I want to share a story I never got around to typing from last year. It was the last event of my trip and was to fulfill a promise to JP. He had asked me to volunteer one day with the Sister's of Charity, Mother Theresa's outfit. When I enquired to the organization I thought that they'd have me ladling dal somewhere. Instead I was told that I could help at the House of the Dying.
After learning that I had no useful skills, the sister who I met told me just to hang out with them, to "love them". That's when the journey began I guess. I was chilling in this courtyard with maybe a hundred "dying". Several of them were rather quick to come up and start fondling me. I did my best to put on a smile and be friendly. One guy had down syndrome and really wanted to hold my hand, while he started undressing. I didn't know what to do. Luckily another patient came up and led the guy away. Then some dude covered in small pox or something came up and insisted on being touchy feely. I decided that I couldn't be in too much danger, but this is a ridiculous thought because nowhere in India is safety anyone's concern, let alone someone else's. It quickly dawned on me that other than a PG-13 orgy with the dying that I had no other way to "love them". I didn't speak enough Hindi and they spoke no English. I felt as if it was pointless for me to be there so I apologized to the sister and told her that I think I have gone in over my head, and that I hoped that she (and JP) would understand my predicament.
On the way home I tried to figure out the significance of that event in my life. Inside the House of the Dying, at the center of everyone's attention, I failed to notice, but once I left, it dawned on me that outside that House, everyday India is actually worse. This is no joke or exaggeration. The only qualification that needs to be made is that here the diseased people who approached me did so purely with friendly intentions, unlike the occasional leper that hops up and begins poking you with his nub in an effort to extort money from you on the street.
As I walked in some random direction waiting to stumble upon some dozing auto-walla, I was more aware, for some reason, of all this, what, inhumanity. In those I see sitting or lying in the gutter or at the street's edge I'm taking JP's challenge to meet their gaze, see them as myself, and recognize their suffering. Come here, do that, and then tell me it's their fault that they're so destitute, because I too need a free conscience while I continue to build my estate.
If you spend enough time here you might get used to it, I thought I did, the Indian elite have. And I don't think the middle class even know it exist, that is, the disease, starvation, and who knows what.
I could have begun this blog in the train station before I left for Orissa. I was making my way to the platform, in somewhat sad shape having picked up the revenge again. You know what happens when you drink the water. As I climbed the stairs I see two of Delhi's "finest" standing over a guy obviously in either great pain or none. He was in bad, bad shape. One leg had a severe case of "elephantiasis". It had swollen so quickly that the skin could not keep up, from what I could tell. There were gigantic gashes where the skin had split. They seemed to be bone deep, measuring in inches directly above the shin. The outermost layer, what should have been skin was charred in appearance, dead, rotten, I don't know, and gradually "improved" as you looked deeper, until it became a nice shimmering, bloody red. He lay on the steps, a crumpled mess. The cops were having a heated discussion. I'm guessing because the man was also literally foaming at the mouth, probably bitten by one of the thousands of rats that, like him, call the train station home. The policemen appeared to be trying to figure out what to do with him as he wasn't going anywhere, even if he willed it (assuming he was still alive), and he couldn't remain such a “menace” to those trying to catch trains. I'm sure the last place they would have him taken is to the hospital, as he clearly could not afford treatment. Otherwise he would've had the filariasis treated long ago, and who knows, to comfort some, gotten a haircut…maybe worn something.
The samaritans, the pretty, the privileged (myself included), gauked while passing in a wide arch around but his gaze remained fixed on That.
I still hate myself. Seeing what I see, knowing what I know, what have I done. Nothing. I do nothing. The understanding that I am not a righteous child of Something, not cosmopolitan, and not even civilized, does nothing. In effect, it is hollow hypocrisy. No dignity left--farewell to India.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Orissa
Orissa, like Gujurat, was high on my list because I had hoped to find the India of my imagination, rather than the one that actually is. The state presented me with several obstacles. The relatively deficient tourist infrastructure leads to high priced taxi chartering and such to see the highlights. Being stingy I opted to just chill on the beach with a couple of day trips tossed in.
The first, about 10 days into my stay was to Konark, famous for its sun temple. I wasn't really impressed. Back in the day, before it was a ruin it also happened to be very near the shore. I'm sure it was much better then.
From there I headed to some village I don't know the name of. Traveling a narrow path not much wider than a sidewalk for over 20 km, I passed some spectacular, yet typical Orissan village life. The countryside was either beautiful or absolutely harsh, or both, and it wasn’t even summer here. I eventually found myself on the outer limits of one such village. It’s moments like these, when you've just put yourself through hell on Indian public transportation and step into silence and the 16th century, that you know why someone comes here.
Puri, the seaside village where I spent a vast majority of my time, just studying, working out, eating okay, and getting some sun, was a good place to both recuperate from too much time in Delhi and also rest for the upcoming trip through UP, Bihar, and up to Sikkim. The people were great and even the most poor seemed to know English, which is unusual in India. It opened a new world to me, being able to communicate with them and develop friendships over my two weeks there. I won't bore you with details but the conversations ranged from the day to day difficulties endured by the small-time chai-walla on the street, whose hygiene was terrifying but whose personality was great, to the inside scoop, from a woman no less, on who's sleeping with who. Fascinating stuff.
Something I don't wanna forget is the discussion I had at the above mentioned chai stand with a neighboring businessman. There was some westerner wandering the town whose gender was questionable. I mean, she was a giant. Bigger than me, housin, and yet had bigger "things" than most women. Her gait, her posture, her face, everything about her said she wasn't a female, except her clothes and "things". This other shop owner, after she had passed, asked me, "Is that a man or a woman?" I had to laugh because I was struggling to figure it out myself. In LA its normal, but here, and not hijra? I told him I think it’s a she. He said, "But he looks like a man." I agreed, but insisted she be considered a woman. He said, "I will ask when he comes back." I was cracking up, and told him that probably wasn't a good idea, but he wanted to know why. So I tried to explain that in our society such an intrusive question could be very offensive. He replied, in all sincerity, "But I need to know. How am I supposed to call him to my shop? Sir? Maam? It is a problem." Is that shit funny or did you have to be there?
I had made plans to wake early the next day and go explore the old city. I had heard that it was quite special. As luck would have it I woke about 4:30 am. It was the day after India's last cricket match. I had gone to bed before the game ended, and at this hour everyone was of course still sleeping, and I was locked in the hotel. I prodded the dude sleeping near the door. He kind of woke up and said "fuck India". I understood then that they had lost, and that he wasn't awake yet. Eventually I got the key.
I set out in search of some supposedly famous place of Krishna worship but never found it. I did manage to happen upon a cremation ground and my rickshaw-walla arranged for me to take some photos. I was so close to the heat that even at 6 am I was sweating like Delhi in July. I don't know. Somehow these images aren't the same once you've experienced it before. I hung my head equally in respect and shame as I departed.
On my way out of Puri I passed the village of Dhauri or something. Here Asoka placed an edict announcing his acceptance of Buddhist principles and encouraging the people here to also adopt dhamma, or non-violence and righteousness and etc., as their way of life. I think he stopped short of crediting his destruction of these people as instrumental in his conversion, and later Buddhists are said to have embellished the story to propagate the teaching. This is not to diminish Asoka's sincerity or anything.
The first, about 10 days into my stay was to Konark, famous for its sun temple. I wasn't really impressed. Back in the day, before it was a ruin it also happened to be very near the shore. I'm sure it was much better then.
From there I headed to some village I don't know the name of. Traveling a narrow path not much wider than a sidewalk for over 20 km, I passed some spectacular, yet typical Orissan village life. The countryside was either beautiful or absolutely harsh, or both, and it wasn’t even summer here. I eventually found myself on the outer limits of one such village. It’s moments like these, when you've just put yourself through hell on Indian public transportation and step into silence and the 16th century, that you know why someone comes here.
Puri, the seaside village where I spent a vast majority of my time, just studying, working out, eating okay, and getting some sun, was a good place to both recuperate from too much time in Delhi and also rest for the upcoming trip through UP, Bihar, and up to Sikkim. The people were great and even the most poor seemed to know English, which is unusual in India. It opened a new world to me, being able to communicate with them and develop friendships over my two weeks there. I won't bore you with details but the conversations ranged from the day to day difficulties endured by the small-time chai-walla on the street, whose hygiene was terrifying but whose personality was great, to the inside scoop, from a woman no less, on who's sleeping with who. Fascinating stuff.
Something I don't wanna forget is the discussion I had at the above mentioned chai stand with a neighboring businessman. There was some westerner wandering the town whose gender was questionable. I mean, she was a giant. Bigger than me, housin, and yet had bigger "things" than most women. Her gait, her posture, her face, everything about her said she wasn't a female, except her clothes and "things". This other shop owner, after she had passed, asked me, "Is that a man or a woman?" I had to laugh because I was struggling to figure it out myself. In LA its normal, but here, and not hijra? I told him I think it’s a she. He said, "But he looks like a man." I agreed, but insisted she be considered a woman. He said, "I will ask when he comes back." I was cracking up, and told him that probably wasn't a good idea, but he wanted to know why. So I tried to explain that in our society such an intrusive question could be very offensive. He replied, in all sincerity, "But I need to know. How am I supposed to call him to my shop? Sir? Maam? It is a problem." Is that shit funny or did you have to be there?
I had made plans to wake early the next day and go explore the old city. I had heard that it was quite special. As luck would have it I woke about 4:30 am. It was the day after India's last cricket match. I had gone to bed before the game ended, and at this hour everyone was of course still sleeping, and I was locked in the hotel. I prodded the dude sleeping near the door. He kind of woke up and said "fuck India". I understood then that they had lost, and that he wasn't awake yet. Eventually I got the key.
I set out in search of some supposedly famous place of Krishna worship but never found it. I did manage to happen upon a cremation ground and my rickshaw-walla arranged for me to take some photos. I was so close to the heat that even at 6 am I was sweating like Delhi in July. I don't know. Somehow these images aren't the same once you've experienced it before. I hung my head equally in respect and shame as I departed.
On my way out of Puri I passed the village of Dhauri or something. Here Asoka placed an edict announcing his acceptance of Buddhist principles and encouraging the people here to also adopt dhamma, or non-violence and righteousness and etc., as their way of life. I think he stopped short of crediting his destruction of these people as instrumental in his conversion, and later Buddhists are said to have embellished the story to propagate the teaching. This is not to diminish Asoka's sincerity or anything.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Bombs and Monkeys
Dharamsala might be familiar to most of you by now, as the administrative and perhaps spiritual center of the exiled Tibetan community. The Dalai Lama also lives here and as luck would have it is currently giving a series of public lectures. This particular part of my journey I wanted to take time to feel out the place as I may turn the Tibetans into a dissertation project, if I'm so lucky. That, and I was acting courier for a donation to a Geshe at the Tibetan Library.
I didn't realize that Dharamsala's other name could be Little America. The number of Californians here probably equals the total number of other tourists, which combined equals the number of Tibetans. The place is overran with gringos (called gora here) sporting their renunciate-orange Oakleys, pretty dreadlocks, and carefully chosen trendy hippy gear. As a result I was unable to secure a hotel room and had to settle for a roof-top under-the-stars experience, the duration of my stay in Dharamsala, during which I pondered the following:
This roof is better than any hotel I've stayed in. A million suns against a milky-black infinity, a large Tibetan prayer flag rippling directly overhead in a crisp early spring breeze, and the thought of being assaulted by monkeys as I sleep gives way to a question I need to spend more time on, that of the difference between courage and stupidity.
The question has been in the back of my mind for some time, that of courage and stupidity. It surfaces here as I solo under the stars and everytime I board an Indian train, as these things derail, explode, or burn daily. You see, invariably some disaster has preceeded a trip, or at least they're always fresh in my mind. For example, right before this journey (three days maybe) a couple of militants torched the so-called Peace Train on its way to Delhi from at least as far as the Pakistan border. And now I'm headed to the Jammu border, and won't be far from where a number of tourists dissappear every year, usually from some valley the name I don't recall.
Bombs, monkeys...why? A thousand stares, a few pics, and a couple of smiles? Is that all? If so, than I am definitely stupid.
Then there are those moments when, with a bitter-sweet hint, I say to myself, "you're not in Kansas anymore". Like when I met this Italian dude named Simon on the train, also going to Dharamsala. I had actually seen him first in Paharganj (Delhi). He stood out with his tall, skinny build, shaved head still stained with gulal from playing Holi, and very long brahman ponytail thing. He was the kind of sight most if not all of us would laugh at. Absolutely goofy looking and carrying a sitar to top it all off.
Even at that moment, in Paharganj, I wanted to talk to him. Why do you do this? I would ask. So, when we ran into each other on the train I broke the ice by letting him know how absurdly jealous I was of him with his ability to travel with nothing but a tiny, tiny backpack, sleeping bag, and sitar. That was until I saw him locking up another giant backpack under the seat (I learned later that half this stuff was just what he could carry when the circus he traveled with broke down in Turkey...his load was half circus props!). He chuckled and said that he really needs to give away some of his things.
He had come to India via a land route from Italy. Think about that for a second. A person all of us would have picked on in highschool, traveling alone through Greece, Turkey, Iran, and Pakistan, to finally reach India. I'm reminded of the strength and courage of Napoleon Dynamite as evidenced in the final scene (the dance sequence). How many of us would attempt such a thing?
On the bus the next day, we discussed the difference of him not being American and making that journey. He said although his trip was excellent and he was treated very well, that he met a woman, in Iran if I remember correctly, who had an American visa in her passport (I don't remember where she was from) and who received some degree of trouble for it.
He told me that Iran appears to be on the verge of another revolution, a social revolution. He said the women don't like covering up. That ullama get harassed in public. And more. He said an American invasion is desired by the Iranian politicians and the decreasingly powerful who would in turn regain their slipping position.
But all this is an aside. The point is that Simon's courage makes me feel like a real chump.
Another "not in Kansas" moment occurred the morning I was to leave Dharamsala. The day before I had visited Geshe Sonam near the Nechung temple (their Oracle) where he stays. With the aid of a translator I asked him a couple of questions I had regarding the Dalai Lama's intentions of future reincarnation and the political difficulties as such if this were to occur within the Tibetan Autonomous Region, currently internationally recognized as China's "problem". He answered (DL will incarnate in a non-Communist territory), I snapped a couple of pics for a professor back home, and headed back up the hill.
As I walked I decided to get a print out of the pic and return one to him later.
The next morning, before most people had stirred (it's far easier to wake up in the morning when I sleep outside for some reason), I stood outside my rooftop home and debated whether to immediately head down to Geshe Sonam and catch him before he left to meet the big DL, or just drop it off with a secretary later. After seemingly several minutes I began my way back down the hill, pic in hand. The moment I reached his home the door opened. Apparently surprised, and dressed in the typical robes of Tibetan monks, he invited me in. He showed me the donation that I had delivered which was actually no good to him as he could not cash the check. I fronted the loot and handed him his pic. To him, and the rest of the monks present, this was probably more than just mere coincidence, and the feeling didn't escape me either. I venture to say that it must be somewhat difficult for even the most vehement non-spiritual person to not feel something in this environment.
I'm compelled to admit some degree of sadness over not being able to make sense of any of this though. But, should I beat myself over it? Wouldn't I just be that much closer (and yet still an eternity away) to knowing everything? And then what would life be but empty? Am I right? Is uncertainty that essential quality of a life lived? In other words, does one existing in absolute certainty "feel" alive? I guess I don't believe so, and that's why I would take the mild risk of being burned alive, a victim of some political struggle I can half sympathize with, to meet people like Simon and Geshe Sonam, interesting characters indeed.
I won't sweat the rest of this right now, in time all will be revealed. ...we all recognize those "way-points" of life sooner or later. As for the question of stupidity and courage, well, I'll content myself with the pursuit of a pure courage. Whatever that is.
[Pics from top to bottom: monks and nuns que up for one of the Dalai Lama's lectures, the prayer flag above and the mountains beyond (taken while in my sleeping bag on the roof, and Geshe Sonam Rinchen]
I didn't realize that Dharamsala's other name could be Little America. The number of Californians here probably equals the total number of other tourists, which combined equals the number of Tibetans. The place is overran with gringos (called gora here) sporting their renunciate-orange Oakleys, pretty dreadlocks, and carefully chosen trendy hippy gear. As a result I was unable to secure a hotel room and had to settle for a roof-top under-the-stars experience, the duration of my stay in Dharamsala, during which I pondered the following:
This roof is better than any hotel I've stayed in. A million suns against a milky-black infinity, a large Tibetan prayer flag rippling directly overhead in a crisp early spring breeze, and the thought of being assaulted by monkeys as I sleep gives way to a question I need to spend more time on, that of the difference between courage and stupidity.
The question has been in the back of my mind for some time, that of courage and stupidity. It surfaces here as I solo under the stars and everytime I board an Indian train, as these things derail, explode, or burn daily. You see, invariably some disaster has preceeded a trip, or at least they're always fresh in my mind. For example, right before this journey (three days maybe) a couple of militants torched the so-called Peace Train on its way to Delhi from at least as far as the Pakistan border. And now I'm headed to the Jammu border, and won't be far from where a number of tourists dissappear every year, usually from some valley the name I don't recall.
Bombs, monkeys...why? A thousand stares, a few pics, and a couple of smiles? Is that all? If so, than I am definitely stupid.
Then there are those moments when, with a bitter-sweet hint, I say to myself, "you're not in Kansas anymore". Like when I met this Italian dude named Simon on the train, also going to Dharamsala. I had actually seen him first in Paharganj (Delhi). He stood out with his tall, skinny build, shaved head still stained with gulal from playing Holi, and very long brahman ponytail thing. He was the kind of sight most if not all of us would laugh at. Absolutely goofy looking and carrying a sitar to top it all off.
Even at that moment, in Paharganj, I wanted to talk to him. Why do you do this? I would ask. So, when we ran into each other on the train I broke the ice by letting him know how absurdly jealous I was of him with his ability to travel with nothing but a tiny, tiny backpack, sleeping bag, and sitar. That was until I saw him locking up another giant backpack under the seat (I learned later that half this stuff was just what he could carry when the circus he traveled with broke down in Turkey...his load was half circus props!). He chuckled and said that he really needs to give away some of his things.
He had come to India via a land route from Italy. Think about that for a second. A person all of us would have picked on in highschool, traveling alone through Greece, Turkey, Iran, and Pakistan, to finally reach India. I'm reminded of the strength and courage of Napoleon Dynamite as evidenced in the final scene (the dance sequence). How many of us would attempt such a thing?
On the bus the next day, we discussed the difference of him not being American and making that journey. He said although his trip was excellent and he was treated very well, that he met a woman, in Iran if I remember correctly, who had an American visa in her passport (I don't remember where she was from) and who received some degree of trouble for it.
He told me that Iran appears to be on the verge of another revolution, a social revolution. He said the women don't like covering up. That ullama get harassed in public. And more. He said an American invasion is desired by the Iranian politicians and the decreasingly powerful who would in turn regain their slipping position.
But all this is an aside. The point is that Simon's courage makes me feel like a real chump.
Another "not in Kansas" moment occurred the morning I was to leave Dharamsala. The day before I had visited Geshe Sonam near the Nechung temple (their Oracle) where he stays. With the aid of a translator I asked him a couple of questions I had regarding the Dalai Lama's intentions of future reincarnation and the political difficulties as such if this were to occur within the Tibetan Autonomous Region, currently internationally recognized as China's "problem". He answered (DL will incarnate in a non-Communist territory), I snapped a couple of pics for a professor back home, and headed back up the hill.
As I walked I decided to get a print out of the pic and return one to him later.
The next morning, before most people had stirred (it's far easier to wake up in the morning when I sleep outside for some reason), I stood outside my rooftop home and debated whether to immediately head down to Geshe Sonam and catch him before he left to meet the big DL, or just drop it off with a secretary later. After seemingly several minutes I began my way back down the hill, pic in hand. The moment I reached his home the door opened. Apparently surprised, and dressed in the typical robes of Tibetan monks, he invited me in. He showed me the donation that I had delivered which was actually no good to him as he could not cash the check. I fronted the loot and handed him his pic. To him, and the rest of the monks present, this was probably more than just mere coincidence, and the feeling didn't escape me either. I venture to say that it must be somewhat difficult for even the most vehement non-spiritual person to not feel something in this environment.
I'm compelled to admit some degree of sadness over not being able to make sense of any of this though. But, should I beat myself over it? Wouldn't I just be that much closer (and yet still an eternity away) to knowing everything? And then what would life be but empty? Am I right? Is uncertainty that essential quality of a life lived? In other words, does one existing in absolute certainty "feel" alive? I guess I don't believe so, and that's why I would take the mild risk of being burned alive, a victim of some political struggle I can half sympathize with, to meet people like Simon and Geshe Sonam, interesting characters indeed.
I won't sweat the rest of this right now, in time all will be revealed. ...we all recognize those "way-points" of life sooner or later. As for the question of stupidity and courage, well, I'll content myself with the pursuit of a pure courage. Whatever that is.
[Pics from top to bottom: monks and nuns que up for one of the Dalai Lama's lectures, the prayer flag above and the mountains beyond (taken while in my sleeping bag on the roof, and Geshe Sonam Rinchen]
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Ron Jeremy and Jethro the Bullrider
As soon as I got down from Girnar Hill I made arrangements to travel to Sasan Gir. People come here for one reason, to see lions. The biggest thing that sucks in Gujarat is how bad the government wants to fleece the tourists. To enter the park it cost $50 US, plus $10 for the permit, and another $10 for your camera. As a result a black market economy has developed with eager local guides ready to lead you into the park illegally, on foot (as opposed to in a jeep if done legitimately) for less rupees.
To help the local people I took advantage of these opportunities. My first trip was to a temple. Well, that's how we got into the park. It was really to go to a spot on the river where my guides were fairly certain that I would be able to photograph some crocodiles, another animal that lives in the jungle here. We took a local road through the park, didn't see any lions, but drove past some pretty cool village scenery.
It was well worth the trip even if I hadn't seen any crocs. This area also doesn't see much tourist traffic and so the people are amazingly friendly. It's also one of the least crowded spots I've seen in all of India, lending it a very laid back and somehow more "authentic" feel.
I haven't mentioned the fact that nothing too extraordinary has happened since I've returned to India. This was a major concern for me because I read the presence of normalcy here as an omen of impending apocalypse. But, before I left Delhi I figured out that the reason for this was the fact that I was spending so much time in South Delhi where life goes on kinda like it does back home, but that's a big 'kinda'. I felt it time to raise this issue because of what happened next.
I hired a local guide to lead me on foot, and unarmed, into the lions' main habitat. Perhaps I should mention that there aren't just one or two in the park. It's supposedly overcrowded with lions and they apparently wander outside the park limits frequently, with one even being spotted on the beaches several hours south of here. I was hoping that this year there has been enough cow to keep them full and not looking to sample me.
We first crossed through even more awesome village life and then waded through a river to reach the jungle's fringe. The whole time I'm complaining to myself about how sore my legs still are from those 10,000 steps, as if it would really matter if/when I was being dragged down by a half dozen lions. The trees were really hooking me up as well, being so low to the ground that whenever (every 3 seconds) I turned around to see if I was about to be lunch I would then almost lose an eye as I stumbled over stones or whatever. I was really enjoying the hike nonetheless.
After about two very intense hours of not seeing any lions we reached a point where the jungle kind of opened up to a large river valley. Here all the normal things were occurring, women washing the laundry, nearly naked men bathing, some herders sitting in the shade watching their cows, goats, and water buffalo. It was just chill and I really didn't even care that I had yet to see any lions.
So we continue walking on the river's edge, and I'm just taking it all in, appreciating every minute when I notice two butt naked boys playing with a few water buffalo out in the middle of the river. At first I thought, "that's kind of odd, but no, it really isn't" considering where I'm at. But then I realized that they weren't just playing, but that one was actually trying to mount the buffalo. And by mount, I mean Ron Jeremy, not Jethro the bullrider.
Contented with my second lion safari I then returned with my guide to his home where his sister-in-law prepared our lunch, as is customary in traditional Indian homes, unless the family can afford servants. All things considered, it was the best meal I've had in Gujarat, with an absolutely surreal atmosphere and good food.
The next day I went on two more jeep safaris and still did not see any lions. This led me to believe that all the lion photos they have back in the village area are actually mail ordered from Africa.
It also made me realize that the real story in Sasan Gir is with new star Ram Jeremy and his debut "Indian Rodeo 1: Your Buffalo and a Beedi".
Enlightened as such, I returned to the river to ask him some tough questions (and hopefully catch him in the act again) rather than waste any more time in the damn lion sanctuary. I mean, this story was so important to me that I decided to further delay my stay in Sasan Gir just to get the inside scoop. As me and my guide/translator (though he didn't speak any English, and hardly any Hindi either) headed down the river I decided to hone my interview skills. I asked questions to people we encountered along the way, such as, "Why does Jamal (apparently Ram Jeremy's birth name) like the buffalo?" "Is Jamal a good man?" and "Do you like the buffalo too?"
Since my Hindi is severely limited I couldn't go much deeper than that. And ultimately, to my extreme disappointment, Ram wasn't to be found.
[Pics from top to bottom, jeep trail in the main park, crocs sunning on a river bank, a shot from our suicidal journey into the park, and the guide's sister-in-law preparing lunch (notice the little wood fire stove in the corner...the floor functioned as a cutting board too!)
Junagadh and Girnar Hill
My next stop in Gujarat was Junagadh. I had several reasons for coming here. One, the ancient fort is supposed to have been first built by Chandragupta, the father of on
e of two very underappreciated (in the west) genius rulers in India, Asoka, a personal hero. Secondly, was the pilgrimage site of Girnar Hill where several important Jain and Hindu temples are located.
e of two very underappreciated (in the west) genius rulers in India, Asoka, a personal hero. Secondly, was the pilgrimage site of Girnar Hill where several important Jain and Hindu temples are located. The fort was interesting, but I never did see anything that could without a doubt date to the period of Chandragupta. There were some cool baolis (step wells), though they were crap compared to the one I saw in Ahmedabad. And the Masjid (Mosque) was pretty cool too, being so old.
Perhaps the most noteworthy thing
about Girnar Hill for the non-expert is the 10,000 stairs that must be climbed to reach the top. I set out early in the morning and had a pretty uneventful journey. It's a well maintained hiking trail with friendly pilgrims and ultra relaxed vendors who don't even ask you to look at their stuff. So far this has been characteristic of Gujarat. Hospitality, openness, good cheer, and tourist free. Sometimes it's been tough going, but it is definitely one of my favorite places in India, and especially with regards t
he people.[Pics, from top to bottom, Mahabat Maqbara (mausoleum in Junagadh), a view from the top of Girnar Hill, and a pic of some pilgrims leaving the Temple of Neminath I believe (the most important Jain temple on the hill?).
Kutch
My first journey out of Delhi this time was to Gujarat. I had been looking forward to this trip for over a year and was not to be disappointed. After a brief stop in Ahmedabad I headed to Bhuj, the capital of Kutch. My guidebook says this place is famous for its textiles, but my goal was to visit the Great Rann and possibly spend a night or two kicking it with the nomadic tribe that lives out here. To facilitate this end I first obtained the necessary permit (a formality for entering a strategic military zone) and then caught a local bus to a village named Khavda.
I thought that this place was pretty well established on the tourist front, but once I arrived, and got laughed off the bus, I discovered that there were NO autos, and not even a rickshaw, they said "village hai". Realizing that this could just be a language barrier
problem, I pushed my case to see the Rann by bus or auto but to no avail.
As I began to think about how bad life was going to suck without even a hotel around and the possibility of another bus not passing through the region until Sunday, (4 days away), I saw my friends from the bus that dropped me off. They inform me that they are returning to Bhuj that night, after going to this "maili" in Nasare or something like that. This village isn't even on the map, but since it was my only hope I had to take it.
We began plowing through the Kutch. Though it clearly looks like a desert appare
ntly it isn't classified as such because during the monsoons the region floods and leaves only scattered islands. Interestingly a massive earthquake in 2002, I believe, actually altered the course of the great Indus river which used to run through here, leaving this wasteland.
I soon became plagued by delusions that I might be being kidnapped. I'm totally paranoid and have several adult male villagers, some apparently friendly, others hostile (even after a preemptory smile), conversing in Kutchi, the language of the region, chuckling here and there and staring at me while taking me out into the middle of one of the most barren and remote places I've ever seen. My irrational fear stemmed from the eerie deja vu, like I've seen this in the movies or something, of the situation, the fact that I had already admitted to being American, and that I was in an overwhelming Pakistani nationalist region. My fears were soon assuaged when several women boarded and were headed to the same festival.
I couldn't believe my luck. On the way we passed through a section of the Rann. Photography of the Rann is technically prohibited (according to the permit), but being off trail so far, and having gotten stuck in the sand I seized the opportunity for a few snaps.
This festival was everything probably any tourist in India could ask for. It was comp
letely indigenous, I was the only outsider. The traditional fight of the sub-continent, Maili, was the event my driver and the conductor came for. They pulled the bus right up behind the other spectators and had me get on top to ensure that I had the best view possible. To make me even more comfortable they had a couple of guys hold a shawl behind us so that we would be protected from the already intense sun. The driver turned out to be a major player in these fights, and even went on to have his ass handed to him later in the day.
The surrounding scenery was the most special part for me. The tourist
industry cannot reproduce such a thing. The beautifully gaudy traditional clothing of the women (some with drunk-buddy-style tattoos covering their arms, throats, and face), fantastic jewelry (the Nath being my favorite), harsh climate, and very friendly people. It was perfect and surpassed all of my previous trips to neighboring, and in many ways similar, Rajastan.
The villagers who had gathered for this annual event, Sunni Muslims, were celebrating Mahoram, a festival I haven't quite figured out the significance of yet.
[From top to bottom, these pics are of my driver and the conductor, a shot of the Rann from the vantage point of our being stuck in some deep sand, and two shots of the fights]
I thought that this place was pretty well established on the tourist front, but once I arrived, and got laughed off the bus, I discovered that there were NO autos, and not even a rickshaw, they said "village hai". Realizing that this could just be a language barrier
problem, I pushed my case to see the Rann by bus or auto but to no avail.As I began to think about how bad life was going to suck without even a hotel around and the possibility of another bus not passing through the region until Sunday, (4 days away), I saw my friends from the bus that dropped me off. They inform me that they are returning to Bhuj that night, after going to this "maili" in Nasare or something like that. This village isn't even on the map, but since it was my only hope I had to take it.
We began plowing through the Kutch. Though it clearly looks like a desert appare
ntly it isn't classified as such because during the monsoons the region floods and leaves only scattered islands. Interestingly a massive earthquake in 2002, I believe, actually altered the course of the great Indus river which used to run through here, leaving this wasteland. I soon became plagued by delusions that I might be being kidnapped. I'm totally paranoid and have several adult male villagers, some apparently friendly, others hostile (even after a preemptory smile), conversing in Kutchi, the language of the region, chuckling here and there and staring at me while taking me out into the middle of one of the most barren and remote places I've ever seen. My irrational fear stemmed from the eerie deja vu, like I've seen this in the movies or something, of the situation, the fact that I had already admitted to being American, and that I was in an overwhelming Pakistani nationalist region. My fears were soon assuaged when several women boarded and were headed to the same festival.
I couldn't believe my luck. On the way we passed through a section of the Rann. Photography of the Rann is technically prohibited (according to the permit), but being off trail so far, and having gotten stuck in the sand I seized the opportunity for a few snaps.
This festival was everything probably any tourist in India could ask for. It was comp
letely indigenous, I was the only outsider. The traditional fight of the sub-continent, Maili, was the event my driver and the conductor came for. They pulled the bus right up behind the other spectators and had me get on top to ensure that I had the best view possible. To make me even more comfortable they had a couple of guys hold a shawl behind us so that we would be protected from the already intense sun. The driver turned out to be a major player in these fights, and even went on to have his ass handed to him later in the day.The surrounding scenery was the most special part for me. The tourist
industry cannot reproduce such a thing. The beautifully gaudy traditional clothing of the women (some with drunk-buddy-style tattoos covering their arms, throats, and face), fantastic jewelry (the Nath being my favorite), harsh climate, and very friendly people. It was perfect and surpassed all of my previous trips to neighboring, and in many ways similar, Rajastan.The villagers who had gathered for this annual event, Sunni Muslims, were celebrating Mahoram, a festival I haven't quite figured out the significance of yet.
[From top to bottom, these pics are of my driver and the conductor, a shot of the Rann from the vantage point of our being stuck in some deep sand, and two shots of the fights]
Back in Delhi
Being so eager to finally be returning to India, my 6hr flight from KL seemed to last as long as the 20hr flight from the states. The India action of course began as the people on my flight gathered. Nothing too crazy happened but it was enough to put a smile on my face. In fact I couldn't stop smiling. On the plane things began to pick up pace. You know, people standing up as the plane accelerates down the runway and stuff. This time however the strange behavior wasn't so unbelievable to me.
Once the plane had begun its decent I could see the scattered lighting of Delhi appear through the THICK winter smoke/haze that characterizes this place during the season. I could even smell the odor that accompanies this scene before we landed. It's not bad, kind of like a burning pile of not-too-toxic rubbish. To me it’s kind of pleasant. And notably, people were still using the toilet as the plane touched the ground.
My guidebook for Malaysia describes Chinatown in Kuala Lumpur as chaotic, I would love to hear the author's assessment of Delhi. I mean, once I was out of the baggage claim area I had three cabbies trying to lead me out the wrong exit while telling me that this was in fact another way I could go to get to the same place. Despite the fact that I told them I did not need a cab they stuck to me like glue. Crossing through the double doors that dump you in the line of fire one is greeted by maybe 500 glaring Indians and an endless symphony of auto horns.
The further I got from the airport the crazier shit became. Weaving in and out of traffic, dodging cows and pedestrians in poor yet normal visibility, we reached a section of road that was closed. Like any rational person in India we decided it was better to just move to one side and carefully proceed against traffic, on their side of the road. ...I tried to take note of everything that was going on around me but it was impossible.
I awoke the first morning to the sounds of auto horns, various mobile "-wallas", and blaring music and speeches from an unknown Mandir (temple). My hosts have gone out of their way to make sure I have everything I could ask for, but the transition has still provided a bit of a shock. I guess it’s difficult, for me at least, to remember how unpleasant a bucket shower is when standing in a room so cold that one ordinarily wears pants, jacket, and shoes.
Things sure haven't changed here, and yet it’s good to be back.
Once the plane had begun its decent I could see the scattered lighting of Delhi appear through the THICK winter smoke/haze that characterizes this place during the season. I could even smell the odor that accompanies this scene before we landed. It's not bad, kind of like a burning pile of not-too-toxic rubbish. To me it’s kind of pleasant. And notably, people were still using the toilet as the plane touched the ground.
My guidebook for Malaysia describes Chinatown in Kuala Lumpur as chaotic, I would love to hear the author's assessment of Delhi. I mean, once I was out of the baggage claim area I had three cabbies trying to lead me out the wrong exit while telling me that this was in fact another way I could go to get to the same place. Despite the fact that I told them I did not need a cab they stuck to me like glue. Crossing through the double doors that dump you in the line of fire one is greeted by maybe 500 glaring Indians and an endless symphony of auto horns.
The further I got from the airport the crazier shit became. Weaving in and out of traffic, dodging cows and pedestrians in poor yet normal visibility, we reached a section of road that was closed. Like any rational person in India we decided it was better to just move to one side and carefully proceed against traffic, on their side of the road. ...I tried to take note of everything that was going on around me but it was impossible.
I awoke the first morning to the sounds of auto horns, various mobile "-wallas", and blaring music and speeches from an unknown Mandir (temple). My hosts have gone out of their way to make sure I have everything I could ask for, but the transition has still provided a bit of a shock. I guess it’s difficult, for me at least, to remember how unpleasant a bucket shower is when standing in a room so cold that one ordinarily wears pants, jacket, and shoes.
Things sure haven't changed here, and yet it’s good to be back.
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