would make the check points a breeze. The first time we were stopped, it was for almost 20 anxious minutes. The escort we had, you see, was a Kashmiri soldier and the military on patrol was Indian, so the rivalry I mentioned earlier was in play here. I breathed a sigh of relief when we were allowed to pass. We dropped off out escort but were stopped 4 times more before exiting the city bounds. Each time I thought we'd have to turn back especially when the road was blocked by two rows to barbed wire, but they moved it aside for us with some persuasion, and in a couple of hours we arrived at the house where we'd be spending the night. It belonged to a gypsy family, a title which means they're hill people who move up and down the mountains with the change of seasons. One of the women lead me down a treacherous hillside in the pitch black and we stepped into the sparse yet cozy room where we drank tea and ate dinner and drank more tea before bedtime. Though we couldn't communicate because of the language barrier, it was pleasant to observe family life as usual going on around me and I went to bed content and excited.
During my sleep, I had a nightmare that it was raining and we couldn't go. I started awake and relaxed ...until I looked outside. Torrential downpour. I knew I had been getting too lucky with the weather, but did my first real shower have to come on the worst day possible?! We had breakfast and I alternately played with the adorable kids and wallowed in my disappointment until about 10:30am when the rain had let up enough that I could go.
Because of the downpour, the paths were too slippery and dangerous for us to go up any steep inclines so we were forced to stay in the valley, another let down, but I was happy to be going at all. The hiking was nice, if a bit wet (actually quite a bit wet and if I hadn't been so happy just to go at all, I might have been complaining) and there were still pretty spots for photos and so on. On our way back, me and my guide stopped for hot coffee at the tent of Mustafa's friend Rafiq. Rafiq sat like a king wrapped in blankets at the end of the tent opposite the entrance puffing away on his cigarette and sipping from his mug. He was fantastically cheerful and easy to talk to, he insisted that I have a second steaming hot mug of coffee and an extra cookie--he said he could tell I'd been a bit down when I entered and as the liquid ran through my veins infusing them with its warmth, I realized he was right and admitted so, but I was really feeling much better already. When we left the tent, the rain had stopped and the clouds had given way to magnificent glimpses of snow dusted peaks. The first snowfall of the season had happened while we were sleeping.
The air was brisk, the colors were fresh after the rainfall and the rest of the walk along the river flew by and I wanted more so I got Mustafa to agree to let me walk part way along the route back. By the time I'd scarfed down a late lunch and got on my way, the mist had cleared a bit more leaving behind one of nature's masterpieces on display. From the river at the bottom of the valley, green and brown mountains rose sharply on either side forming a V which elegantly framed a monstrous snowy summit displaying it in all its glory decorated by a few small lingering clouds. I craned my neck to continue to view this surreal picture and snap just one more photograph in attempts to package it up for later enjoyment (no use I'm afraid except to jog my memory of the real thing). Lost in admiration I somehow went astray (though I didn't notice any turn offs) and luckily the father of the gypsy household where we'd stayed spotted me and pointed me in the right direction--up a steep muddy hillside to a narrow steeper path covered in loose rocks which after some amount of time lead to the correct road. Oops. It pulled at my heartstrings to leave such an amazing spot so quickly, but after all, I had places to go.
It was on that walk that I came to an important conclusion about the nature of myself. Let me explain; there are two kinds of people in the world--you are either a mountain person or a beach person. This does not mean that you cannot thoroughly enjoy both locations--for many years, I thought I could be an inbetweener, but these of course only exist in myth and fable. One landscape will always edge out the other even if by the smallest degree. Over the course of my travels I have had a unique opportunity to access this quality in myself as I have moved rapidly from beaches to mountain ranges and vise versa in Vietnam, Thailand and now India. Allowing for a small margin of error due to the potentially unfair powers of persuasion the Himalayas have merely by being themselves, I think I can finally conclude that I am a mountain person at the core. Beaches may warm my heart and hands, but mountains whisper to my soul.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
um woops
So I realized that the document I once promised to write elaborating on all of the interesting things I learned during my conversation with Mathew at his house in the backwaters and chatting over toddy never got written (notice I'm not mentioning any names here) and also the paper that with reminders of all those interesting facts got lost (again, no names). Thus I am forced to draw a few of the most interesting ones from the recesses of my mind to share.
The backwaters lie 2-6 meters below sea level as it so happens. They are essentially islands even if the water that separates them isn't very deep (and some of it is). In the dry season all is fine and good, there's just enough water to flood the rice paddies and keep the canals wet, but during monsoon season there's a problem. A couple of problems actually. The first is that when it gets wet, the mud the houses are standing on gets, well, muddy and the houses that were built before building techniques were sound (most of the houses) sink a little and then the mud settles back. So all the houses are sinking. Mathew remembers growing up in a house with three steps up to the doorstep; when I was there, there was one. The second problem is that when the land gets so muddy and flexible like that, pieces can actually be lost. If a house owner can prove that a piece of his land floated away he/she can get permission to take some mud and sand and stuff and build it right back up again--this seems like a ridiculous thing to have to do every year, but such is life in the backwaters. In fact there is a whole class of people who's job it is to pile up the mud again after it has slid into the water. The third problem, and the most obvious is flooding. Mathew explained that when it rained, they usually could tell a few hours in advance that the house would flood and would have just enough time to put the furniture up on bricks and roll up the carpets. He and his sister would then sit on the kitchen table and fish. That's not a joke, they could catch fish inside their house! Aren't the powers of human adaptability amazing-- I can't imagine adjusting to this annual routine, but here's a whole group of people who have done just that.
As for the politics portion of our discussion, the recesses of my mind have not retained the clear details of the ins and outs we covered. I do remember, however, being really interested in how much autonomy the state governments have. This was not unexpected--each state has its own feel, its own food, the people have state pride and would consider themselves 'foreigners' in another state, so it makes sense that the governments would be fairly disconnected from each other as well. In fact, the central government doesn't seems to really do much at all; parliament does a few small things, but the president is really just a figurehead and it's left to the states to govern themselves. Kerala is dong particularly well, with a 99% literacy rate, great education system, progressive views toward women, it's no wonder travelers love their time there.
The other main topic I picked Mathew's brain about was the healthcare. It seems that unlike the people in less developed areas, Keralans reserve Ayurvedic treatments for less serious ailments and persistent but minor problems that are more likely to be helped by herbal medicine and use western medicine for serious illness and acute treatment--a nice blend in my opinion.
The rest of the details of our talk are either forgotten or would be too mundane to discuss here, but it was a lovely and informative couple of chats and it's a nice memory. (Mathew and I are still in touch by email and I hope that continues for many years.)
The backwaters lie 2-6 meters below sea level as it so happens. They are essentially islands even if the water that separates them isn't very deep (and some of it is). In the dry season all is fine and good, there's just enough water to flood the rice paddies and keep the canals wet, but during monsoon season there's a problem. A couple of problems actually. The first is that when it gets wet, the mud the houses are standing on gets, well, muddy and the houses that were built before building techniques were sound (most of the houses) sink a little and then the mud settles back. So all the houses are sinking. Mathew remembers growing up in a house with three steps up to the doorstep; when I was there, there was one. The second problem is that when the land gets so muddy and flexible like that, pieces can actually be lost. If a house owner can prove that a piece of his land floated away he/she can get permission to take some mud and sand and stuff and build it right back up again--this seems like a ridiculous thing to have to do every year, but such is life in the backwaters. In fact there is a whole class of people who's job it is to pile up the mud again after it has slid into the water. The third problem, and the most obvious is flooding. Mathew explained that when it rained, they usually could tell a few hours in advance that the house would flood and would have just enough time to put the furniture up on bricks and roll up the carpets. He and his sister would then sit on the kitchen table and fish. That's not a joke, they could catch fish inside their house! Aren't the powers of human adaptability amazing-- I can't imagine adjusting to this annual routine, but here's a whole group of people who have done just that.
As for the politics portion of our discussion, the recesses of my mind have not retained the clear details of the ins and outs we covered. I do remember, however, being really interested in how much autonomy the state governments have. This was not unexpected--each state has its own feel, its own food, the people have state pride and would consider themselves 'foreigners' in another state, so it makes sense that the governments would be fairly disconnected from each other as well. In fact, the central government doesn't seems to really do much at all; parliament does a few small things, but the president is really just a figurehead and it's left to the states to govern themselves. Kerala is dong particularly well, with a 99% literacy rate, great education system, progressive views toward women, it's no wonder travelers love their time there.
The other main topic I picked Mathew's brain about was the healthcare. It seems that unlike the people in less developed areas, Keralans reserve Ayurvedic treatments for less serious ailments and persistent but minor problems that are more likely to be helped by herbal medicine and use western medicine for serious illness and acute treatment--a nice blend in my opinion.
The rest of the details of our talk are either forgotten or would be too mundane to discuss here, but it was a lovely and informative couple of chats and it's a nice memory. (Mathew and I are still in touch by email and I hope that continues for many years.)
Friday, October 10, 2008
Chocolates, Tea and Company
Phew, this one has been sitting in my notebook for too long!
I'd just finished a very disappointing Black current blast at Cafe Coffee Day (the Indian equivalent of Starbucks--they're everywhere, they're overpriced, what you order rarely looks quite as big or tasty as the picture; And yet I continue to seek out the recognizable red and purple sign for the predictable decor and air conditioning and buy a drink to earn the privilege of s[pending some time on the cookie cute couches and chairs that beckon me so.) Anyway, I was thinking that 'black current blast' (as good as it should be from the sound of it that is) is a perfect description for my stay in Ooty; it was rich, creamy, refreshing (unlike the beverage I'd just had) and I was sad when it finished. As the bus from Coimbatore climbed into the hills the air went from stuffy and hot to crisp and clear and cool. Still 60 km away I knew I would like Ooty just from the feel of the wind on my cheeks. The bus arrived after dark with aid of some expert maneuvering by the driver who seemed to fear neither the drop off on our left nor the truck, bus or what have you inches (very literally, inches.) from us on the right. ( I cannot say the same of the woman sitting in the adjacent seat who kept reaching all the way across me to enhance her grip during the curves--there were many-- and looked seconds away from quitting the bus and marching her way back down to sea level.)
At night, in Ooty, it's just barely cold enough to see your breath; I found it to be the perfect temperature for pants, a light jacket and flip flops, though I was under-dressed by Ooty's standards--many residents sported coats and knit hats after dark. (It was a total hoot to see Indians in ski gear!) But then of course I do have Chicago in my blood. After finding a cozy place to stay, I dropped my bags and headed out for a stroll before it got too late. I soon found myself at the inviting line of tea and snack stands across from the bus station. There I had a plate of baniburi which set me back a mere 8 rupees and was a hot delicious mess of I'm not really sure what, but it resembled some type of chaat. After the bite to eat, I headed back to my guesthouse to snuggle up under the thick blanket as there was no heat in the place. It did however have a working TV which to my surprise and delight had english stations. I thoroughly enjoyed having access to Seinfeld, Friends and other familiars over the next couple of nights--you see this is the first TV I'd had available to me in weeks and weeks, thus instead of a timesucking distraction from activities that require higher intellect, it was a rare delicacy to be cherished as such, so I did. The next day I spent strolling around (despite the abundance of livestock, even more than usual, roaming the streets, they maintained a certain charm) visiting the lovely botanic gardens and sampling Ooty's famed homemade chocolates. The chocolate shops pepper the streets like tea stalls (there's one every 10 meters or less) and I took it upon myself to sample one flavor and then another and then another to make sure the excellent quality of the first two wasn't a fluke. By the end of the day, I was a few bites away form an upset stomach and had concluded that Ooty's reputation for good chocolates was well deserved. (I had also indulged in a few teas since Ooty's climate makes sipping a hot cup of anything so much more appealing than usual--it was prime tea sipping and chocolate eating circumstances.)
My second day in Ooty I'd arranged to go on a trek. I'd wanted to see the surrounding scenery and also figured it might draw some other tourists out from wherever they were hiding since I'd spotted none up to that point. My guide Vincent and I did briefly cross paths with a group of dutch people traveling together but other that that it was us and the tea plantations. Though the lack of company was a disappointment, our trip through the Nilgiri-meaning blue mountain- countryside was very pleasant. The hills were steep enough but not too steep and there were lovely views to be had all around. The green bushes of the tea plantations with windy paths running every which way through them and the interspersed trees oddly sheered so as to let in the sunlight reminded me of something you might find in a Dr. Seuss book-- fantastical and striking in a slightly silly way. Beyond the tea lay small villages (only 6-10 families in each) dotting the hills and other crops neatly planted in an ascending rectangular patchwork, beyond that the blue mountains that give the place it's name. Vincent and I climbed to a view point and the clouds below us (yes below us) cleared just enough to afford a spectacular vista. That night I soaked up some more cool air before descending the next day to Mysore-astanga yoga mecca.
After a long bus ride and lugging my bags around to find a place to stay, I was a bit frustrated and in desperate need of some company. I befriended a couple of girls in the hotel cantine--Melina and Kate--who also had recently arrived to practice yoga and they recommended Ajay's shala. I was torn between studying with Ajay or Sheshadri; after a sweaty hour and a half class with each (the same day mind you) every slightest movement down to the lift of a finger was a painful, achy effort and I had loved both. I agonized but ended up deciding that Ajay's space had more the vibe I was seeking. I took class again Friday morning (ouch) and then as there was a couple days asthanga yoga holiday because of the full moon (I don't get it either) zipped up to Bangalore to visit Gingie--my college running buddy and also one of my favorite people around. Her lovely apartment was an escape from India; with its hot water, clean floors and peanut butter supply, I was living in the lap of luxury. Plus, it was splendidly relaxing and joyous to be with a close friend--something I hadn't done in too long. These pleasures made for a speedy weekend and a rough reentry into vagabond Indian style life, but it was delicious retreat while it lasted. Once I returned to Mysore the rest of the week flew by. I spent my time in the yoga studio, and out doing Mysore things and hangin' with Kate and Melina. the Mysore Palace was pretty spectacular in daylight but a nighttime, it really became a fairy tale illuminated as it was by thousands of tiny lights in honor of Dasara, a ten day festival that began Oct 1. Dasara also gave rise to a pretty kickin parade that I caught by chance coming out of an internet cafe--headdresses stints, the whole shebang. The Devaraja market was one of the most colorful and bustling I've seen yet--shockingly bright hues of powdered kum kum (dye) was sold alongside incense, various oils, flowers galore and produce--the number of bananas there was out of control.
Unfortunately on Wednesday I wrenched my neck somehow and suddenly could barely move it without intense pain. Ajay took me aside and told me to relax as he gently wobbled my head back and forth and then THWAK! He thrust my chin hard to the left and my neck let out a large crack. After I'd recovered from surprise, this seemed to provide relief for a moment but within minutes the pain was back. Per Ajay's recommendation, that afternoon I went to a local chiropractor, Parmesh, who performed a combination of bone setting, stretching and ayurvedic massage on my neck and shoulders. I found it helped quite a bit and went back again the next day too. I'd never wish injury upon myself, but the diamond in the rough is that my neck trouble gave me the chance to really put some alternative medicine to test and to my delight, it passed with flying colors. Friday snuck up on me and after a fun night cooking in with Melina and Kate, I was on my way to Delhi lost in anxious anticipation of what North India had in store.
I'd just finished a very disappointing Black current blast at Cafe Coffee Day (the Indian equivalent of Starbucks--they're everywhere, they're overpriced, what you order rarely looks quite as big or tasty as the picture; And yet I continue to seek out the recognizable red and purple sign for the predictable decor and air conditioning and buy a drink to earn the privilege of s[pending some time on the cookie cute couches and chairs that beckon me so.) Anyway, I was thinking that 'black current blast' (as good as it should be from the sound of it that is) is a perfect description for my stay in Ooty; it was rich, creamy, refreshing (unlike the beverage I'd just had) and I was sad when it finished. As the bus from Coimbatore climbed into the hills the air went from stuffy and hot to crisp and clear and cool. Still 60 km away I knew I would like Ooty just from the feel of the wind on my cheeks. The bus arrived after dark with aid of some expert maneuvering by the driver who seemed to fear neither the drop off on our left nor the truck, bus or what have you inches (very literally, inches.) from us on the right. ( I cannot say the same of the woman sitting in the adjacent seat who kept reaching all the way across me to enhance her grip during the curves--there were many-- and looked seconds away from quitting the bus and marching her way back down to sea level.)
At night, in Ooty, it's just barely cold enough to see your breath; I found it to be the perfect temperature for pants, a light jacket and flip flops, though I was under-dressed by Ooty's standards--many residents sported coats and knit hats after dark. (It was a total hoot to see Indians in ski gear!) But then of course I do have Chicago in my blood. After finding a cozy place to stay, I dropped my bags and headed out for a stroll before it got too late. I soon found myself at the inviting line of tea and snack stands across from the bus station. There I had a plate of baniburi which set me back a mere 8 rupees and was a hot delicious mess of I'm not really sure what, but it resembled some type of chaat. After the bite to eat, I headed back to my guesthouse to snuggle up under the thick blanket as there was no heat in the place. It did however have a working TV which to my surprise and delight had english stations. I thoroughly enjoyed having access to Seinfeld, Friends and other familiars over the next couple of nights--you see this is the first TV I'd had available to me in weeks and weeks, thus instead of a timesucking distraction from activities that require higher intellect, it was a rare delicacy to be cherished as such, so I did. The next day I spent strolling around (despite the abundance of livestock, even more than usual, roaming the streets, they maintained a certain charm) visiting the lovely botanic gardens and sampling Ooty's famed homemade chocolates. The chocolate shops pepper the streets like tea stalls (there's one every 10 meters or less) and I took it upon myself to sample one flavor and then another and then another to make sure the excellent quality of the first two wasn't a fluke. By the end of the day, I was a few bites away form an upset stomach and had concluded that Ooty's reputation for good chocolates was well deserved. (I had also indulged in a few teas since Ooty's climate makes sipping a hot cup of anything so much more appealing than usual--it was prime tea sipping and chocolate eating circumstances.)
My second day in Ooty I'd arranged to go on a trek. I'd wanted to see the surrounding scenery and also figured it might draw some other tourists out from wherever they were hiding since I'd spotted none up to that point. My guide Vincent and I did briefly cross paths with a group of dutch people traveling together but other that that it was us and the tea plantations. Though the lack of company was a disappointment, our trip through the Nilgiri-meaning blue mountain- countryside was very pleasant. The hills were steep enough but not too steep and there were lovely views to be had all around. The green bushes of the tea plantations with windy paths running every which way through them and the interspersed trees oddly sheered so as to let in the sunlight reminded me of something you might find in a Dr. Seuss book-- fantastical and striking in a slightly silly way. Beyond the tea lay small villages (only 6-10 families in each) dotting the hills and other crops neatly planted in an ascending rectangular patchwork, beyond that the blue mountains that give the place it's name. Vincent and I climbed to a view point and the clouds below us (yes below us) cleared just enough to afford a spectacular vista. That night I soaked up some more cool air before descending the next day to Mysore-astanga yoga mecca.
After a long bus ride and lugging my bags around to find a place to stay, I was a bit frustrated and in desperate need of some company. I befriended a couple of girls in the hotel cantine--Melina and Kate--who also had recently arrived to practice yoga and they recommended Ajay's shala. I was torn between studying with Ajay or Sheshadri; after a sweaty hour and a half class with each (the same day mind you) every slightest movement down to the lift of a finger was a painful, achy effort and I had loved both. I agonized but ended up deciding that Ajay's space had more the vibe I was seeking. I took class again Friday morning (ouch) and then as there was a couple days asthanga yoga holiday because of the full moon (I don't get it either) zipped up to Bangalore to visit Gingie--my college running buddy and also one of my favorite people around. Her lovely apartment was an escape from India; with its hot water, clean floors and peanut butter supply, I was living in the lap of luxury. Plus, it was splendidly relaxing and joyous to be with a close friend--something I hadn't done in too long. These pleasures made for a speedy weekend and a rough reentry into vagabond Indian style life, but it was delicious retreat while it lasted. Once I returned to Mysore the rest of the week flew by. I spent my time in the yoga studio, and out doing Mysore things and hangin' with Kate and Melina. the Mysore Palace was pretty spectacular in daylight but a nighttime, it really became a fairy tale illuminated as it was by thousands of tiny lights in honor of Dasara, a ten day festival that began Oct 1. Dasara also gave rise to a pretty kickin parade that I caught by chance coming out of an internet cafe--headdresses stints, the whole shebang. The Devaraja market was one of the most colorful and bustling I've seen yet--shockingly bright hues of powdered kum kum (dye) was sold alongside incense, various oils, flowers galore and produce--the number of bananas there was out of control.
Unfortunately on Wednesday I wrenched my neck somehow and suddenly could barely move it without intense pain. Ajay took me aside and told me to relax as he gently wobbled my head back and forth and then THWAK! He thrust my chin hard to the left and my neck let out a large crack. After I'd recovered from surprise, this seemed to provide relief for a moment but within minutes the pain was back. Per Ajay's recommendation, that afternoon I went to a local chiropractor, Parmesh, who performed a combination of bone setting, stretching and ayurvedic massage on my neck and shoulders. I found it helped quite a bit and went back again the next day too. I'd never wish injury upon myself, but the diamond in the rough is that my neck trouble gave me the chance to really put some alternative medicine to test and to my delight, it passed with flying colors. Friday snuck up on me and after a fun night cooking in with Melina and Kate, I was on my way to Delhi lost in anxious anticipation of what North India had in store.
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