The Unenlightened

October 4, 2010

We woke up early, packed a day bag, and headed for McLeod. For some reason, I'm still feeling a bit woozy, so we took it slow. In McLeod, we bought a bottle of water and a piece of walnut cake for breakfast, and then we walked down to the Tsuglagkhang Temple Complex. At the gate, we joined a throng of Buddhist monks, Tibetans, Taiwanese, and other travelers. After we walked through the metal detector, we were patted down, and found not to be carrying a camera, cell phone, or explosive device, we entered the courtyard.

While we were searching for a spare patch of ground, we ran into Derrick and Aubrey, the couple we had met in Ladakh. In fact, there we recognized a bunch of the other travellers that we've been passing by for days now, eating in restaurants together, listening to music, and browsing through handicraft stalls. Although we had a special pass to sit upstairs closer to the reading, all the seats were already taken. I wasn't too bothered; I hadn't really expected to be able to see the Dalai Lama as he spoke.

Sitting in a crowd, we pulled out our little FM radios and flipped through the stations to 92.3, the English translation. We waited around for about another hour, people watching and chatting, and then the Dalai Lama came out of his residence, flanked on either side by monks and camera men. He walked about fifteen feet in front of us, smiling and holding his palms together as he nodded, and then he walked up the stairs to the Temple.

After he walked by, everyone got up and found a more comfortable spot. We went to find a seat in the shade, and then we waited for the talk to begin. All around us, people were singing 'Om Mani Padme Hum,' and many were standing, touching their prayer-held hands to their foreheads, mouths, and hearts, and then prostrating themselves. Old men were running their fingers over prayer beads and whispering; old women were holding mini-prayer wheels, spinning them and chanting at the same time.

When the Dalai Lama began to pray, all the monks and Tibetans prayed with him. He began to talk, but it took Joshua and I a good 15 minutes to finally get the translation going on our radios. Even then, the reception faded in and out, and the translator became silent for long periods of time.

We sat for two hours on the ground while the Dalai Lama talked. The sound of the translator on our headphones faded in and out, and monks walked the crowds serving milky, buttered tea. I opened my notepad, took out my pen, and started writing.

I suppose now is as good of a time as any to tell you that Joshua and I are buying a house with Josh's Mom and Step-dad, Yvonne and Dave. We've known for a little while now, and the possibility has been on the table for even longer, but I was reluctant to announce it to the world, in case it fell through or my eagerness jinxed it.

So here's the dealio: last April, Joshua and I were down in the dumps teaching underprivileged children in the slums of New Orleans. The children needed lots and lots of help, and they still do, but the schools we were teaching in made us absolutely miserable. We constantly fell short. I could go on and on, but that's the gist of it. Anyway, we were contemplating our move out of New Orleans at the end of the school year, and we had no idea what was coming next. We've always been the planful types, but now, when we needed something to look forward to the most, we hadn't a clue.

At one point, Yvonne sent us a link to a farm house that they had found in Ellsworth, halfway between Hastings and River Falls. The house was beautiful, a gorgeous, hundred year old Victorian with stained-glass windows, a turret, and full wrap-around porch. On the 14 acres of land surrounding the house, there was an old barn, three silos, two pole barns, three grain bins, and another animal-stall barn thingy. It was gorgeous, and when Yvonne and Dave suggested that we buy it, we seriously considered it.

For two weeks, I was pretty sure that we were going to buy that house, but the whole time, I fretted about how we would pay the mortgage. I'd have to retrain to get a teacher's license in Minnesota and Wisconsin, and even if I did the training, there was no guarantee that I'd be able to get a job within driving distance of the farm. Just when I thought it wasn't possible to become more anxious - grinding my teeth and waking up in cold sweats at night - I was overrun with panic.

I told Joshua, and we decided we weren't quite ready to decide where we were going to live for the next 20 years. First, we needed steady jobs with steady incomes that didn't make us want to pluck out our eyeballs. This decision abated some of the panic, but the next year was still one enormous question mark.

Then Joshua said, 'why don't we go to Nepal after we go and visit your English family?' So the trip was born, and we put the idea of buying the farm to rest. After school ended, Yvonne and Dave drove us by the farm just out of curiosity. It was beautiful, we said, and exactly the sort of thing we'd love to live in one day soon, but we weren't ready.

In August, Yvonne and Dave's property flooded. It was a terrible ordeal, and long story short, they needed a new place to stay. Renting was out of the question because of all the animals, and buying a new place was going to be tricky because they still owned the flooded property. When Joshua told me what happened, I sat and stewed for a little bit. Then I looked him in the eyes and told him that I thought we should buy the farm. I wasn't sure if it was even possible to try and do something like that half-way across the world, but it felt right. With two couples paying the mortgage, Joshua and I would easily be able to find jobs to cover our half, and I was already beginning to think that I might never be able to face the classroom again. Yvonne and Dave needed a place to live with their animals, and we had talked about living on the same farm together in the past. It seemed like the right timing.

We told Yvonne and Dave, and they said they would look into it. A couple weeks later, they told us that they had approached the seller with a proposal for a contract for deed, and he had agreed. They moved in this weekend. (A contract for deed basically means that, although we haven't secured a mortgage from the bank because Joshua and I are half-way across the world, we have promised to get the mortgage within the next two years. In the mean time, it's sort of like rent-to-own: we pay the mortgage, and our payments go towards paying off the home.)

There's still a lot in the air, and I suppose there's always a chance that things might not work out, but we're very hopeful and it all seems like it's going to happen. We're very, very excited. Yvonne and Dave are planning to renovate the second floor of the barn for their home, and Joshua and I are going to fix up the old house. For now, when we get home, we'll all be living in the house.

I tell you this now, because rather than contemplate the three poisons, the light of knowledge, and seeking nirvana as His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama spoke eloquently and compassionately in Tibetan, I plotted what colors I'd like to paint the walls of our new home. I thought about the kind of plants I'd like to hang from the ceiling, and I considered the fabrics we might buy in India to bring back with us and adorn our new home with.

Since you ask, yes, I feel terribly guilty that I didn't sit entranced by the Dalai Lama and his teachings. To make matters worse, rather than considering the possibilities of an-atman and bodhisattva-hood, I was being materialistic and day-dreaming about the future. I was definitely not in the present. I failed to attain a higher spiritual plane.

When the Dalai Lama passed us on his way out, Joshua and I picked up our stuff and silently walked out of the complex. This afternoon, he would be continuing his teachings, but I already knew that I wasn't even remotely interested. Finally, a few blocks later, Joshua looked at me with eyes that told me he already knew exactly what I thought: 'so what did you think?'

Here's the thing: when I was growing up, I went to synagogue on Friday nights and Mass on Sunday mornings. Neither the rabbi nor the priest were particularly brief, and it wasn't unusual for a service to last for about two hours. On top of that, I had Catechism on Tuesdays, Confirmation before Mass on Sundays, choir practice on Wednesdays and Sunday mornings, and the occasional Tot Shabbat on Saturday morning. In high school, I went to Vespers at the local college. I think it's safe to say that I've been to more religion stuff than most people I know. I feel all religioned out. While I was sitting on the hard ground listening to a poor translation of the Dalai Lama, I felt that old familiar, antsy feeling. I think I might be done with a religion that talks at you, and if I can't find it in myself to be patient with the most compassionate and tolerant religion on Earth (Buddhism), then I don't think there's a lot of hope for me.

On our way to JJI Restaurant for lunch, we stopped at a stall to buy me a beautiful necklace that I had been eyeing for about a week. It's gorgeous, and I talked him down 100 rupees. At JJI's, we ordered chowmein and Cashew soup. I was still not feeling very well, and after reading for a few minutes, I asked Joshua if we could walk back to the guesthouse to rest.

Just before we got back, it started to rain, and we got in our room just in time for it to begin down pouring. Ever since, we've been reading and writing and relaxing.

***

After a little rest, we walked through Bhagsu on our way to McLeod and arranged to go on a little outing with Eshai and Hadas for tomorrow. We're taking a taxi to some hot springs a couple hours away.

In McLeod, we withdrew some money and went in search of the bus stand where we'll board the bus for Rishikesh tomorrow. Afterward, we chose a highly recommended Italian Restaurant, Oogbo's and ordered pasta primavera, bruchetta, and an eggplant bake. While we waited for the food, we played cards. It was delicious.

After we paid, we picked up some snacks for the trip tomorrow. While we were waiting, I saw a man run after a dog and kick it over and over again. It probably wasn't smart of me, but I just started screaming at him: stop! Stop it! Stop! I was so angry, I was about to go over there, but Joshua stopped me. The man was so violent, he kicked the dog into the restaurant we had been eating in and kept on kicking. The owners of the restaurant stopped him and started yelling at him, and at the same time, the man who was selling us our snacks explained that the dog was very dangerous. The same dog has attacked a couple of people, and it's cost them thousands of rupees to get rabies shots and stitches.

I'm not sure what the dog's fate was, because as soon as I saw a big group of people walk up ready to take matters into their own hands, I told Joshua that we had to leave. I had already yelled at a local, and I didn't want to see what they were going to do.

Now, we're at Green Hotel catching a little internet before we head back, pack up, and go to sleep.

October 3, 2010

Thus far, today has been a bit of a bummer. I woke up very late after staying up so late reading, and we rushed out the door for a quick 30 minute run to Naddi and back. Before we went to Jewelry Making Class (Gold and Silver Jewelry School with Leni and Ravi in Bhagsu), we quickly packed a day bag, got all of our laundry together, and had lunch at the Tree of Life.

While we waited for our food, we played a game of checkers. To drink, Joshua had fresh pineapple juice and I gulped down a sweet lassi. Joshua ordered a full breakfast with veggies, potatoes, eggs, and toast, while I opted for my first salad in ages: shredded beet root and carrots with spinach, topped in sprouts and sesame seeds. While Joshua paid, I hurried up to the school, remembering that they had laundry service on the third floor. When I got to the room where the classes were supposed to be held, the man we had spoken to earlier was there waiting for us. He looked contrite.

With the season ending here in Bhagsu, Dharamkot, and McLeod (i.e. Dharamsala), lots of shop, guest house, and restaurant owners are packing up and migrating for winter. Most head down to Goa or maybe Rajastan. Apparently, it just gets too cold here. When I looked inside the room behind the gentleman, I saw that they had already begun to pack. The man explained that his boss wanted them out and on the road by tomorrow. No Jewelry Making Class for us.

Wanting to be helpful, the man walked us up to the third floor to show us where we could drop off our laundry. After a rapid-fire exchange in Hindi, he shook his head at us again. No laundry today.

We walked away totally crushed. I had really been looking forward to the classes, and although there were other hole-in-the-wall places that advertised their own jewelry making courses, none of them were as comprehensive as Leni and Ravi's: they have a large room devoted to classes, while others just have corners in their street-front jewelry shops; they have power tools, supplies, and booklets, while others barely speak English. Like the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center (Yoga with Its Shit Together), Joshua had said that it was Jewelry Making Class with Its Shit Together. To make matters worse, I had begun to fantasize about my new bohemian lifestyle, making arty-farty gold and silver pieces and selling them at Farmer's Markets and the Renaissance Festival. I'd become a household name, and eventually, I'd just be able to flip on my goggles, play with fire and metal, and when I got bored, I'd go into my little office and write. I'd never have to worry about mean bosses who tell you that you're a piece of shit, students who just as soon assault you as take your tests, or time clocks, commutes, or professional regressment ever again.

I feel the need to explain something to you: I'm not lazy. Really. In many cases, I'm goal-oriented and motivated to a fault. I even prefer to structure my play time; I can't stand waking up and not having a good plan for the rest of the day, and nothing makes me feel more dissatisfied and just generally yucky than wasting a day doing nothing. Don't get me wrong. I love reading, writing, and watching a good movie or TV series, but even then, doing one of those things all day long will leave me feeling restless and unproductive.

That said, the prospect of showing up to a 9 to 5 job in an office just makes me want to keel over and give up right now. I hate being constantly evaluated and somehow always falling short, and it makes me sick just thinking about spending 40 hours (or 50, or 60, or 70) of my life every week doing something that I don't find meaningful or enjoyable. I don't mean to be a baby; I know that others suck it up and even do it willingly. It just feels like I'm looking at a box that's way too small. In order to fit in there, I'm going to have to crumple myself into this weird yoga-torture position and sit there 40 hours a week, 50 weeks a year for the rest of my life. Eventually, rather than sit with the pain, I'll just become this doughy blob that fits well into small, boxy enclosed spaces.

Sometimes, just to torture myself, I'll browse through job listings on-line. I'll try to imagine myself as a receptionist or an admissions counselor, anything I'm qualified to do. I think about going back to school to train to be a teacher all over again, and when I get out, I'll search high and low for anyone to hire me, and I'll just be right back in some classroom in some school somewhere, given all this responsibility and none of the authority to get it done. Maybe I could go back to school for two years, get into all sorts of debt, and then be an underpaid social worker who can never quite fix anything and who's always blamed because they're stupid enough to try to help.

I know I'm far too young to be so cynical, and even though I tell myself that, I can't shake the dread. I'm not qualified to do anything that I think I might love and be meaningful (read: help people), and yet, I'm not convinced that another two years for some sort of certification won't just lead me straight back to a job where I'm unliked and I dislike being there.

So, yeah. I'm feeling pretty Debbie-downer right now, and it all started because I wasn't able to fulfill my dream of changing my name to Stardust, making arty-farty jewelry, teaching yoga classes, and writing long, windy novels that either get published or not, who cares? I'll be so happy wearing natural fibers and weaving peace and om symbols into my art, I won't care at all.

Ok. I jest, and now that I've worked myself into a real lather, sputtering over my keyboard, Joshua's had a very firm talking to me. Remember the power of positive thinking, he says. Remember what Lesley said: go ahead and announce to the world exactly what you want. It will come. I'll become a police officer and they'll think I'm such hot stuff that they'll want me to work for the FBI (policing is his flavor of the week right now), and you can work part time and just write and write and write until somebody finally relents and publishes your work, he says. He pulls out all the stops, quoting all the people I love and respect. He throws the words I had told him yesterday (that my dad told me) right back at me: 'the only people who really ever fail are those who either refuse to see their success or give up.'

A big part of me knows he's right and an even bigger part of me knows that I'm just straight up blessed to be married to this man. A smaller part of me is still scared and filled with dread. I'll try to conquer my demons. In the mean time, I must remember to look around. I feel guilty for feeling so apprehensive about life when it's given and giving so much. I must remember to be thankful, because I am. I must remember that the world is not big and bad and neither are the people who inhabit it: it's a matter of changing the way that you look at things. If you believe things are shit and the world sucks, then it does, and you can find all sorts of examples to prove your point. The same goes for believing that the world is ripe for the plucking and just ready for you to go forth and find your place in it. When it knocks you down, you can look at how nice the view is from where you're sitting, and all that sort of stuff. I guess I haven't found the right balance yet.

The other night, I plopped an embarrassingly existential and naive question straight into the middle of a polite social exchange. Looking around a table of bright and diverse gentlemen, I asked them, 'are people mostly good or bad?' (I know, it makes me cringe just writing about it, and before you ask, no, I was not stoned. In fact, I'm never stoned. I act this way sober. Terrifying; I know.) Beatific, smiling Rajjis immediately said, 'mostly good.' Warren from South Africa wisely with-held comment, and Eshai told me I was asking the wrong question.

Even though I had already asked the question and I couldn't take it back, I still didn't really want to get into it. Philosophical discussions really tend to annoy me, because more often than not, the people who like blowing a lot of hot air about god and good and bad rarely get off their ass and ever do anything about it. So when Eshai told me I was asking the wrong question, my hackles were already up and I challenged him. 'So what is the right question?'

Eshai said that my question assumes that there is good and bad. What's good? What's bad? Not every one can agree. Some things might be good, even necessary for me, but bad for you. When that happens, you perceive me as bad, but what choice did I really have? Am I all bad just because I made that one decision?

He was right, of course, and even though it usually annoys me to no end when people take long drags from their joints and dismantle my questions, I was satisfied with his response. It felt both wise and compassionate, and it means that I don't have to go on suspecting that vast proportions of the globe are just absolutely rotten.

All this is to say that on the one hand, wandering out buck-naked into the world and expecting it to provide for you is probably not the wisest decision, but neither is hiding in a really tight boxy space, believing that people hate you and just generally dreading a lifetime of pointlessness and woe. There's got to be some middle ground. That might be a leap (from people aren't mostly good or bad to life doesn't win or suck), but it makes a little bit more sense to me. I just have to remember that things aren't strictly black and white, and when I see all that gray, I should really try to consider all the white that went into making it. I'll be happier that way.

Phew. If any of you are still reading, I will ask a favor. Joshua says I should. It would make me feel really super-fantastic-great if those of you who slog through my posts followed me publicly. You can go up to the right hand corner of this web page and click, 'Follow this Blog.' It will ask you for your name and e-mail address, but don't worry. You're not signing up for a lifetime's worth of junk mail or joining some sort of freaky-deeky cult or anything like that. In fact, I'm pretty sure you'll never receive any mail or Jehovas Witnesses on account of simply signing up; you'll never have to maintain anything at all. You don't even have to put your full name or photo up. It's FREE. ONE TIME ONLY COMMITMENT! NO INTEREST and NO APR for THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!

Ok, now that I've shamelessly suckered you into making the leap and becoming a part of the virtual community before you were really ready, I shall cease all moaning and commence with tales from my really great adventure. Love.

***

After we discovered that the Gold and Silver School was jumping ship, we started walking up through Dharamkot to check out other possibilities, but after a few flights of steps, Joshua had an attack of gippy belly, and we parted ways. Joshua went back to the guesthouse to use the facilities, and I finished the climb to Dharamkot. As I had suspected, none of the other options were particularly enticing, so I quick hopped into the Internet cafe to check my e-mail. Nothing there either.

When I got back to the guesthouse, Joshua was kicking back and reading. I made him come inside the room with me to talk about our options. Both of us were feeling a little funny and unsettled. We've been a little homesick, and I think we're feeling a bit done with Dharamkot. We've walked every road and eaten in every restaurant. The Jewelry Making Classes were going to be the perfect finish to our stay here: we'd listen to the Dalai Lama in the morning, and then in the afternoon, we'd get the creative juices flowing. We'd be so busy that we wouldn't have time to feel unsettled and homesick.

Anyway, I told Joshua that there wasn't much else to do in the way of classes (other options require at least 6 day commitments, and we're headed off to Rishikesh in 4 days). We brooded for a bit, and then I tried to give us a little pep talk: we have no excuse to be whining here! What's the worst-case scenario? We don't find anything to do and we end up reading, writing, and playing cards in a cafe for half the day? We love doing that sort of thing!

We laid down for a little while, poking each other and running our knuckles over each other's ribs like toddlers or teenagers who are bored and just want to annoy someone to make things interesting. Finally, despite me pulling his hair and tickling his ears, Joshua fell asleep, and I started writing.

Well, as you've already gathered, I worked myself into a fine state by writing, and Joshua woke up to me very upset indeed. This time he did the pep talking, and he's pretty good at it. I calmed down, and when I finished writing, we walked up to McLeod to exchange my book, grab a snack and a cup of tea, and attend the JJI Exile Brothers concert.

On our way into McLeod, we cooed at an itty-bitty monkey that had skipped across the road, not realizing that its very large and intimidating mother was hanging out on the other side of the road. Said mother pawed the ground, bared its teeth, and started charging us. We puffed out our chests, swung our arms, and yelled loudly at it, even though we were terrified. Thankfully, she backed down and we were able to pass.

In McLeod, I exchanged my book (would you believe that I spent however many hours reading it and I've now promptly forgotten what it was even called?) for a paperback entitled 'The Heroines,' and at Peace Cafe, we ordered some tea, a slice of brownie cake, fruit salad, and a little sandwich. Sitting overlooking McLeod in the dark, I began not to feel very well at all. In fact, I hadn't felt quite right since we had left the guesthouse. I was nauseous and I had a headache. I felt exhausted. Even though I told myself it was because I had had nothing more than a lassi and beetroot salad all day, plus a rollicking good tizzy that afternoon, I couldn't shake it. Eventually, I told Joshua that I wasn't feeling up to attending the JJI Exile Brothers concert. We got up to leave, and as we walked past the Green Hotel, I started to feel a tiny bit better. I suggested that we pop in to check our e-mails and see how I felt in about 10 minutes.

Whatever it was passed, and we decided to go to the concert after all. JJI is definitely the best restaurant we've found since we've arrived in Dharamsala, and it may even rival some of my all-time favorites: The Cake Bakery in New Orleans and the Shakabrah in Tacoma. I think I've already described the beautiful, cozy orange interior, and the fabulous music they play all day long. The food is delicious, and every Sunday night, they hold a concert for the JJI Exile Brothers.

Inside the small one-room restaurant, they had cleared out all the tables and jammed in about 20 chairs. In front, a drum set, guitars, and a microphone were ready to go. We sat quietly as other tourist filed in, and we listened as they introduced themselves to one another. There were a number of people from the states - the most we've encountered so far - and a few more from Taiwan, Spain, and Thailand.

To begin, a rangy Tibetan with a pony tail and high cheekbones took the stage and told us that he would be singing a song about the Dalai Lama's summer house in Tibet. Strumming on a long-necked instrument with six strings, he closed his eyes and began singing. Next, he sang a song about the Dalai Lama's journey into exile. He sang a couple more songs, a Tibetan drinking song and a traditional and flirtatious call and response song that boys and girls sing to one another. When he was done, he moved to the side of the stage, and one of his cousins strummed the same instrument and sang a song thanking India for providing them a home in exile. Another cousin got on the stage and played an upbeat, foot stomping tune.

When they had finished with the more traditional songs, an older woman dressed in a traditional Tibetan wrap-dress and apron took the microphone and asked us if we were ready to rock. We politely nodded our heads. She asked us again, and we said yes. She looked a little doubtful, and then she said, 'music brings us together.' For some reason, I found this very poignant; here were three brothers, three Tibetan, beatnik rock and rollers, and they were singing about home and exile and falling in love. In some ways, I'm sure people might find this incongrous: Buddhist rock and rollers? But when you think about it, it makes sense. Rock and roll can fit so much into one song - longing, pain, and fun, too. Its the perfect vehicle for expressing the gamut of complications and emotions that arise from living in exile, searching for nirvana, and finding few easy answers.

They were great. The older Tibetan woman dragged each of us into the cramped space in front, urging us to dance. Everyone was shy, but I just decided to get over it. I had fun. My favorite song was about a girl he sees 'in the temple every day, and she says, "om mani padme hum."'

At 9 PM, they took a little break and served us all chai and vegan chocolate cake. During the second half, they played a few more rock and roll songs they had written, and then to close, the had all of us stand in a circle and pass around a newspaper-wrapped box. Every time the music stopped, we'd tear off the paper and underneath, there would be directions for whomever had held it when the music ended. Joshua was first, and he had to act like a monkey. It landed on me too at one point, and I had to pretend I knew how to salsa. In the end, the last person to tear off the wrapping won a JJI breakfast and a marigold to tuck behind their ear. It was wonderful.

We walked back to the guesthouse, pleased that our day had ended better than it began. Unfortunately, we had a little altercation with a large group of Indian teenagers: they were being loud, and when we passed them, I turned my head to smile at them, and one of them tried to spit on me. Ick. I don't think I had done anything offensive; I think they were just being teenagers in a herd, trying to impress one another.

Back at the guesthouse, we tucked ourselves into bed. Tomorrow, the Dalai Lama!

October 2, 2010

Triund is a small village that sits high up on the mountains above Dharamkot and Bhagsu. The climb ascends approximately 3,000 feet in four and a half miles, providing incredible views of the valley and waterfalls below. At the top, a clear day can afford you a glimpse of the mountain ranges beyond.

Joshua and I got a bit of a late start. Packing a small day pack, we climbed the stairs to the Himalaya Tea Cafe at the crossroads between Naddi, McLeod, and Dharamkot. There, we ordered a crispy pancake, a couple of lassis, and some sub-par muesli and curd. The pancake was delicious.

At ten, we started hiking. The night before, Rajjis had given me detailed instructions, and we climbed the smaller cobblestoned path off the road going to Naddi. Up ahead, a couple trekkers who were also headed to Triund forged on down the road. We considered running ahead and telling them they were going the wrong way, but they had already covered quite a bit of distance. They had a map. We figured they were big kids; they could figure it out.
n
For the next three hours, we steadily climbed up. One of the frustrating things about hiking in India (so far) is that they don't really believe in signs. There were multiple forks in the road, and not a single sign identified the way to Triund. We guessed. We ran into a couple more people hiking in the same direction, and one of them spoke Hindi. When we all got lost, he asked one of the farmers plodding by with a ton of hay strapped to his back which way we should go.

Eventually, our path joined another that had run up alongside the waterfall falling to Bhagsu. There were dozens of Indian hikers, and most of them had little FM radios peaking out of their breastpockets. They traveled in big, sweaty, happy, and singing packs, taking breaks to smoke cigarettes and eat Tikka Masala flavored chips. When we passed them descending or ascending, they'd nod hello and say, 'Namaste, Good Morning, Hello, How are you?'

The day was fairly clear, and we had a beautiful view of the valley and plains stretching out to the horizon. Finally, we could tell where Dharamkot ended and began. We could see Bhagsu, and beyond, we could see McLeod perched on its outcropping. The sounds of honking horns and the smell of decaying trash heaps gradually tapered off, and all of sudden, we were back in the wilderness.

We arrived at the crest of Triund just as the clouds came rolling in. A couple of Indian hikers told us that we had arrived too late: the views from Triund are best in the morning time before the clouds come. We didn't mind. It would have been nice to get the whole view, but I have a special place in my heart for fog. It started when I was younger and living in Mora. We'd get these crazy, freak fog days where you couldn't see further than five feet in front of you (say that sentence five times fast). Once, they even canceled school. It was great. In college, I climbed my first genuine mountain, and at the top, the ridge was covered in fog. It parted just the tiniest bit and showed us a glimpse of Mt. Olympia. I thought it was the most magical, ghostly setting in the world.

So, yeah. I don't mind fog. Joshua stood on a rock outcropping overlooking the mist and few pine trees that poked out, and I got a great photo of him, looking a little bit like the wanderer in Caspar David Friedrich's famous painting. We sat for a bit, enjoying the cool air after the heat from our hike, and behind us, a group of monks sat cross-legged in a circle, playing a game that looked a lot like yoga-break-dance. They tossed a ball around, and someone who was unlucky or lucky (I'm not sure which) would have to go into the middle when the ball was dropped. Then they'd do a yoga pose to much applause.

We wandered around for a little while, walking to the outer edges of the village and snapping photos of the peaks draped in prayer flags. Then we headed back down. After about an hour of picking our way down the rocky path, we ran into a group of Indian men. One of them stopped us and began firing off rapid, rehearsed questions in English, not quite pausing long enough for us to answer. Then, smiling and brandishing a small digital camera, he asked, 'picture?' We weren't quite sure what he was asking us, but when he flipped on his cool shades, tossed his arm over our shoulders, and handed off the camera to one of his buddies, we smiled big for the photo. They asked me to pull up my sleeve so they could get my whole tattoo, and then after an alternate photo without the shades, the photographer switched positions and we had another photo with him too.

Whipping out a notebook and pen, the man said, 'ok. Now you give me your e-mail address. I send you photo.' I scribbled down my address, and he made me spell each letter out-loud. 'Ok. Yes,' he said, 'nice to meet you. Bye now.' And off they went.

This is the second time this has happened, and I don't know quite what to make of it. At the Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, it was a group of three Turkish teenage boys. They're fairly modern, with edgy hair-does and glittery rock and roll shirts; surely, we were not the strangest props they could come up with. Joshua looks nerdy in his vaporwick and Mardi Gras marathon baseball cap, and I'm pretty inocuous in my scarf, pants, and t-shirt. Whatever. I think its hilarious.

It started to rain about half-way down. Craving our very own bag of Tikka Masala chips, we stopped at a little mountainside cafe for a little respite from the wet and a salty snack. A table inside the tarpalin-covered cafe glittered with hundreds of dirty, freshly harvested crystals. (I almost bought one for you, Mom, but I wasn't sure if that was what you meant by, 'I'd like some rocks.')

We wrapped our camera in Joshua's t-shirt to protect it from the rain and then continued on our way. The rocks were a little slippy, but we managed to descend the rest of the way without breaking anything. We jogged for a little bit along a part of the path that was paved, and 6 hours after we had departed, we arrived back at our guesthouse.

Taking quick showers, we cleaned up and headed into Dharamkot for some grub. Joshua had been fantasizing about the cheese and spinach pizza from the Trek and Dine (where we ate with Matan and the ladies), so we set up camp at one of their tables overlooking the street. To drink, we ordered a pot of chai, and for starters, we selected a small plate of garlic fries. Yum yum. We played a few games of Rummy 500, and when the pizza came, we ate and played at the same time, smearing our cards with grease.

Some of you who read this are probably thinking that Joshua and I eat a lot. This is true. It's also true that Joshua has lost 10 to 15 pounds since our trip began, and although I hover at the same weight pretty much perpetually irregardless of massive workout or food binges, my clothes are a little looser too. So when we finished the pizza, we ordered another entree: Spinach Kebab Masala. Vegetarian. Delicious.

Joshua kicked my ass in Rummy two times in a row (per usual), and then we wandered over to the Internet cafe to call my mom and send off a few e-mails. It's crazy that I can have a 40 minute conversation with someone half-way across the world for less than 12 cents.

While Joshua looked up what it would take to become a police officer in Sconnie, I read my book, and when he had finished, we headed back to the guesthouse. We read in bed, listening to the sounds of dogs howling, tourists barfing in the room below, and a couple getting it on in the room next door. There are no secrets here.

October 1, 2010

After we paid the bill at Green Hotel, we headed back to Bhagsu. I had been seeing these black and red signs advertising Gold and Silver Jewelry Making Classes posted all over the place, and I rather fancied the vision of myself holding a blow torch in one hand and creating something sparkly and beautiful in the other.

We found the school, and a nice Indian man led us inside the classroom. There were two rows of low tables, boxes full of silver, gold, and stones, tools, and a blackboard on the wall. Photos of students creating jewelry lined the room. The man explained that the classes were each four hours in length, and a course lasted three days. We could start tomorrow at 1 PM. The price was 1200 rupees for one student, and we thought that very reasonable for such an extensive class. Tomorrow we planned to hike to Triund, so we told him that we'd like to sign up for class starting on Sunday. He told us to show up at one on Sunday, and we could pay then.

Walking away, we were excited. We'd been starting to feel a bit bored, but jewelry making classes would be the perfect end to our stay. We climbed the steps up through Dharamkot, and back at the guesthouse, we paused to sit with Rajjis, Warren, and Eshai in the courtyard. Rajjis is our guesthouse keeper, and I may have already mentioned that he is the smiliest, warmest man I have ever met. He smokes like a chimney, and he sings perpetually as he cleans and cooks. I asked him a little bit more about himself, and he told me that he is a voluntary learner. For the past couple of years, he's been studying ashrams and religious devotion. He's spent a number of months in ashrams around the North of India and in Nepal. In the summer months, he runs the Kamal Guesthouse in Dharamkot, and during the winter, he returns to his home in Varanasi. When I told him that we would be heading there, we discovered that we would be there at the same time, and he volunteered to show us around. Apparently, he's also been a voluntary student of all the architecture and major religious sites in Varanasi, so he's the perfect guide. His family owns a silk business, and so maybe we'll explore their warehouse for some bigger stuff to send home, and we might even be able to take his boat out into the Ganges to watch the sunset. We exchanged e-mail addresses, and he gave us his phone number. It would be fun if that worked out.

As the sun went down, we chatted. Warren is from South Africa, and he's been here taking yoga classes at the HIYC for almost five weeks now. He's a trained masseuse, and he heard about the course here through one of his teachers in Thailand. He's worked in a number of different settings - cruise ships, athletic teams, and even in his own practice - but the long hours and physical demands have been hard on his back. Apparently, the yoga has helped a lot. I confessed to Warren and Eshai that yoga hadn't quite won me over: I just kept wondering the whole time, why am I doing this? They laughed. Warren explained that each asana does have certain purposes - aligning the back, correcting certain ailments, aiding digestion, etc - but that most yoga classes don't get into the specifics until you've been practicing for years. It's definitely not the Indian yogi's style to lay out a syllabus and give you goals. Sharat wanted us to feel the changes, and then eventually, after weeks and weeks of instruction, he might begin to explain what those changes were.

I nodded my head. This is exactly what I had been looking for: a syllabus, a goal. I am a product of my upbringing, and rather than being ashamed of my Western ideals, I think I'm ok with them. I like running my life this way. Their way is ok too, but it's just not for me.

After a while, Rajjis brought us cups of chai, and we started talking about a conversation we had overhead between Rajjis, Warren, and some stranger yesterday. Joshua and I had been sitting inside our room, and all of a sudden Joshua looked up at me and asked, 'are you hearing this?'

The stranger was talking about how the Queen is vying to take over the world, and major world leaders are all in some sort of conspiracy together. Somehow, the Olympics were involved, and the end of the world was nigh. Joshua rolled his eyes, and we didn't think much else of it. Asking Warren and Rajjis now, they started laughing. Apparently, the man had gone on and on, and Warren had just sat there, wondering when he had ever consented to this conversation. Occasionally, he'd ask very simple questions like, 'so what are you going to do about that (the end of the world)?' And the man would leap into another conspiracy-space-age-escape-plan. I guess he had even called on favors from the Egyptian god Isis. Rajjis, still smiling, stood up quietly and casually escaped without the man noticing. Warren explained that there would be no casual exit for him, now that he was the last man remaining. By the time he had finished the story, we were all laughing so hard, we were crying. Succinctly, Warren surmised, 'well, if the world's going to end in a couple of years, let's get on with it. We're in India, and isn't it beautiful?' We all agreed.

For dinner, Eshai joined us. We walked down to Sky Pie (we finally found it), and sat cross-legged on pillows, playing cards and eating. Joshua ordered an Israeli dish, and I ordered an Eggplant Sizzler. The food was delicious, and while we played cards, I mined Eshai for information about Israel. I'm fascinated about the concept of a young country, and we were curious about his take on Gaza and Palestine. At first, it seemed like a hot topic, and I was afraid to go there, but Eshai brought it up. This is all his opinion of course, and before I give you my opinion, I would have to do a lot of research (because I'm a total ignoramous on the matter), but he told us how Israel had fought with Egypt, and in the process, they had won Gaza. He considers this a huge mistake. He wishes that Israel had never tried to gain political control of Gaza, and he jokes that Egypt knew that they were pulling one over the Israelis. He then went on to explain that the Palestinians have always sort of been the black sheep of the Arab world, and whenever they've sought autonomy or more political power, they've been trampled over. When Joshua and I asked why Israel didn't just let them be, Eshai said that they had, but the Palestinians of Gaza wanted all of Israel and they kept bombing, even after all the peace talks. In his opinion, the only thing they really understand is violence. He gave a funny comparison of a big, burly European with a huge gun standing next to a small Palestinian with a knife. The big, burly European blows a lot of hot air about keeping things in line, and the Palestinian knicks the man on the arm with his knife, just to test the waters. The big, burly guy flies into a rage, points at a gun, and asks the small man if he's crazy. The man smiles. Keep talking, he thinks, and then he slits the big, burly man's throat. This is all to say that perceived violence is nothing compared to violence weilded. The Israelis might have all the backing and weaponry in the world, but if they're not willing to use it, the Palestinians with their little knives will.

I don't know what to think about the whole situation. I do know that the sources all have a bias, and I'm just not sure how those biases twist the information. I'm sure that neither side is purely right or wrong, good or bad.

Eshai told us a little bit about Judaism in the Holy Land. Approximately 30 percent of Israelis are Orthodox, making them a formidable minority, particularly when the rabbis tell them to march, protest, boycott, or vote. When the Orthodox don't want men and women sitting on the same side of the bus, they get what they want. When they want a phone plan that caters to their needs and doesn't receive or send calls on the Shabbis, they get what they want. As for the rest of the Israelis, Eshai thinks 60 to 70 percent are observant Jews: they go to synagogue, they bar mitzvah their sons, and they light candles on Friday nights. They are half-heartedly kosher, and they're fine driving on the Sabbath. Reform Judaism is practically non-existent in Israel, because the Orthodox Jews consider this movement 'Christianized,' and hardly any women have bat mitzvahs or become rabbis.

I'm fascinated. The Israel that Eshai talks about is completely different that the Israel I had constructed in my mind. For me, Judaism has always been the loving, constructive, and tolerant Judaism I have seen in my family's synagogue. Israel existed in my mind as a country like any other, except frought with all sorts of religious tensions. I had never considered how, when Israel formed, it was a country of immigrants just like the United States, but for them, Hebrew was a second language for everyone. Before, it had only been used in religious settings. Now, they had to talk about bus fares and cell phones in an ancient language. Yaddish and Ladino became a part of the language, but there are also scholars who come up with new words all the time. Just like Americans, second or third generation Israelis have family histories that lead them back to places all over the world, and their families have food or little traditions that they've brought with them.

For dessert, we ate Hello to the Queen - Shalomlamalika, a dish with biscuit crumble, ice cream, chocolate sauce, and fried banana, and once we were stuffed to the gills, we walked home.