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Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Darjeeling-Varkala
Two and a half days on a train. From the Himalayas in the north to the southern most metropolis of Thiruvananthapuram in "God's Own Country"- the state of Kerala. We rode in the highest class birth- 2 tier AC Sleeper. And the AC was a blessing. After Kolkata the heat was on. Sneaking off to the corridor between train cars and out of the airconditioning the heat was a fat man's sweaty bare chested bear hug, and he doesnt let go. He is putting me in a head lock right now. From numb fingered typing in Darjeeling to my sweaty thighs on a plastic lawn chair typing here in Varkala. I'll take it all with a smile. And a belly full of fish curry.
So I mentioned looking at this trip as outside the convention of vacation. Well, I'm a lier. Gretch and I are now on our vacation. We've been laying on the beach for hours daily since we got here 4 days ago. With the Germans, the Russians, The Swedish, and all the other privledged people representing the Western world. God bless Us! And he did- through the teachings and preachings an evangelizings of our train birth mate on our two and half day train ride- Johnson- first name Johnson.
Johnson had a great big Orthadox beard. Like a black man fronting a ZZ-Top cover band. His speech was monotone, never straying from a neutral emotive state. Although he did smile from time to time. When we entered our birth I first took him as a Mohomadan. I was realeaved that he wasn't. He soon introduced himself as a pastor. I asked if he was of the Syrian Orthadox faith (which has been alive in Kerala since the deciple Thomas landed here around AD 50- soon to be martyred in Chennai). He smiled and said at one time yes he was but now he was more of the evangelical flair. Fair enough I added. Johnson was nice enough to share much of his food with us. We arrived on the train ill prepared but knowledgeable to the vast supply of anything and everything available between staitions and on the train.
Our train arrived in Thiruvananthapuram around 1130 pm. The plan was to get a hotel and head off to Varkala (an hour bus ride) in the morning. There were dozens of hotels around the train station. The train station and surrounding area of Thiruvananthapuram were very pleasant. It was night and day compared to the slums and decay of Uttar Pradesh and Bihar in the north. But nobody wanted to give us a room. After a dozen hotel refusals, it was around 1 n the morning and we said screw it. We stayed in the trainstaion and took the first bus to the beach at 6 in the morning. AHHHHH! Got to go, I hear the waves crashing. Need a dip.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Gorkhaland
Darjeeling is in the northern reaches of West Bengal. Balanced 7000 feet high upon a ridge on a Himalayan mountain side. It is tucked between Nepal, Bhutan, Sikkim (India) and the plains of West Bengal to the south. Originally Darjeeling was a mountain retreat for the Brittish Raj stationed in sweltering Kolkata. It is still a retreat, but now more for honeymooning Bengalis.
The culture is completely different to the rest of India. The ethnic majority are Gorkhas, who originated in Nepal. The attitude of these people is much more relaxed, I think due to their Buddist faith. There is striking female power of equlity here. A friendlness devoid of curiosity- just friendliness. People smile. They laugh and joke. They want independence. I am not quite sure from India as a whole or just controll and rule from West Bengal and Kolkata. Yesterday there was a parade of thousands shouting, Gorkhaland, Gorkhaland, We Want Gorkhaland!". The Gorkhas have a oriental look to them, as do the many Tibetan refugees living here in Darjeeling.
It is cold here, like early April in Minnesota. There is no heat anywhere, so once we get out of the heat of a cozy bed, the chill sets in. I am having a hard time typing with numb fingers and am quite frustrated continually fixing the mistakes of fingers without the dexterity I amused to.
The culture is completely different to the rest of India. The ethnic majority are Gorkhas, who originated in Nepal. The attitude of these people is much more relaxed, I think due to their Buddist faith. There is striking female power of equlity here. A friendlness devoid of curiosity- just friendliness. People smile. They laugh and joke. They want independence. I am not quite sure from India as a whole or just controll and rule from West Bengal and Kolkata. Yesterday there was a parade of thousands shouting, Gorkhaland, Gorkhaland, We Want Gorkhaland!". The Gorkhas have a oriental look to them, as do the many Tibetan refugees living here in Darjeeling.
It is cold here, like early April in Minnesota. There is no heat anywhere, so once we get out of the heat of a cozy bed, the chill sets in. I am having a hard time typing with numb fingers and am quite frustrated continually fixing the mistakes of fingers without the dexterity I amused to.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Irony
Isn't it ironic? So much of the conversation between fellow travellers here and even the things I choose to write about center on what appears to be the negative. Diarrhea, the lack of comfort in transportation, the feeling of being a zoo animal, and the overall backwardness and paradox which is India are the most popular gripes. Yet I have chosen to come back here for a third time. Why?
The best answer I can give is this: after India everywhere else is quite dull. This doesnt mean I dont have an appretciation for beauty. There is nothing more heart stirring for me than a sunset at the farm. And obviously there is still much of the world I have yet to see, but I am pretty confident this also goes for these places. Although after reading Barbara Kingsolver's amazing The Poisonwood Bible I know have an interest in the Congo.
To understand why? You must understand that travelling to India is not a vacation. If this were the plan I would be very dissolutioned and reasonably upset. And I've seen this in many westerners here. Of course there are a couple of places to go for a classic beach vacation here, Goa or the beaches of Kerela, but even these places bring the burdens which say, Cancun or Thailand, are a million miles removed from.
Call me a sadist. This may be true. I like to call it endurance. A meditation on tolerance and patience. The mental and physical stanima required for India ranks up there with my experiences with long distance running and biking. Riding out a bad acid trip. Constant self reassurance is the key to survival. The knowledge that "This will end". This is my mantra- "This will end. This will end. This will end." This same coping mechanism has brought me out of the dentist's chair and through numerous drillings as well as multiple stomach ailments here. I suppose this is a character trait that many cannot sympathize with. Like a pig, I guess I choose to lie in the shit sometimes. And I can understand why many of you would lable this as irrational. Am I glorifying the negative? Sure. But I like to take a more nhililist approach to it and say I am glorifying everything, or not. Good and bad, or the lack or its reality. Hmm.
We need to live in discomfort to know comfort. Be sad to be happy, or better- content. This sermon is not new. I need to physically remove myself to the bombardment of hypercomofort pitched to me back home. And I am not above it. I enjoy the comforts of home. But in this way I can appreciate and live a life more centered on gratittude when I do come home. To constantly compare here and home is impossible to get out of my head. Everything I see creates a value judgement. Everything. Every hour of the day. And it is usually a 50-50 throw up to who wins, India or home.
This brings up another imortant idea floating in my head. The idea of self identity. My removal from the US really concentrates my own sense of identity here in India. Right now that is aligned with the Chippewa Valley. The kicker to this all is upon my arrival home this concentration becomes so dilluted. Maybe this is why I travel. It is easier to be ambiguous or feel graceful without a true feeling of home in a foriegn land.
And to make a decicion to embark on this journey with a partner of the romantic variety in yet the early days, where foundation and keystone are still setting in their mortar. What will come of this non-vacation? In our grandest hopes skills of problem solving, patience, tolerance and trust. Gretchen and I can only rely on each other. There is no room for trust here outside of us. Of course those of you who Know Gretch will know she will not agree with this last statement. But with these conflicting ideas of ours comes the debates needed for a strengthening of listening skills. We have our spats. But we are also learning to come full circle when the blood boils and back to a certain degree of rationality to hear ech other out. Learning. Learning. Learning. The book is never written. And a lot of days the cramp in my hands is as painful as those dentists' drills.
The best answer I can give is this: after India everywhere else is quite dull. This doesnt mean I dont have an appretciation for beauty. There is nothing more heart stirring for me than a sunset at the farm. And obviously there is still much of the world I have yet to see, but I am pretty confident this also goes for these places. Although after reading Barbara Kingsolver's amazing The Poisonwood Bible I know have an interest in the Congo.
To understand why? You must understand that travelling to India is not a vacation. If this were the plan I would be very dissolutioned and reasonably upset. And I've seen this in many westerners here. Of course there are a couple of places to go for a classic beach vacation here, Goa or the beaches of Kerela, but even these places bring the burdens which say, Cancun or Thailand, are a million miles removed from.
Call me a sadist. This may be true. I like to call it endurance. A meditation on tolerance and patience. The mental and physical stanima required for India ranks up there with my experiences with long distance running and biking. Riding out a bad acid trip. Constant self reassurance is the key to survival. The knowledge that "This will end". This is my mantra- "This will end. This will end. This will end." This same coping mechanism has brought me out of the dentist's chair and through numerous drillings as well as multiple stomach ailments here. I suppose this is a character trait that many cannot sympathize with. Like a pig, I guess I choose to lie in the shit sometimes. And I can understand why many of you would lable this as irrational. Am I glorifying the negative? Sure. But I like to take a more nhililist approach to it and say I am glorifying everything, or not. Good and bad, or the lack or its reality. Hmm.
We need to live in discomfort to know comfort. Be sad to be happy, or better- content. This sermon is not new. I need to physically remove myself to the bombardment of hypercomofort pitched to me back home. And I am not above it. I enjoy the comforts of home. But in this way I can appreciate and live a life more centered on gratittude when I do come home. To constantly compare here and home is impossible to get out of my head. Everything I see creates a value judgement. Everything. Every hour of the day. And it is usually a 50-50 throw up to who wins, India or home.
This brings up another imortant idea floating in my head. The idea of self identity. My removal from the US really concentrates my own sense of identity here in India. Right now that is aligned with the Chippewa Valley. The kicker to this all is upon my arrival home this concentration becomes so dilluted. Maybe this is why I travel. It is easier to be ambiguous or feel graceful without a true feeling of home in a foriegn land.
And to make a decicion to embark on this journey with a partner of the romantic variety in yet the early days, where foundation and keystone are still setting in their mortar. What will come of this non-vacation? In our grandest hopes skills of problem solving, patience, tolerance and trust. Gretchen and I can only rely on each other. There is no room for trust here outside of us. Of course those of you who Know Gretch will know she will not agree with this last statement. But with these conflicting ideas of ours comes the debates needed for a strengthening of listening skills. We have our spats. But we are also learning to come full circle when the blood boils and back to a certain degree of rationality to hear ech other out. Learning. Learning. Learning. The book is never written. And a lot of days the cramp in my hands is as painful as those dentists' drills.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
More photos from the Taj...
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| One of the two mosques that border the Taj Mahal. |
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| The other mosque, which is still used every Saturday. |
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| The north side of the Taj Mahal overlooks the Yamuna river. |
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| In the morning light... |
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| The Taj Mahal |
Varanasi
Another local bus brought the Gretch and I to Varanasi. We left early and arrived at our prefered hotel-- The Yogi Lodge before noon. How we made it is a miracle. The old city of Varanasi is miles of maze, alley ways often only wide enough for the signiture cows to squeak through. But once again we made it. And right now we are still here. Day 9. We will be catching an early morning train to Bohd Gaya tomorrow.
Allahabad
I've been fascinated by he Khumb and Mahg Mela held in Allahabad since I learned of it on my first trip to India. These melas (festivals) take place late Januaray early February every year. The Khumb is every twelve years and is the largest congregation of human beings in the world. The Mahg (which we attended is a "smaller" version held every year. There are several auspicious days in which the Hindus come here to bath on. It is all based on astrology. They bath here at a place called the Sangam at the spot where the Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati ( a mythical river) converge.
We made it to Allahabad around 4 in the afternoon on the 28th. It took us a while to find a hotel. After check in we took a bicycle rickshaw to the Sangam. There were thousands and thousands of people. I would guess conservatively a half million strong. The actual river must of been a couple miles from where we were dropped off. We just followed the masses. Upon cresting a hill a wide open plain of yellow tents that stretched for mile appeared before us and stopped us in awe. I took a picture and was indstantly shamed by a policeman. Photography is strictly forbidden here and often met with violence. But there are plenty of youtube videos if interested. I was not feeling journalistic but survivalistic at the time and packed the camera away. The sun was going down quick and the pure otherworldliness of the whole situation put both Gretch and I on a bit of an edge. We did make it to the river crossing a rickety pontooned bridge over a rushing river and b-lined it back.
The whole situation was a cross between a state fair, music festival, and religous parade with the obvious Indian flair that only India is capable of. I don't think I will have to make it back to Allahabad agian, but consider myself lucky for the experience.
Off to Varanasi.
We made it to Allahabad around 4 in the afternoon on the 28th. It took us a while to find a hotel. After check in we took a bicycle rickshaw to the Sangam. There were thousands and thousands of people. I would guess conservatively a half million strong. The actual river must of been a couple miles from where we were dropped off. We just followed the masses. Upon cresting a hill a wide open plain of yellow tents that stretched for mile appeared before us and stopped us in awe. I took a picture and was indstantly shamed by a policeman. Photography is strictly forbidden here and often met with violence. But there are plenty of youtube videos if interested. I was not feeling journalistic but survivalistic at the time and packed the camera away. The sun was going down quick and the pure otherworldliness of the whole situation put both Gretch and I on a bit of an edge. We did make it to the river crossing a rickety pontooned bridge over a rushing river and b-lined it back.
The whole situation was a cross between a state fair, music festival, and religous parade with the obvious Indian flair that only India is capable of. I don't think I will have to make it back to Allahabad agian, but consider myself lucky for the experience.
Off to Varanasi.
Chitrakut
Gretch and I decided to break up our trip to Allahabad with a nights stop in Chitrakut. Chitrakut was a two legged buss ride from Khajuraho. Each bus ride was four hours long. We left at around nine and arrived in Chitrakut, exhausted, around 8.
The local busses in India deserve a paragraph if not a book. This is where patience and tolerance is foremost. It is a basic process. Get on the bus at its origin as to get a seat. We are not big people, comparable to Indians if not a bit thicker (more protien). But the seats are designed for children. From tail bone to knee cap I have to shove my legs in between seat backs. I always take the aisle, allowing the lovely Miss Gretchen the comfort of window and privacy cushioning. The buss fills immediatly. Fills immediatly. And stops constantly. Stops constantly. And refills. And stops. And refills. And stops. A 50 mile trip will take a good three hours. Imagine one of those 1950's era college pranks of kids stuffing into a phone booth. This is not far from the reality of a local Indian bus as it reaches full capacity. Although the concept of full capacity is relevent or understood in India. Train is the desired form of transportation here, but the bus is always a sure shot. Imagine you need to go to Minneapolis from Rochester. Or Brainerd to St. Cloud. Or Bloomer to Ladysmith. No matter where you are you can get where you want to go. It is given. The frequency of busses is on most occations no more than a half hour in my experience. And as long as the sun hasn't set you're good to go. Many of the tourists here absolutely refuse to take the local bus.
Back to Chitrakut. Chitrakut is considered a "mini Varanasi". There is a river with ghats. Many pilgrims. Puja. Boatmen. It was very relaxing for us. We stayed at place with a large deck overlooking the whole scene. That evening we had our first "real" Indian meal. The beautiful south Indian Thali, sucked down with a couple Coca-colas. In the morning we took a boat ride down the ghats and were off, via local bus, to Allahabad.
The great things about Chitrakut were its size and lack of hassles. I will say pretencioulsy, we were probably the only white people there. Off the tourist trail, although not obselete, we were never approached by touts. We could have stayed another night but we really wanted to make it to Allahabad for the evening of the 28th. So we left.
The local busses in India deserve a paragraph if not a book. This is where patience and tolerance is foremost. It is a basic process. Get on the bus at its origin as to get a seat. We are not big people, comparable to Indians if not a bit thicker (more protien). But the seats are designed for children. From tail bone to knee cap I have to shove my legs in between seat backs. I always take the aisle, allowing the lovely Miss Gretchen the comfort of window and privacy cushioning. The buss fills immediatly. Fills immediatly. And stops constantly. Stops constantly. And refills. And stops. And refills. And stops. A 50 mile trip will take a good three hours. Imagine one of those 1950's era college pranks of kids stuffing into a phone booth. This is not far from the reality of a local Indian bus as it reaches full capacity. Although the concept of full capacity is relevent or understood in India. Train is the desired form of transportation here, but the bus is always a sure shot. Imagine you need to go to Minneapolis from Rochester. Or Brainerd to St. Cloud. Or Bloomer to Ladysmith. No matter where you are you can get where you want to go. It is given. The frequency of busses is on most occations no more than a half hour in my experience. And as long as the sun hasn't set you're good to go. Many of the tourists here absolutely refuse to take the local bus.
Back to Chitrakut. Chitrakut is considered a "mini Varanasi". There is a river with ghats. Many pilgrims. Puja. Boatmen. It was very relaxing for us. We stayed at place with a large deck overlooking the whole scene. That evening we had our first "real" Indian meal. The beautiful south Indian Thali, sucked down with a couple Coca-colas. In the morning we took a boat ride down the ghats and were off, via local bus, to Allahabad.
The great things about Chitrakut were its size and lack of hassles. I will say pretencioulsy, we were probably the only white people there. Off the tourist trail, although not obselete, we were never approached by touts. We could have stayed another night but we really wanted to make it to Allahabad for the evening of the 28th. So we left.
Khajuraho
We arrived in Khajuraho on an overnight train from Agra. It was about a 10 hour ride. It was smooth enough but I froze my bones. I switched sleep compartments with another man as to be closer to Gretchen. This put me next to a very drafty window. I put on my Smartwools- head to toe and slipped into my sleeping bag liner. As I switched from side to side the drafted blasted what ever side was next to the window. We bought a blanket to use as a bed cover and now I can use it on train rides.
Khajuraho is most famous for its erotic kama-sutraesque engravings covering its many sandstone temples. These temples date back over 1000 years. But aside from the erotic, Khajuraho's temples are some of India's finest. Many assume that there were many other temples of this nature in India before the Mughals destroyed them. The consensus of archeologists is also that the Indians' attitude tword sex and sensuality took a 180 at some time after Khajuraho's construction. For what it is worth these temples were built by the Chandela dynasty. Khajuraho was able to survive mostly inscathed due to its backwoods location, far away from trade routes or strategic military positioning.
Gretchen and I really enjoyed our tour of the Western group of temples. There is also an eastern, northern, and southern group. The western is the most significant and the only group that requires a fee. We rented a headset audio tour and really took our time listening, enjoying and absorbing. The sculptures, erotic and not are an amazing and bind baffling accomplishment. Their intricacy and vastness seem an impossibility for the hand tools used over a thousand years ago. Being able to be face to face and actually touch the work was a real treat. I can't imagine being able to come within 20 feet of something of this caliber in the Western World.
We spent two nights at the Hotel Isabella, which was a 15 minute walk to the temples. The hotel was a real treat. Above and beyond my expectations of India for ten dollars a night. We had a marble terrace to lounge on that overlooked a well maintained garden. Everything was marble.
This was my first visit to Khajuraho and well worth it.
Khajuraho is most famous for its erotic kama-sutraesque engravings covering its many sandstone temples. These temples date back over 1000 years. But aside from the erotic, Khajuraho's temples are some of India's finest. Many assume that there were many other temples of this nature in India before the Mughals destroyed them. The consensus of archeologists is also that the Indians' attitude tword sex and sensuality took a 180 at some time after Khajuraho's construction. For what it is worth these temples were built by the Chandela dynasty. Khajuraho was able to survive mostly inscathed due to its backwoods location, far away from trade routes or strategic military positioning.
Gretchen and I really enjoyed our tour of the Western group of temples. There is also an eastern, northern, and southern group. The western is the most significant and the only group that requires a fee. We rented a headset audio tour and really took our time listening, enjoying and absorbing. The sculptures, erotic and not are an amazing and bind baffling accomplishment. Their intricacy and vastness seem an impossibility for the hand tools used over a thousand years ago. Being able to be face to face and actually touch the work was a real treat. I can't imagine being able to come within 20 feet of something of this caliber in the Western World.
We spent two nights at the Hotel Isabella, which was a 15 minute walk to the temples. The hotel was a real treat. Above and beyond my expectations of India for ten dollars a night. We had a marble terrace to lounge on that overlooked a well maintained garden. Everything was marble.
This was my first visit to Khajuraho and well worth it.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Cows
Varanasi street cows are photogenic. Many of them are wearing improvised jackets as I take my early morning walk along the Gange's (pronounced Ganga by the locals) ghats. These jackets can be as flamboyant as Liberace or as utilitarian as a burlap sack. Either way the jackets are put on at night when the Varanasi's night time lows can dip to a bone shattering 50. Goats and dogs are also prone to this treatment. Which is all unsurprising seeing that winter jackets, wool scarves, and ski masks are part of the average Indian wardrobe when the mercury dips below room temperature.
I've spent many months in India. And not until this trip have I been keen to this fact that is now very facinating to me; the vast majority of the cows roaming docile and seemingly sedated through the whole of India belong to someone and are used in India's vast dairy industry. Maybe this seems like it would be obvious, but I always thought they were strays like the dogs.
India has more cows than any other country. Milk is easy to come by. Curd, like yogurt, is a staple. Paneer is all the cheese you will find, unless you really dig deep. Both curd and paneer are quite bland standing alone. But in the case of curd, add some bananas or other fresh fruit, milk, and sugar and yum yum eat um up, you have a lassi. A ceromonial lassi drink is also made with bhang (marijuana) and partaken by Hindus devoted to Shiva. Lassis can alsobe salty. There is no bhang paneer, that I am aware of, but paneer is also a great staple of Indian cousine. It is the perfect vehicle for the many spices here to ride on, the paneer acting much like tofu.
So, I have noticed the milking schedules of a few of the cows in the neighborhood we are currently in. One woman has been fairly tolerant of my oogling. I still have no idea as to how these cows get enough to eat. Aside from house hold refuse, wilted temple flowers (marigolds for the most part) and street garbage I haven't witnessed any particular feed being dealt out. And as far as water, still baffled. A favorite past time of mine is to eat a banana and feed the peel to a cow.
Up until this point in the trip I had never noticed bulls. I most likely was just not as aware as now, especially after my time on the farm. But here in Varanasi there are quite a few. And they are huge and docile. Many seem to be very old. Several have cataracts. Maybe the young studs are kept contained while the old bulls are free to roam the streets. I am excited to learn more. A curious sight the other day, I saw a bull. He had his testicles but he also had four udders. Is this normal? Of course I got a picture.
I've spent many months in India. And not until this trip have I been keen to this fact that is now very facinating to me; the vast majority of the cows roaming docile and seemingly sedated through the whole of India belong to someone and are used in India's vast dairy industry. Maybe this seems like it would be obvious, but I always thought they were strays like the dogs.
India has more cows than any other country. Milk is easy to come by. Curd, like yogurt, is a staple. Paneer is all the cheese you will find, unless you really dig deep. Both curd and paneer are quite bland standing alone. But in the case of curd, add some bananas or other fresh fruit, milk, and sugar and yum yum eat um up, you have a lassi. A ceromonial lassi drink is also made with bhang (marijuana) and partaken by Hindus devoted to Shiva. Lassis can alsobe salty. There is no bhang paneer, that I am aware of, but paneer is also a great staple of Indian cousine. It is the perfect vehicle for the many spices here to ride on, the paneer acting much like tofu.
So, I have noticed the milking schedules of a few of the cows in the neighborhood we are currently in. One woman has been fairly tolerant of my oogling. I still have no idea as to how these cows get enough to eat. Aside from house hold refuse, wilted temple flowers (marigolds for the most part) and street garbage I haven't witnessed any particular feed being dealt out. And as far as water, still baffled. A favorite past time of mine is to eat a banana and feed the peel to a cow.
Up until this point in the trip I had never noticed bulls. I most likely was just not as aware as now, especially after my time on the farm. But here in Varanasi there are quite a few. And they are huge and docile. Many seem to be very old. Several have cataracts. Maybe the young studs are kept contained while the old bulls are free to roam the streets. I am excited to learn more. A curious sight the other day, I saw a bull. He had his testicles but he also had four udders. Is this normal? Of course I got a picture.
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