Friday 17 April 2009
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Into The Filling
Shiva Puri, 11th April
Manali. Altitude. Nepali breakfasts. Rain, Snow. Drinking from waterfalls. Rum punch. Gin rummy. The light from the moon. The rivers from the mountains. The harsh light of day. Hotel Yeti. walks along hill and river. Dystopian literature. Long, lost hours. Bliss, Visisht, Manali.
Delhi Mark III. Rain. Heat. Humidity. Hotel Ajay (Again). The return of familiar surroundings. Duncan Forsyth. Old Delhi. Spectacular Mosque. Old Delhi Eateries: Advice on health and welfare from local customers. Tens of mechanics and repair shops all bunched together. Bussy, witty streets unable to hide the sheer volume of life. The dead, bloody heads of goats. Generous rickshaw drivers. Little sleep. The aeroplane to Nepal.
We arrived in Kathmandu at around 9.30am. Stepping off the plane we found our way into one of those usual, pointless buses which seem to drive for around 12 seconds to a spot easily in walking distance from the plane. Walking through the quiet, deserted arrivals and customs section of Kathmandu airport was bizarre. Four or five tables were topped with a various assortment of scattered, unorganised pieces of A4 and A5 paper. These being the customs and visa forms, we eventually located the appropriate papers, indeed ones not already half filled out with mistakes, made our way to the desk and were handed our visas five minutes and 140 US Dollars later. Joe met us at the airport. From here we drove to the house of Prem Singh, through roads calmer and altogether less congested by rickshaws than my eyes were used to. At Prem's we ate, talked of our past in India and our future in Nepal, old age, youth and the city of Kathmandu. In the kindest of ways we were being looked after, in the most honest waited on, in the slightest of ways scrutinized, but in the most holistic we were being welcomed, and gorgeously so. This I truly appreciate, arriving in any new capital is confusing, exciting and frightening. We were taken around Kathmandu to banks, spirit shops and travel agents. These administritive jobs gave me a chance to digest the city by it's streets. The fonts and colourful letterings of India accomany Kathamndu's shops, yet there are less shops. The Nepali people hold not the faces of their Indian and Tibetan neighbours, but simultaneously a mixture between both and neither. There are less animals visible by street, and more Newari meat on menus. There is a prescence of numerous major embassies and American pressure. There are occasional huge areas of rubbish, the street cleaners are on strike, I am told the Maoist government pay them too little. Strikes are very common. There are massive shopping centres. I am told that in the Nepali's opinion the king will regain power within a couple of months and that the government are widely unpopular. I try Nepali paan. My head is nearly blown off until the spearmint flavour eventually breaks through and sooths the spicy taste of the brittle stuff. I am introduced to the monkey temple, but all the monkeys have been scared off by their brothers, as the thousands of humans crowded into the small temple complex for another religious occasion. At this temple, in sight of eachother, Hindu and Buddhist temples exist together. We make our way around slowly, but eventually the gridlock of people drives us back out and into the gridlock that is Kathmandu rush hour. It takes an hour to return to Prem's house. The cars may drive slower, but the roads are not, as I first thought, calmer.
From Prem's we start the climb to Shiva Puri, the almost slapstick bumpiness of the journey skillfully and quitely navigated by the coy, lovely 17 year old driver. Now Shiva Puri is bright green. Blossom and pink flowers hug the trees and grass. From our dining spot we can see from the grass land plains right to the peak of the Himalayas. The birds are tuneful and rhythmical. There is a single goat that strolls along and around the tiny place, past the woodshed and sleeping areas. The moonlight immeadiately allows your eyes to see as if they've been staring into the dark for an hour. The staff are humble, attractive and embarrasingly attentive. It is, I'm contemplating, the most serene and godly place I've inhabited yet. We spend our days playing music, talking, laughing, and apart from regular arrival of meals, not much else. I am immeasurably lucky. Life has never felt so tender.
And oddly, it's Easter tomorrow.
Kathmandu, 14th April
It's 2066.
Leaving Shiva Puri, the loss of Joe to England, these departures left me cold, purposeless, lost and sad. I think they call this homesick. The return of the inevitable sense of being dumped in an large, inpenetrable, city swept over me for most of my first day back in Kathmandu. Stuck in the overpriced, Espressotastic, westernised shit hole Thamel, we wandered aimlessly around for a number of hours, upset by restaurant bills and lack of real substance until we eventually decided to venture to the "Garden of Dreams". "Tom's Midnight Garden" came to mind. We philosophised here for a while, enjoyed the lushness and plushness of it's greenery, and chose to set sail for Freak Street. The cycle rickshaw opened our eyes to a side of Kathmandu infinitely more attractive, and as I write we are staying in the very guesthouse above the restaurant we found ourselves in on Freak Street.
Halfway througha plate of Momos and a copy of the Himalayan Times I discover it's New Years Eve, circa the Nepali Year 2065. Suddenly my mood shifts, my eyes brighten. I start to catch glances of excited, contented expectation is the faces of courting young Neplai girls and boys. As we make the half an hour walk back to our original hotel in Thamel through the lampless, yet electric streets we pass uncountable directions of music. We direct ourselves around laughing crowds of disinterested shopkeepers, the lyrical horns of motorbikes, sharp looking men, beautiful looking women, the discoloured heads of dead pigs, the occasional chicken, the odd drug dealer, the frequent tourist. Back at our weird, dark hotel, Hari and I feel it approriate to celebrate. We play cards, crack into the Baileys and whiskey we've acquired and make our way to "Reggae Bar". As we walk past someone who can only be loosely described as a bouncer, he lets us in with a smile and declares that we do not have to pay (no one has to pay), we collect our drinks from the bar (Thamel price) and sit down to the local band. The lead singer is wearing a bandana and is tattoo-clad as he rasps out the final chorus repeat of an extremely extended version of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick In The Wall (Part II)". We leave the bar as the band are going into pseudo-heavy mode and laugh ourselves into bed well before midnight, as always.
So after departing Thamel and uprooting to Freak street, we explore the nearby Durbar Square. in the centre there's a stage, and loads of doctored-Nepali flags, which have been erected to the surrounding centuries-old temples. Some sort of event is taking place, and a large crowd onlooks. . On the stage there are around six men, seated, who fail to move throughout the event. Standing in front of them is a speaker with a microphone. He, like the seated men behind him and many of the supporters in the front row, wear identical caps sporting this flag. Some men wear rosettes. So - this is a New Year's Day celebration turned political ralley. Just as this realisation dawns on me it is challenged, then discarded when a man wearin a rucksack joins the stage, mumurs "Track 8", and proceeds to soulfully sing to a romantic backing track. A few young girls and one or two old men dance just in front of the stage. They all wear the caps. The simple question repeats over in my mind - what the fuck is going on, please? Once again the language barrier kills any chance of understanding, and we stroll off completely confused and utterly bemused.
Two rickshaws later and we're at Pashupatinath. The smoke rises from the dead. There are children running around, playing. There are sadhus who pose for photos. There is a dirty, almost waterless river that runs through the temple complex. There are cows in the mounds of grass in the river, monkeys everywhere else. Nepali yuppies wlak past poor, crosslegged countrymen.
We are at temple that has existed in part since the 5th century. We are also at an open air crematorium. The naked, death cold bodies are wrapped in robes of orange (peace) and white (sadness, grief). The firewood is prepared. The body is rested on the wood. The oldest son begins the fire, setting his father's mouth alight. The body burns for three hours. The ashes are swept into the river from the platform. The five Hindu essential elements of fire, water, earth, sky and air are represented in the ceremony. The smoke, being air, rises from the fire into the sky. The fire is made on the platform, being earth. Finally the ashes of the fire are returned to water. There are around seven platforms, some empty, other at the different stages of funeral. An old women is being undressed. The temple is open at all times, all hours, the disposal of the dead is a continuous task. Families surround the platforms. Nobody cries, many talk. The grief, like the cremation, is public. We are invited to take pictures.
From here we walk to Boudha, from the realms of Hinduism into the huge monument space of the Tibetan Buddhist stipa, which is maybe a century older than Pashupatinath, but in honesty, nobody really knows. The size, colour, visible simplicity and ideologically representitive features of this stipa make it a stunning sight. I am moved by both temples as I have not been before. So old.
We eat, return to Freak Street through boringly endless jams and pollution, through continual New Year celebrations and a melting pot of sound and light. As as we ride through the streets clutching onto each moment stubbornly, I am a pinprick on the passage of time, a moment of dust on the expanse of space, and so young, so ignorant, so curious.
Manali. Altitude. Nepali breakfasts. Rain, Snow. Drinking from waterfalls. Rum punch. Gin rummy. The light from the moon. The rivers from the mountains. The harsh light of day. Hotel Yeti. walks along hill and river. Dystopian literature. Long, lost hours. Bliss, Visisht, Manali.
Delhi Mark III. Rain. Heat. Humidity. Hotel Ajay (Again). The return of familiar surroundings. Duncan Forsyth. Old Delhi. Spectacular Mosque. Old Delhi Eateries: Advice on health and welfare from local customers. Tens of mechanics and repair shops all bunched together. Bussy, witty streets unable to hide the sheer volume of life. The dead, bloody heads of goats. Generous rickshaw drivers. Little sleep. The aeroplane to Nepal.
We arrived in Kathmandu at around 9.30am. Stepping off the plane we found our way into one of those usual, pointless buses which seem to drive for around 12 seconds to a spot easily in walking distance from the plane. Walking through the quiet, deserted arrivals and customs section of Kathmandu airport was bizarre. Four or five tables were topped with a various assortment of scattered, unorganised pieces of A4 and A5 paper. These being the customs and visa forms, we eventually located the appropriate papers, indeed ones not already half filled out with mistakes, made our way to the desk and were handed our visas five minutes and 140 US Dollars later. Joe met us at the airport. From here we drove to the house of Prem Singh, through roads calmer and altogether less congested by rickshaws than my eyes were used to. At Prem's we ate, talked of our past in India and our future in Nepal, old age, youth and the city of Kathmandu. In the kindest of ways we were being looked after, in the most honest waited on, in the slightest of ways scrutinized, but in the most holistic we were being welcomed, and gorgeously so. This I truly appreciate, arriving in any new capital is confusing, exciting and frightening. We were taken around Kathmandu to banks, spirit shops and travel agents. These administritive jobs gave me a chance to digest the city by it's streets. The fonts and colourful letterings of India accomany Kathamndu's shops, yet there are less shops. The Nepali people hold not the faces of their Indian and Tibetan neighbours, but simultaneously a mixture between both and neither. There are less animals visible by street, and more Newari meat on menus. There is a prescence of numerous major embassies and American pressure. There are occasional huge areas of rubbish, the street cleaners are on strike, I am told the Maoist government pay them too little. Strikes are very common. There are massive shopping centres. I am told that in the Nepali's opinion the king will regain power within a couple of months and that the government are widely unpopular. I try Nepali paan. My head is nearly blown off until the spearmint flavour eventually breaks through and sooths the spicy taste of the brittle stuff. I am introduced to the monkey temple, but all the monkeys have been scared off by their brothers, as the thousands of humans crowded into the small temple complex for another religious occasion. At this temple, in sight of eachother, Hindu and Buddhist temples exist together. We make our way around slowly, but eventually the gridlock of people drives us back out and into the gridlock that is Kathmandu rush hour. It takes an hour to return to Prem's house. The cars may drive slower, but the roads are not, as I first thought, calmer.
From Prem's we start the climb to Shiva Puri, the almost slapstick bumpiness of the journey skillfully and quitely navigated by the coy, lovely 17 year old driver. Now Shiva Puri is bright green. Blossom and pink flowers hug the trees and grass. From our dining spot we can see from the grass land plains right to the peak of the Himalayas. The birds are tuneful and rhythmical. There is a single goat that strolls along and around the tiny place, past the woodshed and sleeping areas. The moonlight immeadiately allows your eyes to see as if they've been staring into the dark for an hour. The staff are humble, attractive and embarrasingly attentive. It is, I'm contemplating, the most serene and godly place I've inhabited yet. We spend our days playing music, talking, laughing, and apart from regular arrival of meals, not much else. I am immeasurably lucky. Life has never felt so tender.
And oddly, it's Easter tomorrow.
Kathmandu, 14th April
It's 2066.
Leaving Shiva Puri, the loss of Joe to England, these departures left me cold, purposeless, lost and sad. I think they call this homesick. The return of the inevitable sense of being dumped in an large, inpenetrable, city swept over me for most of my first day back in Kathmandu. Stuck in the overpriced, Espressotastic, westernised shit hole Thamel, we wandered aimlessly around for a number of hours, upset by restaurant bills and lack of real substance until we eventually decided to venture to the "Garden of Dreams". "Tom's Midnight Garden" came to mind. We philosophised here for a while, enjoyed the lushness and plushness of it's greenery, and chose to set sail for Freak Street. The cycle rickshaw opened our eyes to a side of Kathmandu infinitely more attractive, and as I write we are staying in the very guesthouse above the restaurant we found ourselves in on Freak Street.
Halfway througha plate of Momos and a copy of the Himalayan Times I discover it's New Years Eve, circa the Nepali Year 2065. Suddenly my mood shifts, my eyes brighten. I start to catch glances of excited, contented expectation is the faces of courting young Neplai girls and boys. As we make the half an hour walk back to our original hotel in Thamel through the lampless, yet electric streets we pass uncountable directions of music. We direct ourselves around laughing crowds of disinterested shopkeepers, the lyrical horns of motorbikes, sharp looking men, beautiful looking women, the discoloured heads of dead pigs, the occasional chicken, the odd drug dealer, the frequent tourist. Back at our weird, dark hotel, Hari and I feel it approriate to celebrate. We play cards, crack into the Baileys and whiskey we've acquired and make our way to "Reggae Bar". As we walk past someone who can only be loosely described as a bouncer, he lets us in with a smile and declares that we do not have to pay (no one has to pay), we collect our drinks from the bar (Thamel price) and sit down to the local band. The lead singer is wearing a bandana and is tattoo-clad as he rasps out the final chorus repeat of an extremely extended version of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick In The Wall (Part II)". We leave the bar as the band are going into pseudo-heavy mode and laugh ourselves into bed well before midnight, as always.
So after departing Thamel and uprooting to Freak street, we explore the nearby Durbar Square. in the centre there's a stage, and loads of doctored-Nepali flags, which have been erected to the surrounding centuries-old temples. Some sort of event is taking place, and a large crowd onlooks. . On the stage there are around six men, seated, who fail to move throughout the event. Standing in front of them is a speaker with a microphone. He, like the seated men behind him and many of the supporters in the front row, wear identical caps sporting this flag. Some men wear rosettes. So - this is a New Year's Day celebration turned political ralley. Just as this realisation dawns on me it is challenged, then discarded when a man wearin a rucksack joins the stage, mumurs "Track 8", and proceeds to soulfully sing to a romantic backing track. A few young girls and one or two old men dance just in front of the stage. They all wear the caps. The simple question repeats over in my mind - what the fuck is going on, please? Once again the language barrier kills any chance of understanding, and we stroll off completely confused and utterly bemused.
Two rickshaws later and we're at Pashupatinath. The smoke rises from the dead. There are children running around, playing. There are sadhus who pose for photos. There is a dirty, almost waterless river that runs through the temple complex. There are cows in the mounds of grass in the river, monkeys everywhere else. Nepali yuppies wlak past poor, crosslegged countrymen.
We are at temple that has existed in part since the 5th century. We are also at an open air crematorium. The naked, death cold bodies are wrapped in robes of orange (peace) and white (sadness, grief). The firewood is prepared. The body is rested on the wood. The oldest son begins the fire, setting his father's mouth alight. The body burns for three hours. The ashes are swept into the river from the platform. The five Hindu essential elements of fire, water, earth, sky and air are represented in the ceremony. The smoke, being air, rises from the fire into the sky. The fire is made on the platform, being earth. Finally the ashes of the fire are returned to water. There are around seven platforms, some empty, other at the different stages of funeral. An old women is being undressed. The temple is open at all times, all hours, the disposal of the dead is a continuous task. Families surround the platforms. Nobody cries, many talk. The grief, like the cremation, is public. We are invited to take pictures.
From here we walk to Boudha, from the realms of Hinduism into the huge monument space of the Tibetan Buddhist stipa, which is maybe a century older than Pashupatinath, but in honesty, nobody really knows. The size, colour, visible simplicity and ideologically representitive features of this stipa make it a stunning sight. I am moved by both temples as I have not been before. So old.
We eat, return to Freak Street through boringly endless jams and pollution, through continual New Year celebrations and a melting pot of sound and light. As as we ride through the streets clutching onto each moment stubbornly, I am a pinprick on the passage of time, a moment of dust on the expanse of space, and so young, so ignorant, so curious.
Sunday 5 April 2009
The Smoke To The Snow
After so long plagued with writers block thanks to lack of subject, I've found myself wordless for the exact opposite reasons. How do you put this country into words, a universe within itself? Regarding that, here is a list of things I've been doing in the heaven knows how long.
Amritsar, 22nd March
Following a near 24hour bus journey, a confused selection of State Bus changes and a good 16 hour sleep I awake properly to Amritsar on my second day there.
The pollution is clearly visible, the sky simultaneously blue directly above and an overcast grey on the horizon. Amritsar immediately strikes me as an Industrial city, a working hub for the production of whatever goods can be made the provide jobs. The traffic is worse than Delhi, the character more hardened and private than Rajasthan. However Amritsar immediately is the most visibly religious place par maybe Rishikesh I've been yet. The pilgrimage of thousands of Sikhs per day to the Golden Temple just reinforces the sheer amount of religion here. The endless, multi-shaded oceans of turbans set upon the smoke, small manafacturing establishments, eateries and dirty grapes all serve to emphasise the daily reality of religious activity, as much a part of life as driving around the city's streets, laughing and philosophising with family or working on the huge number of construction sites the city houses.
Walking around the oddly positioned Golden Temple it is obvious how such monuments are always surrounded by such normality. I took off my shoes, crudely covered my head with my scarf, and entered the holy temple looking like an idiot pirate. Gora.
Most of the sightseeing was accompanied with bemused smiles from onlookers, groups of men more interested in a 'snap' with me than of the temple itself, and a brief insight into the manifestations of the Sikh culture.
Much of the same at the Jallianwala Bagh memorial. Here the blood of thousands of Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus was split due to brutality and lack of humanity from the British forces in the 1919 massacre. To walk into this memorial as member of the guilty country in hand was extremely resonant and important. Thousands more of these sights must exist, regards to the colonial obsessed bastards. How many more do, and will exist in Iraq and Afghanistan in 5, 10, 20 years time?
The guilt felt at the Jallianwala Bagh was perverted even more so by the eagerness of the surrounding Indians to have more pictures with us. To feel like a circus animal or clown in the court of your trial is perhaps fitting, I do not know.
In truth the nicest Indians we met were the Punjabi women, whose wholesome, honest smiles and approachable manner was only furthered by the numerous presence and confidence. It was here I met my favourite Indian so far, a large, strong women of perhaps 50 or 60, white haired and the owner of the wittiest eyes and chuckle in the subcontinent. She and around 7 younger friends sat around us, staring, exchanging hellos and handshakes. As they bid farewell the woman, who in my memory spoke no English, gave us all a hearty hug upon leaving, and walked back into life muttering conversational Punjabi. Goodbye the, Amritsar.
Dharamsala, 3rd April
Amritsar, 22nd March
Following a near 24hour bus journey, a confused selection of State Bus changes and a good 16 hour sleep I awake properly to Amritsar on my second day there.
The pollution is clearly visible, the sky simultaneously blue directly above and an overcast grey on the horizon. Amritsar immediately strikes me as an Industrial city, a working hub for the production of whatever goods can be made the provide jobs. The traffic is worse than Delhi, the character more hardened and private than Rajasthan. However Amritsar immediately is the most visibly religious place par maybe Rishikesh I've been yet. The pilgrimage of thousands of Sikhs per day to the Golden Temple just reinforces the sheer amount of religion here. The endless, multi-shaded oceans of turbans set upon the smoke, small manafacturing establishments, eateries and dirty grapes all serve to emphasise the daily reality of religious activity, as much a part of life as driving around the city's streets, laughing and philosophising with family or working on the huge number of construction sites the city houses.
Walking around the oddly positioned Golden Temple it is obvious how such monuments are always surrounded by such normality. I took off my shoes, crudely covered my head with my scarf, and entered the holy temple looking like an idiot pirate. Gora.
Most of the sightseeing was accompanied with bemused smiles from onlookers, groups of men more interested in a 'snap' with me than of the temple itself, and a brief insight into the manifestations of the Sikh culture.
Much of the same at the Jallianwala Bagh memorial. Here the blood of thousands of Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus was split due to brutality and lack of humanity from the British forces in the 1919 massacre. To walk into this memorial as member of the guilty country in hand was extremely resonant and important. Thousands more of these sights must exist, regards to the colonial obsessed bastards. How many more do, and will exist in Iraq and Afghanistan in 5, 10, 20 years time?
The guilt felt at the Jallianwala Bagh was perverted even more so by the eagerness of the surrounding Indians to have more pictures with us. To feel like a circus animal or clown in the court of your trial is perhaps fitting, I do not know.
In truth the nicest Indians we met were the Punjabi women, whose wholesome, honest smiles and approachable manner was only furthered by the numerous presence and confidence. It was here I met my favourite Indian so far, a large, strong women of perhaps 50 or 60, white haired and the owner of the wittiest eyes and chuckle in the subcontinent. She and around 7 younger friends sat around us, staring, exchanging hellos and handshakes. As they bid farewell the woman, who in my memory spoke no English, gave us all a hearty hug upon leaving, and walked back into life muttering conversational Punjabi. Goodbye the, Amritsar.
Dharamsala, 3rd April
Memories * McLeod Ganj
Dharamsala, and more specifically McLeod Ganj, tourist infected area and home of the Tibetan government and culture in exile, was a healing, comfortable and resourceful home for just over a week. It is a symbol of the gorgeous diversity of India, and the simple, infinite hospitality of India. Many Tibetans walked miles through the harsh beautiful terrain of the Himalayas to Dharamsala to exercise freedom of speech, freedom of religion and freedom of Tibetan cultural practices. India, home of 1.17 billion, continues to welcome them in.
The long journey from Amritsar saw me trampled on the floor of a tiny train due to the ridiculous amount of (consistently relaxed) passengers, sick in a train station to the bemused silence of hundreds of onlookers, and finally stunned to a silence of my own by the golden country of Himachal Pradesh and the first sight of the Himalayas. The mountains are alive. They hide in cloud on overcast days, and when their disguises are removed by the movement of wind they announce themselves to Mcleod Ganj with such gigantic, gorgeous severity that one can only stare, and keep on staring.
So we arrived in Dharamsala at night, our only clues to McLeod Ganj being a comparatively small selection of focused lights placed high on the vast landscape. Absolutely robbed of all energy, mugged and beaten of all purpose my body collapsed into bed.
The next few days saw lots of walks, the buying of an incy little guitar, the return of composition, the recovery from illness, the return of illness, new acquatainces, the revival of jumpers and the departure of Katy. Before Katy left we explored half a walk to Dharamkot, the outrageous Engrish of Xcite Bar*, the Pierce Brosnan menu-ed McLlo's bar (lots of Tibetan hipsters sprawled suggestively along tables) and the Buddhist temple complex, in which we stumbled across the lunchtime debate. This saw around 50 monks dressed in the famous maroon-red, paired, exchanging ideas punctuated by long, echoless claps. Unable to understand the language, the spectacle seemed like a marine dance, the inevitable claps similar to a quick turn of a fish's tail. Either that, or the altitude is ruining my brain.
After Katy left, we spent more time with a good humored, down to earth New Zealand couple named respectively Lydia and Duncan. We'd met them on the excruciating 6 hour train ride from Pathankot, and with them we ate, drank, talked of the extremities, beauties and absurdities of India, the experiences of Rajasthan, and also attended a talk with some Tibetan ex-political prisoners.
The talk was humbling thanks to the honest and positivity of those tortured and exiled men, but did not teach me anything I had not imagined, simply reinforcing the importance of the issue. The audience also happened to contain a few of the usual self important types, all to happy to steer the ship of conversation their way, setting sail for cynical Western logic and their views on consumerism and globalisation. Perhaps I was missing the point or am the cynic myself, but in a room full of tourists and English speaking Tibetans, I know who I want to listen too, I'm afraid.
In completely opposite circumstances me and Hari got lost half way up a mountain, attempting to walk to the snow line. Thankyou very much, Himalayan sun, for the neck brace style pinkness I still own below my hairline.
Another recurring feature of Dharamsala was a morose, friendly Kashmiri man named Ali. A shopkeeper, forced to move south from his beloved Kashmir for the tourist beat, he entertained us with his uniquely Indian views on his lovelife, family, Islam, ghosts, business, maternal cooking and the weather. He is a friend.
Finally, I plowed through 'Shantaram' in just over a week, due to it's addictive storytelling and I suspect, my unconscious tendency to skimread. I'm reading 'We' by Yevgeny Zamyatin now.
So in the home of the Dalai Lama, too many of the small events we collectively call living occurred for me to begin recalling even half of them. McLeod Ganj, like most of the India in my heart, is slowly maturing into pure memory.
The long journey from Amritsar saw me trampled on the floor of a tiny train due to the ridiculous amount of (consistently relaxed) passengers, sick in a train station to the bemused silence of hundreds of onlookers, and finally stunned to a silence of my own by the golden country of Himachal Pradesh and the first sight of the Himalayas. The mountains are alive. They hide in cloud on overcast days, and when their disguises are removed by the movement of wind they announce themselves to Mcleod Ganj with such gigantic, gorgeous severity that one can only stare, and keep on staring.
So we arrived in Dharamsala at night, our only clues to McLeod Ganj being a comparatively small selection of focused lights placed high on the vast landscape. Absolutely robbed of all energy, mugged and beaten of all purpose my body collapsed into bed.
The next few days saw lots of walks, the buying of an incy little guitar, the return of composition, the recovery from illness, the return of illness, new acquatainces, the revival of jumpers and the departure of Katy. Before Katy left we explored half a walk to Dharamkot, the outrageous Engrish of Xcite Bar*, the Pierce Brosnan menu-ed McLlo's bar (lots of Tibetan hipsters sprawled suggestively along tables) and the Buddhist temple complex, in which we stumbled across the lunchtime debate. This saw around 50 monks dressed in the famous maroon-red, paired, exchanging ideas punctuated by long, echoless claps. Unable to understand the language, the spectacle seemed like a marine dance, the inevitable claps similar to a quick turn of a fish's tail. Either that, or the altitude is ruining my brain.
After Katy left, we spent more time with a good humored, down to earth New Zealand couple named respectively Lydia and Duncan. We'd met them on the excruciating 6 hour train ride from Pathankot, and with them we ate, drank, talked of the extremities, beauties and absurdities of India, the experiences of Rajasthan, and also attended a talk with some Tibetan ex-political prisoners.
The talk was humbling thanks to the honest and positivity of those tortured and exiled men, but did not teach me anything I had not imagined, simply reinforcing the importance of the issue. The audience also happened to contain a few of the usual self important types, all to happy to steer the ship of conversation their way, setting sail for cynical Western logic and their views on consumerism and globalisation. Perhaps I was missing the point or am the cynic myself, but in a room full of tourists and English speaking Tibetans, I know who I want to listen too, I'm afraid.
In completely opposite circumstances me and Hari got lost half way up a mountain, attempting to walk to the snow line. Thankyou very much, Himalayan sun, for the neck brace style pinkness I still own below my hairline.
Another recurring feature of Dharamsala was a morose, friendly Kashmiri man named Ali. A shopkeeper, forced to move south from his beloved Kashmir for the tourist beat, he entertained us with his uniquely Indian views on his lovelife, family, Islam, ghosts, business, maternal cooking and the weather. He is a friend.
Finally, I plowed through 'Shantaram' in just over a week, due to it's addictive storytelling and I suspect, my unconscious tendency to skimread. I'm reading 'We' by Yevgeny Zamyatin now.
So in the home of the Dalai Lama, too many of the small events we collectively call living occurred for me to begin recalling even half of them. McLeod Ganj, like most of the India in my heart, is slowly maturing into pure memory.
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