September 26, 2010
We slept in. Last night, I gave Rajjis our laundry, and with nothing to run in, we let ourselves sleep. When we woke up, we talked about our options. Initially, we had thought we might take another week's worth of yoga classes, but now that we had seen so many other classes, we weren't sure. In the end, we decided to look around. We're hoping for some cooking classes, and maybe we'll try a different kind of yoga, too.
In the courtyard of HIYC, I braided Hadas' hair, and we waited for someone to tell us to come into the hall. Sharat came out and told us to be quiet: the advanced students were coming out of a long relaxation/ meditation pose, and they were on a different plain than us.
Inside, we set up and ran through the poses as usual. I found myself even more rebellious than usual. When Sharat told me to be calm, to relax, to empty my mind, I found myself asking, Why? I know everyone says it's important to be present, to calm your thoughts, to empty your mind. But I just don't know if I agree. I don't feel beset by an active mind or too many thoughts. I don't feel exhausted. I like my daydreams. I like my thoughts. I don't want to be an empty vessel, and even though people say this means I might not be present, I'm here. I'm enjoying myself.
Perhaps I'm not as enlightened.
For lunch, Joshua and I packed a little bag with the computer and our books, and we walked into Bhagsu. Right now, we're eating lunch on a garden terrace overlooking McLeod's valley, and the wonderful waiter has given us Aloo Palak and Shahi Paneer with Paranath (a soft chapati with onions baked in). Behind us, the autorickshaws are beeping their horns and motoring over the potholes. I'm not sure what we'll do for the rest of the day.
September 25, 2010
We woke up early again to run. This time, we took the road to Triund. The hill was a bit more gradual this time, but we're beginning to expect that a thirty minute run here will inevitably include 15 minutes up hill and 15 minutes down hill. They don't really do flat here.
On our run, we watched little Indian children walk to school. Tiny little boys were wearing pants with belts and button-up shirts with ties. They were adorable :) Back at the guest house, we changed and headed up the stairs to yoga.
With each progressive day, we move a little bit faster, and we're able to do a few more asanas. Even so, Iyengar yoga - or, at least, Sharat - believes in hold each pose for at least a few minutes. It may be slow, but that doesn't mean there's no strain; my shoulders are so weak, I can barely hold them out for more than three minutes at a time.
Today, we did the usual poses, but instead of bending forward and touching our toes (ha!), we did a succession of backward bends. At first, we lay on our back, next we used a chair to bend over, and after that, we were ready to put our hands up by our necks, flex our butts and lift up. Move your butts! Sharat says. We had to do backwards bridge 20 times. The woman next to me was serene the whole time; I grunted and grimaced and tried not to complain.
Once we had bent our backs into submission, we tried a new upside-down asana. This one is called the plough because you stand on your shoulders and then bend your legs over a bench over your head like an 'L.' Theoretically, someone could grab hold of your feet and use your head to plow the ground. This one didn't hurt quite as much as the plain shoulder stand because there's not quite as much pressure on the neck, but my feet fell asleep. Right around the time Sharat was telling us to 'feel the peace,' I was praying for him to tell us we could come out of the pose.
Yoga ended in Namaste, and we went back to the guest house for another lunch by Rajjis. Before we headed to the rooftop, I took a shower and we gathered our postcards. As we watched the heavy mist play peek-a-boo with the mountains, we wrote. Although I enjoy the process of selecting, buying, assigning, and sending postcards, I haven't quite found the right informative yet quippy style. There's so little space! A couple of times, I began to write something and then I read over it. It made no sense, but it was in pen, so it'll have to do.
Eshai and Hadas came up to join us again for lunch. Eshai wasn't feeling well, and Sharat had made him take some spices to settle his stomach. Nevertheless, he was still smiley and chatty, and after lunch, we played Takki (which is a lot like UNO) for an hour or so.
That morning, I had woken up fretting about my Tibetan-Kimono thingy. When I had tried it on again to show Joshua, I had noticed it was a little tight in the shoulders. I'm skinnier now than I usually am in the US, and I don't want it to be too small to wear back at home. Joshua - the patient and kind husband that he is - agreed to walk back to McLeod to exchange it for a slightly bigger size.
Back in McLeod, all the stalls were still open. I exchanged the wrap without any fuss, and after, we walked the streets just browsing. We finally found something we thought Sarah might like, and I also found a lovely bracelet: it's gold, and it has a hindi mantra for mothers written on it. The man told me he would sell it to me for 100 rupees. I didn't say anything, and he dropped it to 80. Joshua looked at him and said, I have 60. So I got the bracelet for a little more than a dollar.
At another stall, we found a pair of brass rings, and now Joshua and I are staining the middle finger of our right hands slightly green. We bought a couple more postcards, and Joshua found an inexpensive and incredibly soft Tibetan shawl. We walked back to Dharamkot before we could spend any more.
As we climbed the hill, a few school children were making their way home. A couple girls were walking right behind us, and when I heard them breathing hard, I told them that made me feel much better: if they live here and climbing this hill is still hard, I'm not so pathetic. They laughed and told me it's always hard. We exchanged names and talked about how cute small monkeys are.
In Dharamkot, we selected one of the only remaining restaurants. We've eaten at most of the others. At The Friendly Planet, we discovered a limited Indian menu, and although I ordered a Palak spinach dish, there was nothing green on my plate. We weren't too impressed.
Afterwards, we went in search of an Internet Cafe so Joshua could call his dad, and on the way, we ran into one of our yoga-mates buying a coconut, tearing off the hair, and trying to figure out how to get the coconut milk out. I was so enchanted with the idea of a real, fresh coconut, I bought one too.
While Joshua called, I read, and when he had finished, we headed back to the guest house. In the kitchen, Eshai and Hadas were eating dinner, and went to find Rajjis to see if he had any pointers on cracking open my coconut. Using an allen-wrench, he punctured the top, and we drained the coconut water into a couple of cups. I gave him and his friends a couple of the cups, and we lifted them, opa! Lechaim! Cheers! Once we had drank it all, Rajjis cracked the coconut on a stone. I gave them some of the flesh in thanks, and then I headed back to the kitchen to talk with Eshai and Hadas and pick apart my coconut. We drank some tea, and when it got late, we headed off to bed.
September 24, 2010
We woke up a little earlier to run before yoga. Heading uphill, we met the main road and headed in the direction we had never been. Running downhill, we met a village and a couple of monkeys, and after 15 minutes, we arrived in McLeod Ganj. We didn't realize where we were until we arrived in the city center; the road loops around a steep hill, and on one side, McLeod Ganj over looks a cloud-filled valley. On the other side, Dharamkot and Bhagsu work their way up a mountain side. I'm still not sure where Dharamkot ends and Bhagsu begins... Either way, you arrive in one of them whether you turn West or East in McLeod Ganj.
Running back up the hill towards our guest house, we huffed and puffed. It's quite a climb when you're just walking, so we were exhausted by the time we had reached the top. At one point, we ran by a large monkey, and Joshua said hello. The monkey bared its teeth and slapped the rock next to him, and Joshua received an extra burst of energy to sprint up ahead.
Back at the guest house, we change for yoga and walked over to the HIYC. The courtyard is lovely; with a temple, green gardens, and freshly painted dorms, halls, and bathrooms, the place is a little oasis of calm. People walk about in their Aladdin pants and hemp bracelets, wishing each other Namaste, and inside, you can hear Sharat telling the advanced class that their breath is centered, their faces are relaxed, and they have achieved relaxation by letting go.
We sat and chatted with Eshai and Hadas while we waited, and after a few minutes, one of Sharat's helpers told us to come in and set up our mats very quietly. It wasn't until I was sitting cross-legged on my green mat that I noticed Sharat lying with his feet casually crossed on the wall above him, resting on his shoulders, and sleeping deeply. One by one, each of us settled onto our mats, and the helpers nervously twittered around Sharat. I think they must have had to pull straws to decide who would be the one to wake him.
The lovely helper with a curly mop of hair and smart glasses drew the short straw, but when Sharat awoke, he didn't seem perturbed. He fell out of his pose with an agile somersault and looked out at the ready class, surprised. He told us good morning.
We began by bending at the butt and resting our wrists on bars. I'm no good at this; I have zero flexibility in my hamstrings. Next, we moved to standing poses. I'm fine at these unless there's bending required (again, my hamstrings) or we have to hold out our arms for long, extended periods of time. I take back my words from yesterday: it's not that yogis don't hold any stock in 'pain is gain,' it's that they choose to subdue the pain and pretend it's not there. No gritting teeth aloud. As you might predict, I'm REALLY no good at this.
Next, we moved to poses where we tuck our feet under our butts and arch backwards. With hips that are as happy in socket as out, I'm fine at these. We did a couple of twisty poses with bands to make us twist more, and I discovered a little lower back rigidity; Joshua discovered that he was a model of perfection. I think he may have even got a thumbs-up from Sharat.
We moved into the shoulder wall stand pose. Although Sharat and his little helpers say this is the most important pose, it's also the pose that hurts the most. You're supposed to situate yourself so that all of your body weight is centered on your shoulders and your back is straight. This means that you have to have pads and blankets under your head and shoulders, but even then, it feels like my neck is about to snap. We lay there, propped up like that for 10 excruciating minutes. Relax your face, says Sharat, breath deeply. No wrinkled foreheads. Yeah, right.
It's all down hill after the shoulder stand. Honestly, I don't even really remember what else we do. We lay contorted in some position and listen to Sharat telling us how calm we are. I fantasize about lunch. Finally, he tells us to sit up, Namaste, pick everything up and put it away.
Back at the guest house, we arrange for a lunch of Thali made by Rajjis. Up on the rooftop, we sit and admire the view of the enormous, tree-filled mountains, and we chat with Eshai and Hadas. I ask them how they think it changes their culture to have a mandatory three year draft. Does it make Israelis militant? Is that why I've sometimes found them abrupt?
Eshai has lots to say about this. Yes, he says. Chutspah, Hadas says. Israelis are direct, because in the military, you learn to say exactly what you mean. There is no fuss, no pretension. There are lives at stake. When you are 18, you are made to stand guard. You are given a weapon, taught how to fire it, and then told that you hold the lives of your friends in your hands as you keep guard. It's a great amount of responsibility, and it changes you. It changes everyone. Eshai says that the military is that one common experience that draws Israelis together. It teaches them morals and an ethic, and even now, he is a part of the reserves and he will be until he is forty.
I found this all fascinating. It's so strange to think of a country that is so young and so small. They are able to speak about their history in terms of three generations: how their grandfathers behaved, how their fathers changed, and how they've reacted.
Lunch was delicious: Rajjis even made the stir-fried vegetables to order, without cauliflower in them for me. Afterwards, we parted ways again, and Joshua and I walked to McLeod Ganj.
At Peace House Coffee, Joshua ordered a piece of brownie cake, a grilled cheese and vegetable sandwich, and a lassi. I shared his cake and ordered a hot lemon honey and ginger tea. The cake was warm and moist and incredible. While I read The Waterless Flood (I love this book by Margaret Atwood. It's both apocolyptic and funny.), Joshua wrote e-mails and surfed the web.
Once we had finished, we went in search of a birthday gift for Sarah. The temporary stalls were starting to close for the evening, but we still had a couple of hours before everything was locked up. While nothing screamed 'Sarah!' we found quite a bit that screamed 'buy me instead,' and we spent our time trying on inexpensive, handmade clothing. I fell in love with a Tibetan kimono-like wrap with bell buttons, and it took me three different shops to find the right size and price. Joshua bought a pair of soft pants for yoga and laundry days, and he also found a couple of great t-shirts. My favorite is pale, bright blue with an orange graphic of Ganesh, the elephant god.
A few hundred rupees poorer and still no gift for Sarah, we racked up on postcards for a mass send-out, and located a Tibetan restaurant for dinner. I ordered Thukpa and tea, and Joshua ordered a fried noodle dish. The Thukpa looked and tasted a lot like Pho, but it wasn't nearly as good as the Thukpa we had had in Leh. When we'd finished, laid out all of the postcards and began our selection. This is one of my favorite parts; we try and figure out who would like what best, or which one reminds us most of someone.
We walked back to our guest house in the dark. Joshua has regained his appetite in full, so before we left the shops of McLeod, he bought a Snickers, and I looked curiously at the cigarette selection. I had heard of the clove cigarettes that were so popular, and I wanted to know which ones popped and fizzled as the cloves burned. The shop keeper told me, and then he asked us if it was true that Americans needed to pay the government in order to grow vegetables in their own back yard. We laughed and told him no, but as I walked away, I thought: you know what? I bet the big agro-businesses would love that. What a scary thought.
Back at the guest house, we read for a little bit more and then fell asleep with our books resting on our chests. I have to say: this is the life :)
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Yoga Time in Dharamkot
September 23, 2010
I am a yoga ignoramus. Seriously. What I know about yoga might fill a thimble, but don't hold your breath. Before this morning, here is what I could tell you about yoga:
1) There is something called 'Sun Salutations.' I did them with Caitlin on the beach in Oregon. It involved lifting your hands up to the sky, some kind of lunge action, twisting your body, and then maybe arching your back?
2) When I did the 'Sun Salutations,' my body was really irritated with me for trying to roll my shoulders back and stand upright. After a couple of decades of some serious slouching, 'opening up my lungs' actually makes me feel short of breath. Ironic, I know.
3) Yoga is a series of postures that are supposed to do... Something. I'm not really sure what. I've heard some New-Agey gibberish about aligning chakras and securing purity of mind, body, and soul, but what the hell does that mean? Will somebody please speak plain English?
4) Yoga falls in this no-man's land between exercise and 'relaxation.' I'm not sure if you're following me, but I was always pretty sure that exercise and relaxation sat on opposite sides of the spectrum. I'm especially confused because I don't think yoga is particularly rigorous or invigorating, and yet people who do yoga have these incredibly toned bodies. Will someone please explain?
5) Lots of yuppies like yoga; I'm not sure why. Women wearing natural fibers particularly enjoy carrying their yoga mats from Whole Foods to yoga class.
6) Yoga comes from India, and it's part of a whole philosophy/lifestyle. I don't know what the philosophy is, and I don't know about the lifestyle either.
7) Yup. That's about it.
Here are some of the reasons (assumptions) why I've always been pretty sure yoga and I won't mix:
1) It's not strenuous. As I may have mentioned (over and over again), I prefer things to be strenuous.
2) Most people who do yoga seem pretty in-tune with their bodies. The 'pain is gain' philosophy doesn't really seem to apply here.
3) Most people who do yoga are either not very goal oriented, or if they are, consider 'relaxation' a goal.
4) It requires a degree of flexibility.
After my first yoga class ever, here is what I have learned:
1) I'm square (as in, "she's square.").
2) Iyengar Yoga and Hatha Yoga are on one side of the spectrum; while these two concentrate on slow, precise movements, Ashtanga Yoga tends to be faster and less precise. And on that note, there are a ton of different kinds of yoga. They all have different philosophies and movements, but I'm not sure what they are.
3) Yoga postures are called 'asanas.'
4) It is very important to make miniscule movements such as 'stretching out your toes,' 'pushing through your heels,' and 'tilting your pelvis.'
5) Iyengar Yoga uses props like blocks of wood, stacked blankets and pillows, bands, and ropes.
6) Most yoga follows a certain structure: you begin with standing asanas, move to kneeling or sitting asanas, somewhere in there you try to stand on your head, and then you move to relaxation poses where you try (unsuccessfully, if you're me) to relax every muscle in your body.
7) Sharat Arora, our teacher, learned from Iyengar himself. I think he might sort of be a big deal.
8) You shouldn't eat or drink anything before you do yoga in the morning; you should go to the bathroom first; you should wear warm enough clothes.
Here is what I'd like to know:
1) Why am I doing this? No. Seriously. I'm not trying to be snarky; obviously, I'm here, and I'm curious, but I'd really like to know why people do this. I'd like a better explanation than 'purification' or 'alignment.' What am I purifying? Why? What am I aligning? Why?
2) What are all the different kinds of yoga? Why are they different? What's different about them?
3) what is the purpose of different asanas?
4) How does yoga fit into Indian cultural and religious history? What are yogis?
***
We woke up just before 9 AM, and headed over to the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center (HIYC). In the courtyard, we waited with the other beginning students, and the Center's dogs came around, sniffing for food and begging for pets. We introduced ourselves to a couple who sat next to us and discovered that they're living in the room right behind us. Eshai and Hadas are Israeli and recently married. We talked a little about what we planned to do in India, and then Sharat came out.
Sitting in a circle, we all patiently waited while Sharat shuffled through our registration papers, pausing to read excerpts here and there. After a bit, he began to call out our names and ask us about any medical conditions we had listed. Going around the circle, we heard about our new classmate's sore backs, knees, and necks. A few of the students had been in serious car accidents; there were slipped discs, fused ankles, torn ligaments, and knee surgeries. One woman had stepped off the bus on her way here to pee off the side of the road, and in the dark with her pants down, she had fallen down the hill. 'Yeah,' she said, 'I had a heckuva time gettin' here.'
About two-thirds of the class are Israeli. When one of them doesn't understand Sharat's English, a few of them look over and offer alternate translations in Hebrew. Sharat commented on a couple of names saying, 'that's an Israeli name I've not heard before.' There is one Indian man, maybe a couple of Europeans, and the rest of us are American. I think there might be about 30 in the class.
When we finished publicly airing our various ailments, Sharat ordered us into the hall. Taking off our shoes, we went inside. The room is lovely; with concrete yellow floors and walls, a wooden ceiling and lots of paper-globe lights, and plenty of windows, the place is airy and welcoming. We all picked a green mat lying on the floor.
Standing on an elevated stage, Sharat instructed us how to stand correctly. We stretched our toes and pushed our heels. We measured the distance between our feet. We practiced maybe 4 or 5 different standing asanas, and as we moved, his assistant teachers came around to correct our postures. I still felt strangely out of breath when I rolled my shoulders back and stood up straight.
A thin, small European woman demonstrated a couple of the sitting, laying, and upside down asanas, and we watched as she easily contorted her body into the various positions. When we tried, I was not nearly so flexible. Apparently, the most important asana was the one where we built up a pad with blankets next to the wall, lifted our legs above our heads, and used a band to keep our elbows together. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, and my neck hurt the whole time.
During the final asana, a relaxation pose, a couple people fell asleep and started snoring. I just lay there, listening to Sharat tell me to relax my eye-sockets thinking, 'well how the fuck do you do that?' Finally, Sharat told us to sit up, Namaste, we should go away a feel more relaxed and energized; see you tomorrow at 9:30 AM.
We put away all the props, put on our shoes, and walked out of the hall. No one really talked. I tried to figure out if I felt both relaxed and energized. I think that might be a nice feeling, but I'm pretty sure I have no idea how to identify it. The class had been 3 hours long, and I didn't have strong feelings either way: I wasn't in love, and I didn't hate it. I just didn't really know what to think.
Back at our guest house, we changed clothes and headed back outside to find some food. We ran into Eshai and Hadas on our way out and decided to all eat together at a local restaurant just a little bit down the road. Once we got there, Hadas gave us some pointers on Indian food: 'paneer' is cheese, 'aloo' is potato, 'gobi' is cauliflower (and therefore, satan), 'palak' is spinach, 'dal' is lentils, 'korma' is coconut-y, and chapati is like naan but thinner and dryer. I copied Hadas and ordered thali, a plate of rice with a side of dal, mixed curry vegetables, and curd (yogurt), and Joshua and Eshai ordered mali kofta, potato in a savory red sauce. The food was delicious, and while we ate, we talked about our weddings and religion.
Eshai and Hadas got married a couple of months ago. They met two years ago at 'a spiritual retreat at the Dead Sea' and 'fell in love at first sight.' Eshai proposed in Rome, but Hadas thinks that he waited too long. At their wedding, they had 300 people, and all they were all in some way related. After their reception, they had the ceremony, and after that, they jumped in a pool with all of their wedding finery on. The rest of the celebration was a pool party.
While Eshai is an atheist, Hadas ate a relatively kosher meal, foregoing any dairy. Eshai believes religion is a tool of manipulation, but Hadas didn't look so sure. While Eshai and Joshua chatted about their jobs, I asked Hadas a little more about her family. Her mother moved to Israel from Iraq when she was only 1, but both her mother and father spoke in Arabic as their secret language. At Shabbat, they sang the prayers in both Arabic and Hebrew. Of course this was normal for Hadas, but as she told me, all sorts of assumptions were crumbling in my head. I had always considered 'Arab' and 'Jew' two opposing identities, but apparently, that's untrue.
After chatting for a while, we paid the bill and went our separate ways. Joshua and I decided to explore a bit, and we headed in the direction of Bhagsu. So far, we've discovered that Indian villages don't really have centers or squares. Shops and restaurants might gather on the same street, but otherwise, it's hard to tell if you're really in the 'heart' of the village. Bhagsu seemed a bit bigger than Dharamkot, but everything else seemed pretty similar. There were signs up everywhere for every kind of class imaginable: silversmithing, intuitive painting, tantric meditation, ashtanga yoga, power yoga, hatha yoga, intensive yoga, casual yoga, aryuvedic medicine, aryuvedic massage, hindi tattoos, mendhi painting, Indian classical music, Indian cooking... A lot of the signs were written in Hebrew, and as we walked by the restaurants, we saw 'Israeli Salad' and 'Israeli Cuisine' advertised nearly everywhere. The streets smelled vaguely of weed, and the handicraft and souvenir shops sold bongs and clothing made from natural fibers dipped in tie-dye. Dread locks, Tevas, and Aladin-pants abound.
Past a temple with a pool out front, we followed the signs for the waterfall. Around the corner, an impossibly tall and long waterfall fell between two very green mountains. We followed the stone steps up. At the top, the 'very, very chill Shiva Cafe where you can eat or drink or just smoke all day' sat in a foggy oasis of green, draping plants, hindi murals, and monkeys. We paused a bit to admire the foggy, jungle view, and then we decided to follow the path that cut straight across the mountain, hoping it might lead back to Dharamkot and our guest house.
Passing a couple of small temples and few more hippie cafes, we found our way to upper Bhagsu and then Lower Dharamkot. Eventually, we spied our guest house and picked our way over a stream. Along the way, we picked a few canine followers, and they safely guided us back to our home. Changing into running clothes, we went on a short 30 minute jog up the steep hill past our guesthouse, down and around to McLeod Ganj, and then back up the steep hill to our guest house. At one point, Joshua said hello to a monkey on the side of the road, and not impressed, the monkey bared his teeth and beat the stone next to him with his hands. Joshua shied like a horse and sped a little faster up the hill. Running by monks, I decided I wouldn't wear shorts again. I felt like a hussy baring my legs :)
Back at the guest house, we showered. We each had about 3 minutes of hot water each, so we tried to keep them short. By the time we got dressed, it was already dark, so we headed out the door for Dharamkot. At the Moonlight Cafe, we sat on the balcony and watched the nearly full moon rise over the steep mountains of Bhagsu. Joshua ordered Paneer Palak (cheese spinach for those of you who are keeping track), and I ordered Vegetable Biryani (which is kind of like a vegetarian Indian Jambalayah). The food was gorgeous, and to drink, Joshua ordered another Lhassi (he's pretty much disregarded recommendations to not eat unpasteurized dairy products in India). While we ate and tried to remember all the asanas we had learned that morning (we tried to draw pictures and list directions in our notebook), a group of Israelis sat cross-legged on the floor, eating Indian food, smoking pot, playing cards, and laughing a lot.
When we had finished eating, we walked back to the guest house. Along the way, Joshua picked up a couple of candy bars. 'Bounty' is kind of like Almond Joy, and 'Yummy' is, as Joshua says, a poor second to a Snickers. I'm starting to like a little something sweet before I sleep :)
September 22, 2010
Yesterday morning, we woke up a little before 9 AM, and I quickly got dressed to meet the monk. Joshua went ahead of me to eat breakfast and load pictures at the Green Hotel Cafe, while I waited on the steps in front of our guest house. At about 9:10, the monk came down, brushing his teeth. He said, '10?' I nodded my head and told him that I would be waiting at the Green Hotel Cafe.
Finding Joshua, we ordered breakfast, and then I went off in search of a notebook and pens for my English lesson. Back at the Cafe, Joshua ate his Tibetan Porridge with Bananas (Tsampa) and I had my lemon and honey pancake. We shared a slice of walnut cake, which was absolutely delicious. Waiting for the monk, we browsed through the pictures, and I put together a little English diagnostic - I had no idea how much English the monk might know.
By 10:30, I was pretty sure that the monk wasn't coming. I was a little disappointed, but the night before, Joshua and I had seen a sign for an 'English Conversation Hour' held at the Hope Education Center. Apparently, they always need English volunteers. I'll just bring my pen and paper there :) We read and surfed the web for a little bit longer, sipping our honey, lemon, and ginger tea, and a little bit before noon, we paid and headed back to our guest house to pack up.
Just before we left the guest house, we went into the office to pay. The man at the desk was the monk. He gave me his huge smile, and I figured that there had been some sort of language misunderstanding. Oh well; Namaste. Joo-lay.
The hike out of McLeod Ganj is pretty steep, and although we're only at 5,000 - 6,000 ft, I could still feel the altitude. We slowly made our way up the hill, passing monkeys as we went. It began to rain. On the other side of the hill, we passed the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center (HIYC) and just a few meters a way, we came across the Kamal Guest House. Although I had wanted to shop around a bit before we settled on our next guest house, when the kind, smiling guest house keeper poked his head out of the detached kitchen and asked us if we'd like to see a room, we agreed. Rajjis led us up a staircase to a balcony and into a small room with plenty of windows and an attached bathroom with a hot-water geyser. For 250 rupees a night, the room was ours. I tested the bed, and like usual, it was hard as a rock. We took it.
Shedding our packs, we decided to try and make this room as homey and clean as possible. We put everything in a proper place, and afterwards, we sat on the bed and surveyed our surroundings. From our window, we can see the HIYC; otherwise, everything is green. It was also raining, and the fog made the trees appear rootless. It was damp, but lovely.
Happy to have a space where we planned to live for more than a couple of days, we decided to stay put for a bit. While I caught up on my writing, Joshua sat outside on the balcony and chatted to our neighbors, two young Italians. They told him, 'in India, we have found the world's second best food.' Naturally, Joshua didn't even have to ask them about the world's first best food: their Italians.
After a while, Joshua came back in and took a nap while I continued to write. Outside the window, I spied a couple of people wandering into the HIYC, and desperate to sign up for the yoga class, I followed suit. In the courtyard of the HIYC, five or so women were grilling one of the yoga assistants: 'why are the classes so expensive?' 'will I have individual attention?' 'how long are the classes?' 'which asanas do you use?' The man patiently answered each of their questions and then looked up at me, 'how can I help you?'
When I told the man that I'd like to sign up, please, and yes, I have the payment in full right here, the women started to get flustered. They all decided to sign up too, and as the man handed me the registration form, one of them took it right out of his fingers. He assured them that the hall can fit up to 50 students, and so far, there were only a dozen signed up.
While I waited for an extra pen, I walked down to the edge of the HIYC's gardens and called up to our window, telling Josh to come on over and bring a couple pens with him. We filled out the forms together which didn't take very long at all; for all the questions that asked, 'have you done yoga before?' 'if so, what kind?' 'have you meditated before?' 'if so, what kind?' our answers were a simple 'no, n/a.'
We paid the yoga assistant and headed back to the guest house. Now that we had signed up, I felt a huge relief. The main reason that we had left Leh a couple of days earlier and done the whole 36 hour bus ride in one blow was so that we could take this yoga class. I wrote for a little longer, and then Joshua finally demanded that we go and eat.
Taking a footpath, it took us about 10 minutes to find our way to Dharamkot. Walking by the restaurants and shops we were struck by how much Hebrew we saw and heard. Nearly everyone we encountered was Israeli. Apparently, Dharamkot and Bhagsu are Little Israel, and most of the Israelis here are also hippies: we could smell weed in the air, Bob Marley was playing, and most of the cafes had names like 'Friendly,' 'Moonlight,' and 'The Happy Oven' with big, psychedelic murals emblazoned on the walls.
We picked a cafe that smelled vaguely of cat piss and ordered Korma Navratti and Eggplant Masala. While we waited for our order, we looked up at the tack-board above us and wondered what 'Couples Only Tantric Yoga,' 'Real Chill Indian Classical Music Concert,' and 'Intuitive Painting' might be. At the other tables, people spoke in Hebrew.
The food was delicious, and when we had finished, we walked over to the Internet Cafe to post my writing. The keyboard had Hebrew letters taped to the keys, and when we tried to load my blog, everything was in Hebrew and listed right to left. By the time we figured out how to change the default language, the connection was lost, and we ended up just giving up. We walked home in the foggy dark, watching the lights of Dharamkot and Bhagsu glimmer through the tall pine trees.
I am a yoga ignoramus. Seriously. What I know about yoga might fill a thimble, but don't hold your breath. Before this morning, here is what I could tell you about yoga:
1) There is something called 'Sun Salutations.' I did them with Caitlin on the beach in Oregon. It involved lifting your hands up to the sky, some kind of lunge action, twisting your body, and then maybe arching your back?
2) When I did the 'Sun Salutations,' my body was really irritated with me for trying to roll my shoulders back and stand upright. After a couple of decades of some serious slouching, 'opening up my lungs' actually makes me feel short of breath. Ironic, I know.
3) Yoga is a series of postures that are supposed to do... Something. I'm not really sure what. I've heard some New-Agey gibberish about aligning chakras and securing purity of mind, body, and soul, but what the hell does that mean? Will somebody please speak plain English?
4) Yoga falls in this no-man's land between exercise and 'relaxation.' I'm not sure if you're following me, but I was always pretty sure that exercise and relaxation sat on opposite sides of the spectrum. I'm especially confused because I don't think yoga is particularly rigorous or invigorating, and yet people who do yoga have these incredibly toned bodies. Will someone please explain?
5) Lots of yuppies like yoga; I'm not sure why. Women wearing natural fibers particularly enjoy carrying their yoga mats from Whole Foods to yoga class.
6) Yoga comes from India, and it's part of a whole philosophy/lifestyle. I don't know what the philosophy is, and I don't know about the lifestyle either.
7) Yup. That's about it.
Here are some of the reasons (assumptions) why I've always been pretty sure yoga and I won't mix:
1) It's not strenuous. As I may have mentioned (over and over again), I prefer things to be strenuous.
2) Most people who do yoga seem pretty in-tune with their bodies. The 'pain is gain' philosophy doesn't really seem to apply here.
3) Most people who do yoga are either not very goal oriented, or if they are, consider 'relaxation' a goal.
4) It requires a degree of flexibility.
After my first yoga class ever, here is what I have learned:
1) I'm square (as in, "she's square.").
2) Iyengar Yoga and Hatha Yoga are on one side of the spectrum; while these two concentrate on slow, precise movements, Ashtanga Yoga tends to be faster and less precise. And on that note, there are a ton of different kinds of yoga. They all have different philosophies and movements, but I'm not sure what they are.
3) Yoga postures are called 'asanas.'
4) It is very important to make miniscule movements such as 'stretching out your toes,' 'pushing through your heels,' and 'tilting your pelvis.'
5) Iyengar Yoga uses props like blocks of wood, stacked blankets and pillows, bands, and ropes.
6) Most yoga follows a certain structure: you begin with standing asanas, move to kneeling or sitting asanas, somewhere in there you try to stand on your head, and then you move to relaxation poses where you try (unsuccessfully, if you're me) to relax every muscle in your body.
7) Sharat Arora, our teacher, learned from Iyengar himself. I think he might sort of be a big deal.
8) You shouldn't eat or drink anything before you do yoga in the morning; you should go to the bathroom first; you should wear warm enough clothes.
Here is what I'd like to know:
1) Why am I doing this? No. Seriously. I'm not trying to be snarky; obviously, I'm here, and I'm curious, but I'd really like to know why people do this. I'd like a better explanation than 'purification' or 'alignment.' What am I purifying? Why? What am I aligning? Why?
2) What are all the different kinds of yoga? Why are they different? What's different about them?
3) what is the purpose of different asanas?
4) How does yoga fit into Indian cultural and religious history? What are yogis?
***
We woke up just before 9 AM, and headed over to the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center (HIYC). In the courtyard, we waited with the other beginning students, and the Center's dogs came around, sniffing for food and begging for pets. We introduced ourselves to a couple who sat next to us and discovered that they're living in the room right behind us. Eshai and Hadas are Israeli and recently married. We talked a little about what we planned to do in India, and then Sharat came out.
Sitting in a circle, we all patiently waited while Sharat shuffled through our registration papers, pausing to read excerpts here and there. After a bit, he began to call out our names and ask us about any medical conditions we had listed. Going around the circle, we heard about our new classmate's sore backs, knees, and necks. A few of the students had been in serious car accidents; there were slipped discs, fused ankles, torn ligaments, and knee surgeries. One woman had stepped off the bus on her way here to pee off the side of the road, and in the dark with her pants down, she had fallen down the hill. 'Yeah,' she said, 'I had a heckuva time gettin' here.'
About two-thirds of the class are Israeli. When one of them doesn't understand Sharat's English, a few of them look over and offer alternate translations in Hebrew. Sharat commented on a couple of names saying, 'that's an Israeli name I've not heard before.' There is one Indian man, maybe a couple of Europeans, and the rest of us are American. I think there might be about 30 in the class.
When we finished publicly airing our various ailments, Sharat ordered us into the hall. Taking off our shoes, we went inside. The room is lovely; with concrete yellow floors and walls, a wooden ceiling and lots of paper-globe lights, and plenty of windows, the place is airy and welcoming. We all picked a green mat lying on the floor.
Standing on an elevated stage, Sharat instructed us how to stand correctly. We stretched our toes and pushed our heels. We measured the distance between our feet. We practiced maybe 4 or 5 different standing asanas, and as we moved, his assistant teachers came around to correct our postures. I still felt strangely out of breath when I rolled my shoulders back and stood up straight.
A thin, small European woman demonstrated a couple of the sitting, laying, and upside down asanas, and we watched as she easily contorted her body into the various positions. When we tried, I was not nearly so flexible. Apparently, the most important asana was the one where we built up a pad with blankets next to the wall, lifted our legs above our heads, and used a band to keep our elbows together. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, and my neck hurt the whole time.
During the final asana, a relaxation pose, a couple people fell asleep and started snoring. I just lay there, listening to Sharat tell me to relax my eye-sockets thinking, 'well how the fuck do you do that?' Finally, Sharat told us to sit up, Namaste, we should go away a feel more relaxed and energized; see you tomorrow at 9:30 AM.
We put away all the props, put on our shoes, and walked out of the hall. No one really talked. I tried to figure out if I felt both relaxed and energized. I think that might be a nice feeling, but I'm pretty sure I have no idea how to identify it. The class had been 3 hours long, and I didn't have strong feelings either way: I wasn't in love, and I didn't hate it. I just didn't really know what to think.
Back at our guest house, we changed clothes and headed back outside to find some food. We ran into Eshai and Hadas on our way out and decided to all eat together at a local restaurant just a little bit down the road. Once we got there, Hadas gave us some pointers on Indian food: 'paneer' is cheese, 'aloo' is potato, 'gobi' is cauliflower (and therefore, satan), 'palak' is spinach, 'dal' is lentils, 'korma' is coconut-y, and chapati is like naan but thinner and dryer. I copied Hadas and ordered thali, a plate of rice with a side of dal, mixed curry vegetables, and curd (yogurt), and Joshua and Eshai ordered mali kofta, potato in a savory red sauce. The food was delicious, and while we ate, we talked about our weddings and religion.
Eshai and Hadas got married a couple of months ago. They met two years ago at 'a spiritual retreat at the Dead Sea' and 'fell in love at first sight.' Eshai proposed in Rome, but Hadas thinks that he waited too long. At their wedding, they had 300 people, and all they were all in some way related. After their reception, they had the ceremony, and after that, they jumped in a pool with all of their wedding finery on. The rest of the celebration was a pool party.
While Eshai is an atheist, Hadas ate a relatively kosher meal, foregoing any dairy. Eshai believes religion is a tool of manipulation, but Hadas didn't look so sure. While Eshai and Joshua chatted about their jobs, I asked Hadas a little more about her family. Her mother moved to Israel from Iraq when she was only 1, but both her mother and father spoke in Arabic as their secret language. At Shabbat, they sang the prayers in both Arabic and Hebrew. Of course this was normal for Hadas, but as she told me, all sorts of assumptions were crumbling in my head. I had always considered 'Arab' and 'Jew' two opposing identities, but apparently, that's untrue.
After chatting for a while, we paid the bill and went our separate ways. Joshua and I decided to explore a bit, and we headed in the direction of Bhagsu. So far, we've discovered that Indian villages don't really have centers or squares. Shops and restaurants might gather on the same street, but otherwise, it's hard to tell if you're really in the 'heart' of the village. Bhagsu seemed a bit bigger than Dharamkot, but everything else seemed pretty similar. There were signs up everywhere for every kind of class imaginable: silversmithing, intuitive painting, tantric meditation, ashtanga yoga, power yoga, hatha yoga, intensive yoga, casual yoga, aryuvedic medicine, aryuvedic massage, hindi tattoos, mendhi painting, Indian classical music, Indian cooking... A lot of the signs were written in Hebrew, and as we walked by the restaurants, we saw 'Israeli Salad' and 'Israeli Cuisine' advertised nearly everywhere. The streets smelled vaguely of weed, and the handicraft and souvenir shops sold bongs and clothing made from natural fibers dipped in tie-dye. Dread locks, Tevas, and Aladin-pants abound.
Past a temple with a pool out front, we followed the signs for the waterfall. Around the corner, an impossibly tall and long waterfall fell between two very green mountains. We followed the stone steps up. At the top, the 'very, very chill Shiva Cafe where you can eat or drink or just smoke all day' sat in a foggy oasis of green, draping plants, hindi murals, and monkeys. We paused a bit to admire the foggy, jungle view, and then we decided to follow the path that cut straight across the mountain, hoping it might lead back to Dharamkot and our guest house.
Passing a couple of small temples and few more hippie cafes, we found our way to upper Bhagsu and then Lower Dharamkot. Eventually, we spied our guest house and picked our way over a stream. Along the way, we picked a few canine followers, and they safely guided us back to our home. Changing into running clothes, we went on a short 30 minute jog up the steep hill past our guesthouse, down and around to McLeod Ganj, and then back up the steep hill to our guest house. At one point, Joshua said hello to a monkey on the side of the road, and not impressed, the monkey bared his teeth and beat the stone next to him with his hands. Joshua shied like a horse and sped a little faster up the hill. Running by monks, I decided I wouldn't wear shorts again. I felt like a hussy baring my legs :)
Back at the guest house, we showered. We each had about 3 minutes of hot water each, so we tried to keep them short. By the time we got dressed, it was already dark, so we headed out the door for Dharamkot. At the Moonlight Cafe, we sat on the balcony and watched the nearly full moon rise over the steep mountains of Bhagsu. Joshua ordered Paneer Palak (cheese spinach for those of you who are keeping track), and I ordered Vegetable Biryani (which is kind of like a vegetarian Indian Jambalayah). The food was gorgeous, and to drink, Joshua ordered another Lhassi (he's pretty much disregarded recommendations to not eat unpasteurized dairy products in India). While we ate and tried to remember all the asanas we had learned that morning (we tried to draw pictures and list directions in our notebook), a group of Israelis sat cross-legged on the floor, eating Indian food, smoking pot, playing cards, and laughing a lot.
When we had finished eating, we walked back to the guest house. Along the way, Joshua picked up a couple of candy bars. 'Bounty' is kind of like Almond Joy, and 'Yummy' is, as Joshua says, a poor second to a Snickers. I'm starting to like a little something sweet before I sleep :)
September 22, 2010
Yesterday morning, we woke up a little before 9 AM, and I quickly got dressed to meet the monk. Joshua went ahead of me to eat breakfast and load pictures at the Green Hotel Cafe, while I waited on the steps in front of our guest house. At about 9:10, the monk came down, brushing his teeth. He said, '10?' I nodded my head and told him that I would be waiting at the Green Hotel Cafe.
Finding Joshua, we ordered breakfast, and then I went off in search of a notebook and pens for my English lesson. Back at the Cafe, Joshua ate his Tibetan Porridge with Bananas (Tsampa) and I had my lemon and honey pancake. We shared a slice of walnut cake, which was absolutely delicious. Waiting for the monk, we browsed through the pictures, and I put together a little English diagnostic - I had no idea how much English the monk might know.
By 10:30, I was pretty sure that the monk wasn't coming. I was a little disappointed, but the night before, Joshua and I had seen a sign for an 'English Conversation Hour' held at the Hope Education Center. Apparently, they always need English volunteers. I'll just bring my pen and paper there :) We read and surfed the web for a little bit longer, sipping our honey, lemon, and ginger tea, and a little bit before noon, we paid and headed back to our guest house to pack up.
Just before we left the guest house, we went into the office to pay. The man at the desk was the monk. He gave me his huge smile, and I figured that there had been some sort of language misunderstanding. Oh well; Namaste. Joo-lay.
The hike out of McLeod Ganj is pretty steep, and although we're only at 5,000 - 6,000 ft, I could still feel the altitude. We slowly made our way up the hill, passing monkeys as we went. It began to rain. On the other side of the hill, we passed the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center (HIYC) and just a few meters a way, we came across the Kamal Guest House. Although I had wanted to shop around a bit before we settled on our next guest house, when the kind, smiling guest house keeper poked his head out of the detached kitchen and asked us if we'd like to see a room, we agreed. Rajjis led us up a staircase to a balcony and into a small room with plenty of windows and an attached bathroom with a hot-water geyser. For 250 rupees a night, the room was ours. I tested the bed, and like usual, it was hard as a rock. We took it.
Shedding our packs, we decided to try and make this room as homey and clean as possible. We put everything in a proper place, and afterwards, we sat on the bed and surveyed our surroundings. From our window, we can see the HIYC; otherwise, everything is green. It was also raining, and the fog made the trees appear rootless. It was damp, but lovely.
Happy to have a space where we planned to live for more than a couple of days, we decided to stay put for a bit. While I caught up on my writing, Joshua sat outside on the balcony and chatted to our neighbors, two young Italians. They told him, 'in India, we have found the world's second best food.' Naturally, Joshua didn't even have to ask them about the world's first best food: their Italians.
After a while, Joshua came back in and took a nap while I continued to write. Outside the window, I spied a couple of people wandering into the HIYC, and desperate to sign up for the yoga class, I followed suit. In the courtyard of the HIYC, five or so women were grilling one of the yoga assistants: 'why are the classes so expensive?' 'will I have individual attention?' 'how long are the classes?' 'which asanas do you use?' The man patiently answered each of their questions and then looked up at me, 'how can I help you?'
When I told the man that I'd like to sign up, please, and yes, I have the payment in full right here, the women started to get flustered. They all decided to sign up too, and as the man handed me the registration form, one of them took it right out of his fingers. He assured them that the hall can fit up to 50 students, and so far, there were only a dozen signed up.
While I waited for an extra pen, I walked down to the edge of the HIYC's gardens and called up to our window, telling Josh to come on over and bring a couple pens with him. We filled out the forms together which didn't take very long at all; for all the questions that asked, 'have you done yoga before?' 'if so, what kind?' 'have you meditated before?' 'if so, what kind?' our answers were a simple 'no, n/a.'
We paid the yoga assistant and headed back to the guest house. Now that we had signed up, I felt a huge relief. The main reason that we had left Leh a couple of days earlier and done the whole 36 hour bus ride in one blow was so that we could take this yoga class. I wrote for a little longer, and then Joshua finally demanded that we go and eat.
Taking a footpath, it took us about 10 minutes to find our way to Dharamkot. Walking by the restaurants and shops we were struck by how much Hebrew we saw and heard. Nearly everyone we encountered was Israeli. Apparently, Dharamkot and Bhagsu are Little Israel, and most of the Israelis here are also hippies: we could smell weed in the air, Bob Marley was playing, and most of the cafes had names like 'Friendly,' 'Moonlight,' and 'The Happy Oven' with big, psychedelic murals emblazoned on the walls.
We picked a cafe that smelled vaguely of cat piss and ordered Korma Navratti and Eggplant Masala. While we waited for our order, we looked up at the tack-board above us and wondered what 'Couples Only Tantric Yoga,' 'Real Chill Indian Classical Music Concert,' and 'Intuitive Painting' might be. At the other tables, people spoke in Hebrew.
The food was delicious, and when we had finished, we walked over to the Internet Cafe to post my writing. The keyboard had Hebrew letters taped to the keys, and when we tried to load my blog, everything was in Hebrew and listed right to left. By the time we figured out how to change the default language, the connection was lost, and we ended up just giving up. We walked home in the foggy dark, watching the lights of Dharamkot and Bhagsu glimmer through the tall pine trees.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Sept. 18 and 19 Rambok to Leh
September 19, 2010
We woke up with the sun pouring through the curtains. For breakfast, we munched on the last of our millet crackers and apricot jam, and then packing up our dirty laundry, we set out for Dzomsa. I may have mentioned this lovely place before, but it really is like a traveller's refuge: they serve tea and juice, provide boiled, filtered water for 10 rupees a liter, sell fiction in all sorts of different languages, offer organic and locally grown trekking food, and wash and dry your clothes with environmentally friendly soap. The woman who works there hums to herself the entire time. It's an entirely inexpensive and pleasant place all around.
Once we had dropped off our clothing (she made us count each article so that we wouldn't lose any), we walked up the old footpath to Sangkar Gompa. Today, we had decided, we wanted to see all the Gompas. Although there are many here in Ladakh, most of India is not so predominantly Buddhist. We wanted to taken in the Buddhist monasteries while we could.
Unfortunately, Sangkar was closed for Sunday. We walked through the courtyard and admired the lovely entrance and the lit candles. Dogs were napping in the garden, and inside their rooms, monks were chanting their prayers. We looked at our map and decided to try the other Gompas up near Leh Palace, and on our way, we wanted to see the 'Forest of Stupahs.'
Walking through the domestic, farming neighborhoods of outer Leh, we passed Ladakhis walking to school and work. Going downhill, motorcyclists would turn off their engines and coast to save gas. Cows and donkeys milled about in the streets.
We found the Forest of Stupahs behind a couple of Ladakhi homes. Following protocol, we walked to the left of the Stupahs and admired all the carved prayer stones that had been stacked at their feet. There were a couple dozen of them, and Joshua took some lovely black-and-white photos of them with the mountains in the distance. In the middle of the 'Forest' I met a baby calf with big, heavily-fringed eyes. He tried to eat my scarf, and he let me scratch the top of his head.
Walking up to Leh Palace, we admired the views of the city. At the top, yet another Gompa was closed. We retraced the steps we had taken a couple days earlier and tried the Gompas below the palace. No luck there, either.
Finally, tired and thwarted, we made our way back down. In the city center, we stuck our heads inside a courtyard and found another Gompa. We walked in, took off our shoes, and went inside. Like the prayer room in the palace, the beams, pillars, ceilings and walls are decorated with textiles, masks, and sculptures. In the center, an altar to the Dalai Lama had pillows, votives, and - you guessed it - Christmas lights. In the corner, a monk sat near a gong and chanted his prayers. It was lovely.
Pleased that we had finally seen a Gompa, we went in search of lunch. Unfortunately, My Secret Recipe Bakery was closed, so we went to another restaurant down the road, Chopsticks. We ordered some honey, lemon, and ginger tea with a couple plates of curry and rice. While we ate, we listened as an American came in and arranged with the manager (Juma, the same man who sold us our bus tickets at Glacier Adventures) a special lunch for the US Ambassador who would be arriving the next day. Apparently, Juma had been very helpful to the Ambassador and the American tourists just after the flood. The lunch was meant to be a thank you to Juma and a chance for the media to see the Ambassador checking up on the flood relief efforts.
Once we had finished our meal, we said goodbye to Juma and went to the markets. Leh is known for its artisan and craft markets, and its supposedly a remnant of the Silk Road. While there are many permanent shops, there are also a number of markets set up beneath temporary parachutes. Many of them are advertised as 'Tibetan Refugee Markets,' but I'm not sure if all the goods and all the sellers are Tibetan; the word 'Tibet' is a sort of catch phrase for a lot of hippy-ish, SDS-type travellers. (Which is not to say that the plight of Tibetans is over-dramatized or any less real. China's occupation of Tibet is very serious, and many Tibetans have suffered a great deal.)
Although I had been expecting the jewelry and crafts to be extremely cheap, the women's opening prices were extremely steep. For one silver ring, a woman wanted 700 rupees (15 dollars), and most necklaces started at 600 rupees. Although I had been a ruthless haggler in South America, something about the banner that said 'refugee' made it difficult for me to offer them less. The women obviously wanted to haggle with me, but when they gave me their outrageous prices, I simply wanted to move on rather than offer them less. They would even ask me, 'ok. How much you offer?' Just by being reticent, they would often drop their prices nearly in half, but I still wasn't ready to drop that kind of money.
Leh is also known for its lapis lazuli trade, and finally, one woman offered me a deal that I took: three lovely earrings, one turquoise bracelet, and one lapis lazuli necklace for 800 rupees. For 17 dollars, I thought that was a fairly good deal, or at least, better than anyone else was offering.
We wandered in and out of the other markets, but the prices were still very high. We lusted after some lovely stone-encrusted tea sets, door knobs, and singing prayer bowls (bronze bowls that sing when you run a fabric covered stick around the edge) which were actually more reasonably priced (1300 rupees for an enormous, lovely tea set), but there was no way that we could carry them.
In one other market, I found another lapis lazuli necklace, and although the price was still to high - 500 rupees - I took it. Although some of the other jewelry might contain fabricated or painted stones, this was the real thing: it has a pleasing weight and the beautiful blue stones have lots of white inclusions in them. The woman told me that lapis lazuli is 'good for the blood.'
After a while, we grew tired of shopping. This is unusual for me, but the refugee thing was really getting to me. It was hard to haggle. Joshua was a little disappointed in me, and he very logically argued that the people who were selling their wares were no harder off here than they had been in South America. I had really enjoyed the haggling, and if they didn't want you to haggle, then wouldn't they put price tags on things? He was right, but I'm not sure what had changed. In South America, I really didn't have much money. When I haggled, I gave them what I could afford. Now, I have more money. It just feels cheap to offer them less when they have so little and I have so much. I don't know. We'll see.
We rested in the guest house for a little bit, and after we read for a couple of hours, we went out again. First, we stopped at Glacier Adventures to check in with Juma. We wanted to know where we would pick up the bus later that night. Juma was there, and although he didn't have our answers quite yet, we passed a pleasant half hour just chatting. We asked him about how he felt about the US Ambassador coming, and he shrugged modestly. 'I was just trying to help,' he said. One of his friends came in, and when he saw the India Lonely Planet in our hands, he asked us if he could look through it. Immediately flipping to Kerala, he told us he was intrigued by what they said about his hometown in the very South of India. There were both very friendly, and we really enjoyed talking to them. Juma told us to come back later in the evening, and after we left, we browsed through a few more shops. Not finding anything else we had to have, we looked at our map and went in search for the Moti market, the market that Ladakhis use to by their daily goods.
As soon as we entered the Moti market, we started enjoying ourselves a lot more. Off the strip, this market wasn't targeted towards tourists. There were hundreds of pots and pans spilling over the walk and Ladakhis haggling over the last rupee. Tunics for women's shalwar kameez hung out of windows, and women browsed through golden bangles. There was nothing in particular that we needed or wanted, so we watched. Unfortunately, the market was just closing so we didn't get to see it in full force, but it was fun to walk through anyway.
On our way back into town, we walked through the side streets. Barbers were giving men hot shaves, and on the floor, there were piles of hair. Tailors were whipping up suits and dresses, and in one corner, people were stirring big vats with fabric and steaming-hot red dye for monks' robes. Just before we were about to walk back out to the main road, I saw some lovely embroidery hanging outside of a shop window. Usually, when the shop keepers say, 'ok, yes, please. You come in now,' or 'I've been waiting for you! Come look inside!' I walk by and smile, shaking my head no-thank-you. When I paused to finger the embroidery, an Indian man in a leather jacket hopped up and invited me into his shop. I agreed.
Outside the shop, I had been admiring a simple handle-bag with gorgeous woolen embroidery swirling in flowers. Inside, the shopkeeper pulled out a dozen more in different styles, colors, and patterns. They were gorgeous. He apologized that the fabric 'is only cashmere. Pashmina is too fine for this work.' Apparently, in the winter time, many Ladakhis stay inside by the fire and create these beautiful embroidered bags, blankets, and shawls. Most of the embroidery is done with a hook, but the shopkeeper also showed me a pashmina that had the tiniest needle stitching I had ever seen.
Pawing through the mound of bags the man had dumped on his display table, I picked my favorite three - gorgeous bright pink, yellow, and blue embroidery atop a black cloth - and asked the man his price. '350 rupees,' he said.
Well holy shit. I did what no haggler should ever do; I said, 'you can't be serious!' The man smiled and nodded. Obviously, I was about to buy. With a purchase in the offing, we chatted for a bit and exchanged names. Rajj had beautiful, slightly American-accented English. I asked him if he had ever been to the US, and he laughed. In order to come to the US, he said, you have to be able to show the US consulate your bank account. They won't let you come unless you have enough money to not only buy the ticket there, but also support yourself while you're there. The average income in India is about 900 dollars, and that is not nearly enough to get an American visa, much less come and visit.
I felt a bit ignorant, but Rajj was very friendly and explained everything kindly. He knew I was completely in love with the embroidery and he explained how he bought it from the remote villages of Ladakh and then sold them here, in his little shop. When he found out that I had studied Art History, he smiled and said, 'I think I have something you might like.' From one of his shelves, he took out a large black shawl with bright, beautiful flowered embroidery.
At the risk of vomiting superlatives everywhere, I shall select just one: sublime. As soon as Rajj unfurled the shawl, I knew I had to buy it, no matter the cost. I literally gasped. It is the most beautiful piece of art I have ever seen for sale. It's gorgeous. It's sublime.
By now, Rajj liked us. We were chatting easily, and he knew I was absolutely smitten with his embroidered goods. He pulled out half a dozen more shawls with beautiful embroidery, but none compared to the first. Even Joshua was salivating. Rajj lifted the shawl and showed me how it would be worn. Knowing that I had already lost any chance to haggle, I told him that there was no way on Earth I would ever wear anything so beautiful. This would be going up on the wall.
Almost scared to know the answer, I asked Rajj how much. With a look of total honesty and earnestness, he told me, 'during the high season, I sell these shawls for 3600 rupees. But with the flood, there has been not so much business, and anyway, tomorrow I leave for my family's shop in Goa. We don't sell shawls there - it's too hot. I give you this shawl for 1800 rupees.'
Rajj saw me doing math in my head, and even though we all knew it was pointless - I was going to buy that shawl - he handed me a calculator. 40 dollars. While Rajj and Joshua talked, I divided 2000 by 45 (there's 45 rupees to the dollar) and figured that I would offer him 2000 rupees for both a bag and this shawl. Before I could even offer, he looked over and said, 'I give you a bag and the shawl for 2000 rupees.' Sold. I didn't even haggle.
When we said goodbye to Rajj, he told us very seriously that we had gotten a very good deal. In truth, everyone says this, but with Rajj I beleive him: for one, 44 dollars for craftsman work like that really does seem like a good price (especially when you compare the 26 dollars I spent on 6 pieces of jewelry), and for two, I would have paid much more for it (and this, to those of you who know me, will mean a lot; I do not part with dollars easily, and that's an understatement.).
As we walked to pick up our laundry, we sputtered over our find. Joshua was as in love with the shawl as I was, and he agreed: this shawl is not for wearing. It's for framing, and our children will probably fight over it when we die. It's so beautiful, it could probably start a family feud.
Once we had picked up our laundry, we went back to Tenzing Dickey's Tibetan Retaurant for a repeat experience. Again, the food was delicious, and when we finished, we went in search of Juma. We found him at his restaurant, Chopsticks, and he told us that he had just missed us. Apparently, he had taken the bus driver down to our guest house and carefully instructed him to pick us up there and put our packs INSIDE the bus (not on the roof). We thanked him for being so helpful and then went back to the guest house to pack up.
Once we had finished putting everything away, we napped for a couple of hours under the scuzzy blankets (it's customary for travellers in India to bring their sleeping bags; the extra blankets are for additional warmth, and they are definitely not clean).
September 18, 2010
We woke up just after 7 and packed our bags. Back in the kitchen/dining room, Tsering was making pancakes for breakfast. We sat down at the low tables, and when the pancakes were ready, she served them to us piping hot. Thin and slightly crispy on the edges, they were absolutely delicious. Tsering apologized for serving breakfast a little late; she told us that she had had to milk the yak first before she could mix the pancake batter. We laughed and told her it was fine. It's not every day that you eat pancakes made with fresh yak milk.
Before we left, Tsering knocked on our door and told me that she had something to give me. Taking my hand, she pressed a little hand-knit bird that she had made. I thanked her, and when we said goodbye, she smiled and waved, telling us to come back again soon.
For the first couple hours of our hike, we slowly made our way uphill. Rambok is in a narrow valley lying between enormous mountains on every side. To get to Stok, we would have to climb Stok Le, a pass at about 16,000 feet. Following the dirt footpath, we passed the grazing fields of Rambok and walked along the rocky stream. From where we were, it was impossible to tell where the path led. We eyed the pointy mountains ahead of us, speculating where we might make our way up. At about an hour and a half, we stopped to take a quick break, and the German couple and their guide, Douwah, passed us.
It took us four and a half hours to reach the top. Those of you who know me know that I like physically challenging tasks; if given the option, I will generally choose the longer route, the more strenuous climb. I like to sweat and grit my teeth, and when it's over, I feel a vast sense of accomplishment. The one time I can remember giving up on a workout was at the end of January. Joshua and I were training for a marathon, and we went on a 17 mile run. By mile 7, my knee was in serious pain, and by mile 13, I had to walk. At mile 15, I had to stop, and Joshua had to continue on to get the car, come back, and get me. I was devastated. I LOVE running. I LOVE running a long way. Teaching in New Orleans, running was just about the only thing that kept me sane. Although I continued to workout about 7 to 9 hours a week at the gym on the elliptical, bike, and in the pool, I slowly went crazy from the withdrawal.
You might understand, then, exactly what it means when I say that I wanted to give up, throw in the towel, and simply be transported home about 45 minutes from the top of Stok Le. We took rest breaks every 30 minutes, and each time, I thought my lungs might collapse. With 40 to 50 pound packs and just three days of acclimatization under our belts, we were in no shape to take on the incredibly steep path that led up and out of Rambok valley. My legs were trembling, and the higher we got, the more precarious the path became. When I finally convinced myself that I couldn't, in fact, give up, we continued on to the steepest part of the path yet; it was so steep, there was barely a sign of any path at all, and we basically scrambled our way to the top.
Clearly, I do not have a future in mountain climbing. I may love the mountains, and I do enjoy a good hike through them, but I do not enjoy slippery, scree-filled cliff sides, precipitous drops, and just generally feeling like I'm about to plunge to my death at any moment. I had to stop a couple times to prevent myself from hyperventilating. Joshua, on the other hand, is like a mountain goat. He told me that the path made him nervous too, but really, I think he was having a grand old time.
Finally, finally, we reached the top. For most trekkers, the hike from Rambok to the top of Stok Le is about 3 hours. It took us nearly 5. Granted, most trekkers are just carrying their sleeping bags and maybe a jacket in a tiny pack, but still. It was nothing to write home about (and yet...).
The view from the top was spectacular, but both of us were suffering from massive headaches. We took a couple photos underneath the banner of prayer flags, snapped a few shots of Stok Kangre and the valleys below us, and then continued on our way. Luckily, the path down was not nearly as steep or precarious as the path up; however, it was still rocky and steep enough that we had to walk slowly and we slipped many times. Above us, herds of some kind of animal with enormous horns grazed and occasionally sent down little boulders.
After about another hour of carefully picking our way down the mountain side, my legs were trembling so badly that I wasn't sure if I would be able to stay upright. We took a break on a large rock, and Joshua force-fed me millet crackers with apricot jam. I had no appetite, but I choked them down anyway. After some water and a dose of ibuprofen, I felt a little better and we continued onwards.
After a while, I started worrying that we weren't on the right path. Joshua tossed out some geological nonsense about rivers always moving downhill, and therefore, we would inevitably reach Stok near the Indus River irregardless, but I fretted. In the sand, I looked for the footprints of the Germans (who were wearing Converse All-Stars, the crazy nutters). Every once in a while, Joshua said he thought he saw a footprint, but I was dubious. After 2 hours of descending, we walked along the muddy, boulder-strewn river. The path had been washed out in a number of places, but it was a narrow gorge, and our path down was fairly obvious.
It's a shame we were so freaking miserable, because it really was spectacularly beautiful. The mountains had created these strange rock formations that looked like plates stacked upright on a drying rack. The sky was clear and fantastically blue, and the mountain sides changed from shades of red to brown and yellow. We did notice, and so that we could appreciate it later, we snapped a few photos.
After a while, we took out the map and the written directions. Yup. We had gone the wrong way. Before you ask, yes. I did ask Joshua if he was ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN THAT WE TURN LEFT. He was. No. We did not take out the map or the written directions when we came to the only fork in the road we had come across all day. That would be just silly.
I'm proud of myself. I contained my intense fear and anger at my husband quite well. I simply said, "I'm profoundly frustrated with you at the moment," and continued on the path. Joshua mumbled something about the laws of geology, and I started wondering just what it might be like to huddle in our sleeping bags inside a cave in the Himalayas. I decided it was doable. The jar of apricot preserves was still about half full, and we had a bag of Himalayan muesli that tasted, as Joshua put it so eloquently, like vomit. We would be ok for another 48 hours. The water situation, however, looked doubtful. Yes, there was a stream, but just a mile ago, I saw a dead, rotting yak carcas lying in the middle. No, thanks.
Joshua is very, very lucky that he knows the laws of geology. After another hour of hiking, we met up with another gorge, and - hallelujah! - another path with distinct Converse All Star footprints. Joshua preened, and I told him just how lucky he was.
Not too long after we met up with the correct path, we passed another parachute cafe. It was empty, and judging from the directions listed in LP, we still had another three hours to go. Luckily, the path led down a gentle gradient, and we were able to pick up the pace.
Joshua and I finally had enough breath to talk, and we spent the last couple of hours chatting, crossing the river, and getting really wet. We lost the trail a couple more times, but we always managed to find it again, and eventually, we saw the buildings of Stok. When we finally made it into Stok, a beautiful woman sitting inside a little shop told us that the bus to Leh would be arriving in about 15 minutes. We sat down on the curb and waited. We both starred at the beautiful woman in the shop. She looked like an angel.
When the bus arrived, we boarded, and for 20 rupees, we were able to ride to Leh. On the way there, the ancient bus with incredible suspension bounced over the narrow, pitted roads. In front, three teenagers had transformed the cab of the bus into a clubhouse. An image of the Dalai Lama had twinkling Christmas lights strung around it with glittering streamers and money taped below. They were blaring high-pitched pop music in an unknown language, and every once in a while, they would stop the bus to hop out and have a little chat with someone they saw on the road. I thought it was great.
Just before we got to Leh, we crossed the Indus River. The steel bridge was absolutely covered in prayer flags, and doing their duty, the flapped magnificently in the river-breeze, sending their prayers... Somewhere. I'm not sure. When we crossed over to the other side, our bus driver dropped us off in the Tibetan refugee camp. There was a big tent with flood relief food and medical aid, and all around, there were impromptu stands selling anything and everything. For 200 rupees, we got a taxi to bring us the last few kilometers into Leh. The sun set.
We had our taxi driver, drop us off on Old Fort Road, just a couple minutes from the center of Leh. Because we would be leaving in the middle of the night the next day, we figured something closer to the center would be better. Jamspal Guest House is just off a little footpath, and like Lakrook, it has a beautiful garden. For 300 rupees, the wonderful, smiley keeper led us up to the second floor and gave us a huge room with lots of windows overlooking the garden. The bed was hard as a rock, but we didn't care. We dumped our packs.
After 11 hours of hiking and barely any food, we were starving. Just up the road, we found Tenzing Dickey's Tibetan Restaurant. For less than 200 rupees, we each had a cup of tea, spicy vegetable soup with noodles (Thukpa), and steamed and fried momos. It was delicious, and the inside of the little restaurant was cozy and small. For lights, glowing boxes hung from the ceiling, and on the walls, there were hanging scrolls with sayings by the Dalai Lama.
In paraphrase: The True Meaning of Life. We are on this Earth for perhaps 90 or 100 years. During that time, we must make sure not to waste it. We must wake up each day thankful and develop ourselves so that we may contribute to the happiness of the others. Resolve each day to believe the best about others and to treat them well. Strive to keep negative thoughts about others from your mind. Be kind.
I'm not sure if it's the altitude, but gazing up at the kind, be-spectacled face of the Dalai Lama (again wreathed in Christmas lights) and reading his words, I felt just a little bit emotional. His words weren't particularly eloquent or even articulate, and yet, I couldn't have agreed more. I think he's absolutely right, and when the Tibetans of Leh pass me on the street and smile at me with all the warmth they can muster, I give it my best shot and smile back. Joo-lay. I wish you good will.
Once we were full, we could barely hold our bodies upright. We headed back to the guest house, and when we got there, the keeper asked us if we might like some hot water. Grimy from our trek, we accepted, and in ten minutes, he knocked on our door and delivered a big bucket of steaming hot water.
Joshua looked at the water and then looked at me. Err... What am I supposed to do with this? I laughed and asked him if he had never taken a sponge bath before. He shook his head. Sometimes, I said, I forget that you weren't raised by a hippie (yes, Mom. I'm referring to you.). I told him to use the cup provided to dump water over his head and handed him a rag. Have fun :)
Although it was cold, the bucket of hot water was too hot. I diluted it with some freezing tap water and quickly cleaned myself. It's not so bad, and you can get just as clean as you would with a shower head.
Once we were clean, we fell asleep right away. Not even the altitude could keep us from falling asleep tonight.
We woke up with the sun pouring through the curtains. For breakfast, we munched on the last of our millet crackers and apricot jam, and then packing up our dirty laundry, we set out for Dzomsa. I may have mentioned this lovely place before, but it really is like a traveller's refuge: they serve tea and juice, provide boiled, filtered water for 10 rupees a liter, sell fiction in all sorts of different languages, offer organic and locally grown trekking food, and wash and dry your clothes with environmentally friendly soap. The woman who works there hums to herself the entire time. It's an entirely inexpensive and pleasant place all around.
Once we had dropped off our clothing (she made us count each article so that we wouldn't lose any), we walked up the old footpath to Sangkar Gompa. Today, we had decided, we wanted to see all the Gompas. Although there are many here in Ladakh, most of India is not so predominantly Buddhist. We wanted to taken in the Buddhist monasteries while we could.
Unfortunately, Sangkar was closed for Sunday. We walked through the courtyard and admired the lovely entrance and the lit candles. Dogs were napping in the garden, and inside their rooms, monks were chanting their prayers. We looked at our map and decided to try the other Gompas up near Leh Palace, and on our way, we wanted to see the 'Forest of Stupahs.'
Walking through the domestic, farming neighborhoods of outer Leh, we passed Ladakhis walking to school and work. Going downhill, motorcyclists would turn off their engines and coast to save gas. Cows and donkeys milled about in the streets.
We found the Forest of Stupahs behind a couple of Ladakhi homes. Following protocol, we walked to the left of the Stupahs and admired all the carved prayer stones that had been stacked at their feet. There were a couple dozen of them, and Joshua took some lovely black-and-white photos of them with the mountains in the distance. In the middle of the 'Forest' I met a baby calf with big, heavily-fringed eyes. He tried to eat my scarf, and he let me scratch the top of his head.
Walking up to Leh Palace, we admired the views of the city. At the top, yet another Gompa was closed. We retraced the steps we had taken a couple days earlier and tried the Gompas below the palace. No luck there, either.
Finally, tired and thwarted, we made our way back down. In the city center, we stuck our heads inside a courtyard and found another Gompa. We walked in, took off our shoes, and went inside. Like the prayer room in the palace, the beams, pillars, ceilings and walls are decorated with textiles, masks, and sculptures. In the center, an altar to the Dalai Lama had pillows, votives, and - you guessed it - Christmas lights. In the corner, a monk sat near a gong and chanted his prayers. It was lovely.
Pleased that we had finally seen a Gompa, we went in search of lunch. Unfortunately, My Secret Recipe Bakery was closed, so we went to another restaurant down the road, Chopsticks. We ordered some honey, lemon, and ginger tea with a couple plates of curry and rice. While we ate, we listened as an American came in and arranged with the manager (Juma, the same man who sold us our bus tickets at Glacier Adventures) a special lunch for the US Ambassador who would be arriving the next day. Apparently, Juma had been very helpful to the Ambassador and the American tourists just after the flood. The lunch was meant to be a thank you to Juma and a chance for the media to see the Ambassador checking up on the flood relief efforts.
Once we had finished our meal, we said goodbye to Juma and went to the markets. Leh is known for its artisan and craft markets, and its supposedly a remnant of the Silk Road. While there are many permanent shops, there are also a number of markets set up beneath temporary parachutes. Many of them are advertised as 'Tibetan Refugee Markets,' but I'm not sure if all the goods and all the sellers are Tibetan; the word 'Tibet' is a sort of catch phrase for a lot of hippy-ish, SDS-type travellers. (Which is not to say that the plight of Tibetans is over-dramatized or any less real. China's occupation of Tibet is very serious, and many Tibetans have suffered a great deal.)
Although I had been expecting the jewelry and crafts to be extremely cheap, the women's opening prices were extremely steep. For one silver ring, a woman wanted 700 rupees (15 dollars), and most necklaces started at 600 rupees. Although I had been a ruthless haggler in South America, something about the banner that said 'refugee' made it difficult for me to offer them less. The women obviously wanted to haggle with me, but when they gave me their outrageous prices, I simply wanted to move on rather than offer them less. They would even ask me, 'ok. How much you offer?' Just by being reticent, they would often drop their prices nearly in half, but I still wasn't ready to drop that kind of money.
Leh is also known for its lapis lazuli trade, and finally, one woman offered me a deal that I took: three lovely earrings, one turquoise bracelet, and one lapis lazuli necklace for 800 rupees. For 17 dollars, I thought that was a fairly good deal, or at least, better than anyone else was offering.
We wandered in and out of the other markets, but the prices were still very high. We lusted after some lovely stone-encrusted tea sets, door knobs, and singing prayer bowls (bronze bowls that sing when you run a fabric covered stick around the edge) which were actually more reasonably priced (1300 rupees for an enormous, lovely tea set), but there was no way that we could carry them.
In one other market, I found another lapis lazuli necklace, and although the price was still to high - 500 rupees - I took it. Although some of the other jewelry might contain fabricated or painted stones, this was the real thing: it has a pleasing weight and the beautiful blue stones have lots of white inclusions in them. The woman told me that lapis lazuli is 'good for the blood.'
After a while, we grew tired of shopping. This is unusual for me, but the refugee thing was really getting to me. It was hard to haggle. Joshua was a little disappointed in me, and he very logically argued that the people who were selling their wares were no harder off here than they had been in South America. I had really enjoyed the haggling, and if they didn't want you to haggle, then wouldn't they put price tags on things? He was right, but I'm not sure what had changed. In South America, I really didn't have much money. When I haggled, I gave them what I could afford. Now, I have more money. It just feels cheap to offer them less when they have so little and I have so much. I don't know. We'll see.
We rested in the guest house for a little bit, and after we read for a couple of hours, we went out again. First, we stopped at Glacier Adventures to check in with Juma. We wanted to know where we would pick up the bus later that night. Juma was there, and although he didn't have our answers quite yet, we passed a pleasant half hour just chatting. We asked him about how he felt about the US Ambassador coming, and he shrugged modestly. 'I was just trying to help,' he said. One of his friends came in, and when he saw the India Lonely Planet in our hands, he asked us if he could look through it. Immediately flipping to Kerala, he told us he was intrigued by what they said about his hometown in the very South of India. There were both very friendly, and we really enjoyed talking to them. Juma told us to come back later in the evening, and after we left, we browsed through a few more shops. Not finding anything else we had to have, we looked at our map and went in search for the Moti market, the market that Ladakhis use to by their daily goods.
As soon as we entered the Moti market, we started enjoying ourselves a lot more. Off the strip, this market wasn't targeted towards tourists. There were hundreds of pots and pans spilling over the walk and Ladakhis haggling over the last rupee. Tunics for women's shalwar kameez hung out of windows, and women browsed through golden bangles. There was nothing in particular that we needed or wanted, so we watched. Unfortunately, the market was just closing so we didn't get to see it in full force, but it was fun to walk through anyway.
On our way back into town, we walked through the side streets. Barbers were giving men hot shaves, and on the floor, there were piles of hair. Tailors were whipping up suits and dresses, and in one corner, people were stirring big vats with fabric and steaming-hot red dye for monks' robes. Just before we were about to walk back out to the main road, I saw some lovely embroidery hanging outside of a shop window. Usually, when the shop keepers say, 'ok, yes, please. You come in now,' or 'I've been waiting for you! Come look inside!' I walk by and smile, shaking my head no-thank-you. When I paused to finger the embroidery, an Indian man in a leather jacket hopped up and invited me into his shop. I agreed.
Outside the shop, I had been admiring a simple handle-bag with gorgeous woolen embroidery swirling in flowers. Inside, the shopkeeper pulled out a dozen more in different styles, colors, and patterns. They were gorgeous. He apologized that the fabric 'is only cashmere. Pashmina is too fine for this work.' Apparently, in the winter time, many Ladakhis stay inside by the fire and create these beautiful embroidered bags, blankets, and shawls. Most of the embroidery is done with a hook, but the shopkeeper also showed me a pashmina that had the tiniest needle stitching I had ever seen.
Pawing through the mound of bags the man had dumped on his display table, I picked my favorite three - gorgeous bright pink, yellow, and blue embroidery atop a black cloth - and asked the man his price. '350 rupees,' he said.
Well holy shit. I did what no haggler should ever do; I said, 'you can't be serious!' The man smiled and nodded. Obviously, I was about to buy. With a purchase in the offing, we chatted for a bit and exchanged names. Rajj had beautiful, slightly American-accented English. I asked him if he had ever been to the US, and he laughed. In order to come to the US, he said, you have to be able to show the US consulate your bank account. They won't let you come unless you have enough money to not only buy the ticket there, but also support yourself while you're there. The average income in India is about 900 dollars, and that is not nearly enough to get an American visa, much less come and visit.
I felt a bit ignorant, but Rajj was very friendly and explained everything kindly. He knew I was completely in love with the embroidery and he explained how he bought it from the remote villages of Ladakh and then sold them here, in his little shop. When he found out that I had studied Art History, he smiled and said, 'I think I have something you might like.' From one of his shelves, he took out a large black shawl with bright, beautiful flowered embroidery.
At the risk of vomiting superlatives everywhere, I shall select just one: sublime. As soon as Rajj unfurled the shawl, I knew I had to buy it, no matter the cost. I literally gasped. It is the most beautiful piece of art I have ever seen for sale. It's gorgeous. It's sublime.
By now, Rajj liked us. We were chatting easily, and he knew I was absolutely smitten with his embroidered goods. He pulled out half a dozen more shawls with beautiful embroidery, but none compared to the first. Even Joshua was salivating. Rajj lifted the shawl and showed me how it would be worn. Knowing that I had already lost any chance to haggle, I told him that there was no way on Earth I would ever wear anything so beautiful. This would be going up on the wall.
Almost scared to know the answer, I asked Rajj how much. With a look of total honesty and earnestness, he told me, 'during the high season, I sell these shawls for 3600 rupees. But with the flood, there has been not so much business, and anyway, tomorrow I leave for my family's shop in Goa. We don't sell shawls there - it's too hot. I give you this shawl for 1800 rupees.'
Rajj saw me doing math in my head, and even though we all knew it was pointless - I was going to buy that shawl - he handed me a calculator. 40 dollars. While Rajj and Joshua talked, I divided 2000 by 45 (there's 45 rupees to the dollar) and figured that I would offer him 2000 rupees for both a bag and this shawl. Before I could even offer, he looked over and said, 'I give you a bag and the shawl for 2000 rupees.' Sold. I didn't even haggle.
When we said goodbye to Rajj, he told us very seriously that we had gotten a very good deal. In truth, everyone says this, but with Rajj I beleive him: for one, 44 dollars for craftsman work like that really does seem like a good price (especially when you compare the 26 dollars I spent on 6 pieces of jewelry), and for two, I would have paid much more for it (and this, to those of you who know me, will mean a lot; I do not part with dollars easily, and that's an understatement.).
As we walked to pick up our laundry, we sputtered over our find. Joshua was as in love with the shawl as I was, and he agreed: this shawl is not for wearing. It's for framing, and our children will probably fight over it when we die. It's so beautiful, it could probably start a family feud.
Once we had picked up our laundry, we went back to Tenzing Dickey's Tibetan Retaurant for a repeat experience. Again, the food was delicious, and when we finished, we went in search of Juma. We found him at his restaurant, Chopsticks, and he told us that he had just missed us. Apparently, he had taken the bus driver down to our guest house and carefully instructed him to pick us up there and put our packs INSIDE the bus (not on the roof). We thanked him for being so helpful and then went back to the guest house to pack up.
Once we had finished putting everything away, we napped for a couple of hours under the scuzzy blankets (it's customary for travellers in India to bring their sleeping bags; the extra blankets are for additional warmth, and they are definitely not clean).
September 18, 2010
We woke up just after 7 and packed our bags. Back in the kitchen/dining room, Tsering was making pancakes for breakfast. We sat down at the low tables, and when the pancakes were ready, she served them to us piping hot. Thin and slightly crispy on the edges, they were absolutely delicious. Tsering apologized for serving breakfast a little late; she told us that she had had to milk the yak first before she could mix the pancake batter. We laughed and told her it was fine. It's not every day that you eat pancakes made with fresh yak milk.
Before we left, Tsering knocked on our door and told me that she had something to give me. Taking my hand, she pressed a little hand-knit bird that she had made. I thanked her, and when we said goodbye, she smiled and waved, telling us to come back again soon.
For the first couple hours of our hike, we slowly made our way uphill. Rambok is in a narrow valley lying between enormous mountains on every side. To get to Stok, we would have to climb Stok Le, a pass at about 16,000 feet. Following the dirt footpath, we passed the grazing fields of Rambok and walked along the rocky stream. From where we were, it was impossible to tell where the path led. We eyed the pointy mountains ahead of us, speculating where we might make our way up. At about an hour and a half, we stopped to take a quick break, and the German couple and their guide, Douwah, passed us.
It took us four and a half hours to reach the top. Those of you who know me know that I like physically challenging tasks; if given the option, I will generally choose the longer route, the more strenuous climb. I like to sweat and grit my teeth, and when it's over, I feel a vast sense of accomplishment. The one time I can remember giving up on a workout was at the end of January. Joshua and I were training for a marathon, and we went on a 17 mile run. By mile 7, my knee was in serious pain, and by mile 13, I had to walk. At mile 15, I had to stop, and Joshua had to continue on to get the car, come back, and get me. I was devastated. I LOVE running. I LOVE running a long way. Teaching in New Orleans, running was just about the only thing that kept me sane. Although I continued to workout about 7 to 9 hours a week at the gym on the elliptical, bike, and in the pool, I slowly went crazy from the withdrawal.
You might understand, then, exactly what it means when I say that I wanted to give up, throw in the towel, and simply be transported home about 45 minutes from the top of Stok Le. We took rest breaks every 30 minutes, and each time, I thought my lungs might collapse. With 40 to 50 pound packs and just three days of acclimatization under our belts, we were in no shape to take on the incredibly steep path that led up and out of Rambok valley. My legs were trembling, and the higher we got, the more precarious the path became. When I finally convinced myself that I couldn't, in fact, give up, we continued on to the steepest part of the path yet; it was so steep, there was barely a sign of any path at all, and we basically scrambled our way to the top.
Clearly, I do not have a future in mountain climbing. I may love the mountains, and I do enjoy a good hike through them, but I do not enjoy slippery, scree-filled cliff sides, precipitous drops, and just generally feeling like I'm about to plunge to my death at any moment. I had to stop a couple times to prevent myself from hyperventilating. Joshua, on the other hand, is like a mountain goat. He told me that the path made him nervous too, but really, I think he was having a grand old time.
Finally, finally, we reached the top. For most trekkers, the hike from Rambok to the top of Stok Le is about 3 hours. It took us nearly 5. Granted, most trekkers are just carrying their sleeping bags and maybe a jacket in a tiny pack, but still. It was nothing to write home about (and yet...).
The view from the top was spectacular, but both of us were suffering from massive headaches. We took a couple photos underneath the banner of prayer flags, snapped a few shots of Stok Kangre and the valleys below us, and then continued on our way. Luckily, the path down was not nearly as steep or precarious as the path up; however, it was still rocky and steep enough that we had to walk slowly and we slipped many times. Above us, herds of some kind of animal with enormous horns grazed and occasionally sent down little boulders.
After about another hour of carefully picking our way down the mountain side, my legs were trembling so badly that I wasn't sure if I would be able to stay upright. We took a break on a large rock, and Joshua force-fed me millet crackers with apricot jam. I had no appetite, but I choked them down anyway. After some water and a dose of ibuprofen, I felt a little better and we continued onwards.
After a while, I started worrying that we weren't on the right path. Joshua tossed out some geological nonsense about rivers always moving downhill, and therefore, we would inevitably reach Stok near the Indus River irregardless, but I fretted. In the sand, I looked for the footprints of the Germans (who were wearing Converse All-Stars, the crazy nutters). Every once in a while, Joshua said he thought he saw a footprint, but I was dubious. After 2 hours of descending, we walked along the muddy, boulder-strewn river. The path had been washed out in a number of places, but it was a narrow gorge, and our path down was fairly obvious.
It's a shame we were so freaking miserable, because it really was spectacularly beautiful. The mountains had created these strange rock formations that looked like plates stacked upright on a drying rack. The sky was clear and fantastically blue, and the mountain sides changed from shades of red to brown and yellow. We did notice, and so that we could appreciate it later, we snapped a few photos.
After a while, we took out the map and the written directions. Yup. We had gone the wrong way. Before you ask, yes. I did ask Joshua if he was ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN THAT WE TURN LEFT. He was. No. We did not take out the map or the written directions when we came to the only fork in the road we had come across all day. That would be just silly.
I'm proud of myself. I contained my intense fear and anger at my husband quite well. I simply said, "I'm profoundly frustrated with you at the moment," and continued on the path. Joshua mumbled something about the laws of geology, and I started wondering just what it might be like to huddle in our sleeping bags inside a cave in the Himalayas. I decided it was doable. The jar of apricot preserves was still about half full, and we had a bag of Himalayan muesli that tasted, as Joshua put it so eloquently, like vomit. We would be ok for another 48 hours. The water situation, however, looked doubtful. Yes, there was a stream, but just a mile ago, I saw a dead, rotting yak carcas lying in the middle. No, thanks.
Joshua is very, very lucky that he knows the laws of geology. After another hour of hiking, we met up with another gorge, and - hallelujah! - another path with distinct Converse All Star footprints. Joshua preened, and I told him just how lucky he was.
Not too long after we met up with the correct path, we passed another parachute cafe. It was empty, and judging from the directions listed in LP, we still had another three hours to go. Luckily, the path led down a gentle gradient, and we were able to pick up the pace.
Joshua and I finally had enough breath to talk, and we spent the last couple of hours chatting, crossing the river, and getting really wet. We lost the trail a couple more times, but we always managed to find it again, and eventually, we saw the buildings of Stok. When we finally made it into Stok, a beautiful woman sitting inside a little shop told us that the bus to Leh would be arriving in about 15 minutes. We sat down on the curb and waited. We both starred at the beautiful woman in the shop. She looked like an angel.
When the bus arrived, we boarded, and for 20 rupees, we were able to ride to Leh. On the way there, the ancient bus with incredible suspension bounced over the narrow, pitted roads. In front, three teenagers had transformed the cab of the bus into a clubhouse. An image of the Dalai Lama had twinkling Christmas lights strung around it with glittering streamers and money taped below. They were blaring high-pitched pop music in an unknown language, and every once in a while, they would stop the bus to hop out and have a little chat with someone they saw on the road. I thought it was great.
Just before we got to Leh, we crossed the Indus River. The steel bridge was absolutely covered in prayer flags, and doing their duty, the flapped magnificently in the river-breeze, sending their prayers... Somewhere. I'm not sure. When we crossed over to the other side, our bus driver dropped us off in the Tibetan refugee camp. There was a big tent with flood relief food and medical aid, and all around, there were impromptu stands selling anything and everything. For 200 rupees, we got a taxi to bring us the last few kilometers into Leh. The sun set.
We had our taxi driver, drop us off on Old Fort Road, just a couple minutes from the center of Leh. Because we would be leaving in the middle of the night the next day, we figured something closer to the center would be better. Jamspal Guest House is just off a little footpath, and like Lakrook, it has a beautiful garden. For 300 rupees, the wonderful, smiley keeper led us up to the second floor and gave us a huge room with lots of windows overlooking the garden. The bed was hard as a rock, but we didn't care. We dumped our packs.
After 11 hours of hiking and barely any food, we were starving. Just up the road, we found Tenzing Dickey's Tibetan Restaurant. For less than 200 rupees, we each had a cup of tea, spicy vegetable soup with noodles (Thukpa), and steamed and fried momos. It was delicious, and the inside of the little restaurant was cozy and small. For lights, glowing boxes hung from the ceiling, and on the walls, there were hanging scrolls with sayings by the Dalai Lama.
In paraphrase: The True Meaning of Life. We are on this Earth for perhaps 90 or 100 years. During that time, we must make sure not to waste it. We must wake up each day thankful and develop ourselves so that we may contribute to the happiness of the others. Resolve each day to believe the best about others and to treat them well. Strive to keep negative thoughts about others from your mind. Be kind.
I'm not sure if it's the altitude, but gazing up at the kind, be-spectacled face of the Dalai Lama (again wreathed in Christmas lights) and reading his words, I felt just a little bit emotional. His words weren't particularly eloquent or even articulate, and yet, I couldn't have agreed more. I think he's absolutely right, and when the Tibetans of Leh pass me on the street and smile at me with all the warmth they can muster, I give it my best shot and smile back. Joo-lay. I wish you good will.
Once we were full, we could barely hold our bodies upright. We headed back to the guest house, and when we got there, the keeper asked us if we might like some hot water. Grimy from our trek, we accepted, and in ten minutes, he knocked on our door and delivered a big bucket of steaming hot water.
Joshua looked at the water and then looked at me. Err... What am I supposed to do with this? I laughed and asked him if he had never taken a sponge bath before. He shook his head. Sometimes, I said, I forget that you weren't raised by a hippie (yes, Mom. I'm referring to you.). I told him to use the cup provided to dump water over his head and handed him a rag. Have fun :)
Although it was cold, the bucket of hot water was too hot. I diluted it with some freezing tap water and quickly cleaned myself. It's not so bad, and you can get just as clean as you would with a shower head.
Once we were clean, we fell asleep right away. Not even the altitude could keep us from falling asleep tonight.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Himalayan Cowboys
September 18 & 19
Pending. Check back soon.
September 20 and 21, 2010
We set the alarm for 12:45 AM. Outside, we waited in the dark for our bus to arrive. The stray dogs that nap and nuzzle sweetly in the day time had found their prowly night time egos and were walking the streets, howling for trouble. They traveled in packs of six to ten, and if one of them stepped wrong or if they crossed another, they'd snarl and lunge to attack. Joshua swung his pack in his hand, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary, but they trotted by uninterested.
A few minutes after 1 AM, our mini-bus arrived. From the driver's seat, a short, rangy Ladakhi man hopped out and ordered us to hand over our packs, now. Ok, yes. Go to your seats, now.
In the bus, there were 11 passenger seats. In front, three men were already seated, swaddled in large fleece blankets. As soon as we sat down, it became clear that my seat's reclining mechanism was AWOL. The only things that kept me sitting upright or laying at an obtuse angle were my abdominal muscles. Still fiddling with the lever, I looked behind me to discover another man stretched out along the back seats. I gasped a startled, 'joo-lay.'
Our driver swung back in his seat and began driving through the empty streets of Leh, and after a couple of minutes, the man who had been sleeping in the back seat came up to sit next to me. With an enormous smile, he asked us where we were from, and then he told us his name is Aksai and he is from Kathmandu. Then, growing concerned over our thin leggings and simple fleece sweaters, he asked us if we might have hats or jackets. He rubbed his shoulders for emphasis.
Everyone else was clearly bundled for sub-zero weather, so when our driver stopped at the next Guest House, we climbed into the back to dig out our rain jackets. As I was fiddling with my rain jacket, angel-faced Aksai took the coat from my hands, pulled out the sleeves, and directed me to step in. A little flustered, I did so, and just as I began to zip up, he straightened out my hood, pulled it over my head, and pat my ears. 'Good,' he said, beaming at Joshua and me. We were ready.
At the first guesthouse, we picked up a young man who immediately settled in to sleep. Before he did, we exchanged a perfunctory, 'where are you from?' and established that he was Israeli. Driving on a bit further, we stopped for a couple with bicycles. While they dickered with our bus driver over where they would put their cycles and panniers, Aksai beamed at us, and we nodded back, having exhausted all our common vocabulary.
With the cycling couple inside and their bikes strapped on top of another mini-bus, we continued on. Driving out of Leh, we stopped at the bus station where we picked up a man and two women, and then a little further on, we picked up two more men. In all, there were fourteen of us. When the two last men boarded the bus, the two Indian men in blankets crouched in the aisle, wrapped their arms around their legs, and poked their heads out of their fleece shells like turtles. The bus was packed.
Finished lashing the last of the luggage to the roof rack, our bus driver swung back into his seat and started up the engine. The bus coughed and smoked, and over the hum of the engine, he blared Indian, Asian, and American pop music. For the first fifteen minutes, I watched as sleeping Leh slid by the windows, and when we crossed the Indus, I closed my eyes.
Over the next few hours, I was vaguely aware of my body popping and jolting as our driver wound us over dirt roads with deep potholes and enormous boulders. Half sleeping, I watched as our driver man-handled the steering wheel. For him, the drive from Leh to Manali is as much about athleticism as it is about focus and agility. In order not to snap an axle or fly off the road, he had to be completely attuned to the road and his maneuverings the entire time. At some point, I realized that he was not only a maniac, but also truly gifted. I slept a little more deeply.
At about 6 AM, the bus stopped. The sun was just beginning to come up over the horizon, and in the hazy glow of morning, we could just make out the sweep of snowy mountains. In front of us, there were three or four vehicles that had come to a stand still. Ladakhis, tourists, and Buddhist monks in their red robes were milling about, sliding their feet over the icy tracks and looking out over the edge of the road where it dropped into a great abyss.
Our driver jumped out of the bus and walked up to the first vehicle. The woman cyclist wandered outside to pee and came back in to report that the roads were slick with ice and that there was a carrier truck crashed deep in the gorge below. The men gathered in front were getting ready to push the first vehicle up around a particularly narrow, steep, and icy bend. There are no guard rails; there is no shoulder; the road drops off at a vertical pitch.
Sitting in my seat, I watched as the car reversed to the bottom of the slope and then gunned the engine. At the top, the car began to sputter, and the men rushed up behind to push it the last few meters. I let out my breath when the car made it through the curve.
Two more vehicles took the same path, and although one of them came to a standstill, a clever monk scooped up icy dirt to throw in front of the tires. With grit for purchase, they both made it.
Our bus was the largest vehicle to attempt the curve, and muttering something about 'very dangerous,' our driver came back from the pushing crew to drive us up and over. We barely made it to the curve before the wheels began to spin and the bus came to a stop. Turning around, our driver commanded, 'we get out now.'
One by one, the thirteen of us climbed out. I immediately regretted wearing my sandals. Everyone else had sensibly worn hiking boots or sneakers; I was trapsing about in the snow and ice practically barefoot. One monk looked first at my feet and then at me, shaking his head, 'no good,' he said.
Our driver gunned the engine again, and we all struggled to push it up and over. Apparently, the monk had spread the word that some crazy white lady was trying to push a mini-bus up over a snowy Himalayan pass in her sandals, and they all demanded that I get back in the bus with our driver.
I really didn't want to go back in the mini-bus; with the conditions as they were, I was pretty sure that the most dangerous place on Earth was inside that mini-bus, not in my bare feet. Nevertheless, I was not about to make a fuss: if a monk tells you to get inside the mini-bus, you go.
Settled in the passenger seat, our bus driver turned to me and asked me where I was from (that I would be so stupid to wear sandals in the Himalaya). I asked him his name (after all, if I'm about to skip off the side of this cliff with him, I should know his name). 'Adjay,' he said. He turned the key in the ignition and paused one last time to look in my direction, 'ok,' he said, 'we might die now.'
I almost died from the terror. For a second, I thought about jumping out of the bus anyway, but I figured that leaving Adjay to die alone in the mini-bus was really bad karma (or whatever), so I stayed. As Adjay revved the engine and everyone else pushed, the bus skidded and slid. At one point, our rear tire came perilously close to the edge, and I heard screams. My heart did a somersault in my mouth.
Finally, we made it over the curve. Adjay stopped the bus, turned to me, and said, 'that pass is very dangerous. Every year, people die there.' Not knowing what else to do, I laughed. Adjay looked at me as if I was crazy, 'I'm not making joke. The buses, they go phttt - whoop!' He demonstrated with his hands. I nodded. I understand.
We hopped out the bus to help the bus with the bikes up and over. While we waited, I dug out my hiking boots and rain pants for warmth. Next time, I'm not getting back in the bus, monk or no monk.
With the other bus over the curve, we all bundled back into the bus. Adjay guided us slowly over the last few snowy kilometers to the pass. Over the next couple of hours, we watched as the sun warmed the snowy peaks. I dozed for bit, warmer in my rain suit and boots.
By 10 AM, we had stopped a few more times to help the bus with the bikes. There was a serious language barrier, so while the tourists speculated - brakes? Alternator? Engine-thingy? - the Indians and Ladakhis bickered over the open hood. People grumbled about being hungry, and digging out the apricots we had brought with us, I told Joshua to pass them around. He started with the Indian man sitting in the aisle. Misunderstanding, he took them and burried them under his blanket for later (for the rest of the time, he nodded his head gravely whenever he saw me and even smiled at me once.)
Finally, we arrived at parachute village. Inside tents made of parachutes, women were cooking bhaat dal over an open fire. We gathered round a low table, and as soon as we sat, the women poured us each cups of hot, milky chai from their thermos. When they served us the dal, I looked dubiously at the offering: it's not that it didn't smell good, but I had seen one of the women retrieve the rice from a pan covered in skanky blankets out back. When everyone else dug in, I said a prayer to the god of Delhi-Belly and did too.
When we had all finished, we gathered outside to watch a team of Indians repair the other bus. With a precariously place jack, four bodies under the hood, and a very large rock (?) propping up one side, they fiddled. Their tools included (I shit you not) a hammer and a hand saw. As we watched, we exchanged names. Matan, the Israeli, teased us about our 'suburban' names, and he was absolutely tickled when he discovered that we had met on a big yellow school bus in the suburbs. The cycling couple were from Switzerland, but while the woman was from Western Switzerland and spoke German, the man was from Eastern Switzerland and spoke French (this explained their conversations in heavily accented English). Curious about their cycling, I asked them where and how long they had been touring.
Nadeen, the woman, told me that both she and Gaetan, her partner, had begun in Switzerland. While she had started a year and a half ago, Gaetan had started a year ago. Just to double check, I confirmed that they had, indeed, cycled from Switzerland to India. They had. Nadeen had started with her boyfriend at the time, and Gaetan had started with his girlfriend at the time. Six months ago, they met and decided, hey! Let's switch! And so they had. They'd cycled through the Iran, Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, Pakistan, Staney-stan, and now they were in India. They were cycling the Silk Road.
I asked them where they planned on cycling next. They had taken a detour to Ladakh, and not wanting to cycle back on the same road, they were taking the bus to Spiti, 8 hours outside of Manali. Nadeen told me that she planned to 'go to Asia. But I think that maybe we are together now,' she looked at Gaetan surreptitiously to make sure he wasn't listening. He wasn't. 'I will go as far as we are together, and then when we aren't I think I will stop. Maybe one more year?' (This conversation is also known as Lifestyles of the Swiss and Crazy.)
I was in awe. It's not that I want to do the same thing; I don't. I can't imagine constantly living with the risk of storms, warfare, and sandy roads. They carry enough food for a week, and each night, they either camp or they stay in hostels or guest homes. They've biked through wind, rain, desert, and the Himalaya. They've crossed borders that I would never dream of crossing. They don't wear helmets. Nadeen's face is weathered from the sun, and she has deep lines around her mouth. I couldn't begin to guess how old she is: 20s? 30s? Gaetan's jacket has rips in it from where he has fallen. He's handsome and just a little bit mean. When I ask him questions, he coolly pretends he doesn't understand me, and then when I repeat myself, he purposely gives the wrong answer before he gives the right answer (ex: Did you start from Manali? How long did it take you (in reference to their bike ride from Manali to Leh)? He pauses, looking at me as if I were impossibly slow. 'No,' he says, 'I started in Switzerland. It has taken me a year,' and then, without any further prompting from me, 'yes. Manali. Two weeks.' He goes off to smoke a cigarette. Nadeen looks worriedly after him but does not follow.).
After Gaetan had gone off to smoke a cigarette, we watched as the team of Indians finished up their handiwork. Somehow, they had found a log, sawed it to size, and tied it to the axle with twine. In addition, they had taken a coat hanger, hammered it into some sort of origami shape and then lodge it into the engine somewhere. I'm serious. I'm not kidding you even a little bit. I wish I had a photo. When they had finished, Adjay, our Himalayan Cowboy, gave the driver a thumbs up and said, 'brakes good.' For a test drive, the man whipped a few wheelies. The brakes were, in fact, good.
With the bus repaired, we all jumped back into the bus and went back on the road. There were more mountain passes, and the scenery was spectacular. Over the naked hills and in the middle of nowhere, nomads with their heards of goats walked on and on. Matan gave Joshua and I brain teasers: you're on a 100 meter cliff. You have a 75 foot rope. You may only anchor at the top and at 50 meters. You also have a pocket knife. How do you get down? Or, your grandfather takes two pills each day. They are two different pills, and both are 'life-saving cocktails.' At the beginning of each week, your grandfather puts the pills in a row of pill boxes. It's the end of the week, and he has two days left. All the pills get mixed up. He can't buy more (jesus, you Americans think you can fix everything by, 'oh yeah, we'll just buy another'), and he must have both pills. How does he survive? Or, you have 27 black balls, all equal in size and color. They are the same in every way, except one of them is heavier. You have a double-pan balance. You may use it three times. How do you find the heaviest ball? (I'll give you guys the answers if you guess :))
It began to get dark again. The road stopped being quite as bumpy, and the switchbacks grew hair-pin narrow. On one side of the road, there was always a precipitous, breath-taking drop, and although I had managed to stave off the motion sickness through mind-games and sheer will power, the switchbacks and sheer terror and a growing pain in my intestines did me in. At 8 PM, we stopped again for food, and the god of Delhi-Belly stopped listening. It's official: I gots the squirts.
After more bhaat dal and milky chai (which grows a skin on top - yuck), I went down to the squatter one more time and all of us loaded back into the bus. Clutching a growling Delhi-Belly, bouncing up and down, and freezing, I barely slept for the next 8 hours. In Manali, we all unloaded and parted ways. The bus-ride had taken 27 hours; it was 4 AM, and Joshua and I still had a 10 hour bus ride to Dharamsala. As far as we knew, the next bus left at 8 AM, and after that, the only other buses were at 5 and 6 PM. So, the option was: find a guest house, wake up early, and ride through the day, or sleep longer and take a bus through the night. Um. Not appealing.
Matan walked with us, and as we exited the bus station, a man came up to us and tried to get us to come to his hotel. For the next 30 minutes, we dickered with the man for a room that was as he said as it would be. Eventually, we found out that the bus for Dharamsala left at 5 AM, and we told the man that we wouldn't be needing a room after all. He got very angry, and it was a nasty scenario all around. Finally, we managed to leave, and when we got to the bus station, a nice man led us to the correct public bus.
At first, the bus was pretty empty, and for a couple of hours, Joshua and I tried to catch a little sleep. After a bit, the bus began to fill up, and we switched to sitting. For the next 8 hours, I dozed on and off. The seats were too close together and my knees knocked against the seat in front of me. Two other women sat in the same seat with me. People stood in the aisles. The bus was packed, and it wound through the softer, greener foothills of the Himalaya. If the mountains of Ladakh are awe-inspiring in their nakedness, these are lush. All around us were waterfalls, gushing rivers, and thick, green forests. I saw my first monkey. In the villages, kiosks sold rich fabrics for women's clothing, cell phones, freshly harvested fruits and vegetables. The women sitting next to me were wearing oodles of gold jewelry, and everywhere I looked, another woman was wearing a shalwar kameez with the most lovely fabric. Jeans and t-shirts really pall in comparison (or, in my case, a muddy rain suit and greasy hair).
At 1 PM, we arrived at the Palampur Bus Station. Our connecting bus pulled up as we pulled in, and we were on our way in no time. For two more hours, we climbed higher and higher, and then finally, at 3 PM, we arrived in Dharamsala. From the bus station, we climbed a series of steps to the taxi court where we paid a man 170 rupees to drive us the last 8 kilometers into McLeod Ganj.
The streets of McLeod Ganj are narrow and steep. The village is built right into the mountain side, and the hills are covered in pine forest. Monks, hippies, and Indians walk along the side of the roads, and autorickshaws fly by, their drivers leaning on their horns. Our driver dropped us off in front of our guest house, and we went inside. Although it's a bit expensive (450 rupees a night), we have our own toilet (necessary now that we both have the squirts), shower, and a TV!
Not wasting any time, we immediately dumped our packs, used the toilet, and went back outside. Climbing the hill out of McLeod Ganj, we went in search of the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center in Dharamkot, about a mile out of town. Although we had played e-mail tag with their secretary for a couple of weeks now, we had yet to make sure that we were on the roster for yoga classes. Up and over the hill, we passed through busy McLeod Ganj and found ourselves in the woods. Monkeys bounced through the trees and walked alongside us.
In Dharamkot, we found the Center, but a man was walking out of the gate and told us that the office was all locked up and no one was there. We went to investigate, and on the door, there was a handwritten sign that said, 'call Leon or go to the Yellow House.'
Armed with our cryptic message, we climbed the hill to a cafe and tried to call the phone number we had. Unfortunately, the phone number was a dud. Thinking we had seen the Yellow Guest House next to our Guest House, we walked back to McLeod Ganj. No luck there either. We sent a quick e-mail to the Center explaining our efforts; hopefully, it will all work out.
Back at the Guest House, I took a shower and Joshua went to the book exchange to get a new book. Although we're blessed to have hot water from a solar heater, there is no cold water. I'm not sure what's worse: a shower so hot it hurts, or a shower so cold it hurts.
Once we were clean, we walked to a restaurant recommended by LP and ate a dinner overlooking the heart of McLeod Ganj. I ate a vegetable curry and Joshua had a delicious coconut korma. We shared a plate of naan and a cup of tea while we listened to Bob Marley and Kurt Cobain (it's true; EVERYONE listens to American music).
When we finished our food, we went in search of an adapter for Indian outlets and nail clippers (I was starting to look like a sadhu). Joshua went onto the net to send e-mails to the fam, and I went back to the guest house to catch up on my writing. Before I went up, I said hello to the monk in the office, and in broken English we exchanged greetings. As I turned to go upstairs, he stopped me by asking, 'you teach me English?' Like I said, you don't say no to a monk. Just to clarify, I pointed emphatically and said, 'you want me to teach you English?' He nodded eagerly, and I asked him when.
Pending. Check back soon.
September 20 and 21, 2010
We set the alarm for 12:45 AM. Outside, we waited in the dark for our bus to arrive. The stray dogs that nap and nuzzle sweetly in the day time had found their prowly night time egos and were walking the streets, howling for trouble. They traveled in packs of six to ten, and if one of them stepped wrong or if they crossed another, they'd snarl and lunge to attack. Joshua swung his pack in his hand, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary, but they trotted by uninterested.
A few minutes after 1 AM, our mini-bus arrived. From the driver's seat, a short, rangy Ladakhi man hopped out and ordered us to hand over our packs, now. Ok, yes. Go to your seats, now.
In the bus, there were 11 passenger seats. In front, three men were already seated, swaddled in large fleece blankets. As soon as we sat down, it became clear that my seat's reclining mechanism was AWOL. The only things that kept me sitting upright or laying at an obtuse angle were my abdominal muscles. Still fiddling with the lever, I looked behind me to discover another man stretched out along the back seats. I gasped a startled, 'joo-lay.'
Our driver swung back in his seat and began driving through the empty streets of Leh, and after a couple of minutes, the man who had been sleeping in the back seat came up to sit next to me. With an enormous smile, he asked us where we were from, and then he told us his name is Aksai and he is from Kathmandu. Then, growing concerned over our thin leggings and simple fleece sweaters, he asked us if we might have hats or jackets. He rubbed his shoulders for emphasis.
Everyone else was clearly bundled for sub-zero weather, so when our driver stopped at the next Guest House, we climbed into the back to dig out our rain jackets. As I was fiddling with my rain jacket, angel-faced Aksai took the coat from my hands, pulled out the sleeves, and directed me to step in. A little flustered, I did so, and just as I began to zip up, he straightened out my hood, pulled it over my head, and pat my ears. 'Good,' he said, beaming at Joshua and me. We were ready.
At the first guesthouse, we picked up a young man who immediately settled in to sleep. Before he did, we exchanged a perfunctory, 'where are you from?' and established that he was Israeli. Driving on a bit further, we stopped for a couple with bicycles. While they dickered with our bus driver over where they would put their cycles and panniers, Aksai beamed at us, and we nodded back, having exhausted all our common vocabulary.
With the cycling couple inside and their bikes strapped on top of another mini-bus, we continued on. Driving out of Leh, we stopped at the bus station where we picked up a man and two women, and then a little further on, we picked up two more men. In all, there were fourteen of us. When the two last men boarded the bus, the two Indian men in blankets crouched in the aisle, wrapped their arms around their legs, and poked their heads out of their fleece shells like turtles. The bus was packed.
Finished lashing the last of the luggage to the roof rack, our bus driver swung back into his seat and started up the engine. The bus coughed and smoked, and over the hum of the engine, he blared Indian, Asian, and American pop music. For the first fifteen minutes, I watched as sleeping Leh slid by the windows, and when we crossed the Indus, I closed my eyes.
Over the next few hours, I was vaguely aware of my body popping and jolting as our driver wound us over dirt roads with deep potholes and enormous boulders. Half sleeping, I watched as our driver man-handled the steering wheel. For him, the drive from Leh to Manali is as much about athleticism as it is about focus and agility. In order not to snap an axle or fly off the road, he had to be completely attuned to the road and his maneuverings the entire time. At some point, I realized that he was not only a maniac, but also truly gifted. I slept a little more deeply.
At about 6 AM, the bus stopped. The sun was just beginning to come up over the horizon, and in the hazy glow of morning, we could just make out the sweep of snowy mountains. In front of us, there were three or four vehicles that had come to a stand still. Ladakhis, tourists, and Buddhist monks in their red robes were milling about, sliding their feet over the icy tracks and looking out over the edge of the road where it dropped into a great abyss.
Our driver jumped out of the bus and walked up to the first vehicle. The woman cyclist wandered outside to pee and came back in to report that the roads were slick with ice and that there was a carrier truck crashed deep in the gorge below. The men gathered in front were getting ready to push the first vehicle up around a particularly narrow, steep, and icy bend. There are no guard rails; there is no shoulder; the road drops off at a vertical pitch.
Sitting in my seat, I watched as the car reversed to the bottom of the slope and then gunned the engine. At the top, the car began to sputter, and the men rushed up behind to push it the last few meters. I let out my breath when the car made it through the curve.
Two more vehicles took the same path, and although one of them came to a standstill, a clever monk scooped up icy dirt to throw in front of the tires. With grit for purchase, they both made it.
Our bus was the largest vehicle to attempt the curve, and muttering something about 'very dangerous,' our driver came back from the pushing crew to drive us up and over. We barely made it to the curve before the wheels began to spin and the bus came to a stop. Turning around, our driver commanded, 'we get out now.'
One by one, the thirteen of us climbed out. I immediately regretted wearing my sandals. Everyone else had sensibly worn hiking boots or sneakers; I was trapsing about in the snow and ice practically barefoot. One monk looked first at my feet and then at me, shaking his head, 'no good,' he said.
Our driver gunned the engine again, and we all struggled to push it up and over. Apparently, the monk had spread the word that some crazy white lady was trying to push a mini-bus up over a snowy Himalayan pass in her sandals, and they all demanded that I get back in the bus with our driver.
I really didn't want to go back in the mini-bus; with the conditions as they were, I was pretty sure that the most dangerous place on Earth was inside that mini-bus, not in my bare feet. Nevertheless, I was not about to make a fuss: if a monk tells you to get inside the mini-bus, you go.
Settled in the passenger seat, our bus driver turned to me and asked me where I was from (that I would be so stupid to wear sandals in the Himalaya). I asked him his name (after all, if I'm about to skip off the side of this cliff with him, I should know his name). 'Adjay,' he said. He turned the key in the ignition and paused one last time to look in my direction, 'ok,' he said, 'we might die now.'
I almost died from the terror. For a second, I thought about jumping out of the bus anyway, but I figured that leaving Adjay to die alone in the mini-bus was really bad karma (or whatever), so I stayed. As Adjay revved the engine and everyone else pushed, the bus skidded and slid. At one point, our rear tire came perilously close to the edge, and I heard screams. My heart did a somersault in my mouth.
Finally, we made it over the curve. Adjay stopped the bus, turned to me, and said, 'that pass is very dangerous. Every year, people die there.' Not knowing what else to do, I laughed. Adjay looked at me as if I was crazy, 'I'm not making joke. The buses, they go phttt - whoop!' He demonstrated with his hands. I nodded. I understand.
We hopped out the bus to help the bus with the bikes up and over. While we waited, I dug out my hiking boots and rain pants for warmth. Next time, I'm not getting back in the bus, monk or no monk.
With the other bus over the curve, we all bundled back into the bus. Adjay guided us slowly over the last few snowy kilometers to the pass. Over the next couple of hours, we watched as the sun warmed the snowy peaks. I dozed for bit, warmer in my rain suit and boots.
By 10 AM, we had stopped a few more times to help the bus with the bikes. There was a serious language barrier, so while the tourists speculated - brakes? Alternator? Engine-thingy? - the Indians and Ladakhis bickered over the open hood. People grumbled about being hungry, and digging out the apricots we had brought with us, I told Joshua to pass them around. He started with the Indian man sitting in the aisle. Misunderstanding, he took them and burried them under his blanket for later (for the rest of the time, he nodded his head gravely whenever he saw me and even smiled at me once.)
Finally, we arrived at parachute village. Inside tents made of parachutes, women were cooking bhaat dal over an open fire. We gathered round a low table, and as soon as we sat, the women poured us each cups of hot, milky chai from their thermos. When they served us the dal, I looked dubiously at the offering: it's not that it didn't smell good, but I had seen one of the women retrieve the rice from a pan covered in skanky blankets out back. When everyone else dug in, I said a prayer to the god of Delhi-Belly and did too.
When we had all finished, we gathered outside to watch a team of Indians repair the other bus. With a precariously place jack, four bodies under the hood, and a very large rock (?) propping up one side, they fiddled. Their tools included (I shit you not) a hammer and a hand saw. As we watched, we exchanged names. Matan, the Israeli, teased us about our 'suburban' names, and he was absolutely tickled when he discovered that we had met on a big yellow school bus in the suburbs. The cycling couple were from Switzerland, but while the woman was from Western Switzerland and spoke German, the man was from Eastern Switzerland and spoke French (this explained their conversations in heavily accented English). Curious about their cycling, I asked them where and how long they had been touring.
Nadeen, the woman, told me that both she and Gaetan, her partner, had begun in Switzerland. While she had started a year and a half ago, Gaetan had started a year ago. Just to double check, I confirmed that they had, indeed, cycled from Switzerland to India. They had. Nadeen had started with her boyfriend at the time, and Gaetan had started with his girlfriend at the time. Six months ago, they met and decided, hey! Let's switch! And so they had. They'd cycled through the Iran, Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, Pakistan, Staney-stan, and now they were in India. They were cycling the Silk Road.
I asked them where they planned on cycling next. They had taken a detour to Ladakh, and not wanting to cycle back on the same road, they were taking the bus to Spiti, 8 hours outside of Manali. Nadeen told me that she planned to 'go to Asia. But I think that maybe we are together now,' she looked at Gaetan surreptitiously to make sure he wasn't listening. He wasn't. 'I will go as far as we are together, and then when we aren't I think I will stop. Maybe one more year?' (This conversation is also known as Lifestyles of the Swiss and Crazy.)
I was in awe. It's not that I want to do the same thing; I don't. I can't imagine constantly living with the risk of storms, warfare, and sandy roads. They carry enough food for a week, and each night, they either camp or they stay in hostels or guest homes. They've biked through wind, rain, desert, and the Himalaya. They've crossed borders that I would never dream of crossing. They don't wear helmets. Nadeen's face is weathered from the sun, and she has deep lines around her mouth. I couldn't begin to guess how old she is: 20s? 30s? Gaetan's jacket has rips in it from where he has fallen. He's handsome and just a little bit mean. When I ask him questions, he coolly pretends he doesn't understand me, and then when I repeat myself, he purposely gives the wrong answer before he gives the right answer (ex: Did you start from Manali? How long did it take you (in reference to their bike ride from Manali to Leh)? He pauses, looking at me as if I were impossibly slow. 'No,' he says, 'I started in Switzerland. It has taken me a year,' and then, without any further prompting from me, 'yes. Manali. Two weeks.' He goes off to smoke a cigarette. Nadeen looks worriedly after him but does not follow.).
After Gaetan had gone off to smoke a cigarette, we watched as the team of Indians finished up their handiwork. Somehow, they had found a log, sawed it to size, and tied it to the axle with twine. In addition, they had taken a coat hanger, hammered it into some sort of origami shape and then lodge it into the engine somewhere. I'm serious. I'm not kidding you even a little bit. I wish I had a photo. When they had finished, Adjay, our Himalayan Cowboy, gave the driver a thumbs up and said, 'brakes good.' For a test drive, the man whipped a few wheelies. The brakes were, in fact, good.
With the bus repaired, we all jumped back into the bus and went back on the road. There were more mountain passes, and the scenery was spectacular. Over the naked hills and in the middle of nowhere, nomads with their heards of goats walked on and on. Matan gave Joshua and I brain teasers: you're on a 100 meter cliff. You have a 75 foot rope. You may only anchor at the top and at 50 meters. You also have a pocket knife. How do you get down? Or, your grandfather takes two pills each day. They are two different pills, and both are 'life-saving cocktails.' At the beginning of each week, your grandfather puts the pills in a row of pill boxes. It's the end of the week, and he has two days left. All the pills get mixed up. He can't buy more (jesus, you Americans think you can fix everything by, 'oh yeah, we'll just buy another'), and he must have both pills. How does he survive? Or, you have 27 black balls, all equal in size and color. They are the same in every way, except one of them is heavier. You have a double-pan balance. You may use it three times. How do you find the heaviest ball? (I'll give you guys the answers if you guess :))
It began to get dark again. The road stopped being quite as bumpy, and the switchbacks grew hair-pin narrow. On one side of the road, there was always a precipitous, breath-taking drop, and although I had managed to stave off the motion sickness through mind-games and sheer will power, the switchbacks and sheer terror and a growing pain in my intestines did me in. At 8 PM, we stopped again for food, and the god of Delhi-Belly stopped listening. It's official: I gots the squirts.
After more bhaat dal and milky chai (which grows a skin on top - yuck), I went down to the squatter one more time and all of us loaded back into the bus. Clutching a growling Delhi-Belly, bouncing up and down, and freezing, I barely slept for the next 8 hours. In Manali, we all unloaded and parted ways. The bus-ride had taken 27 hours; it was 4 AM, and Joshua and I still had a 10 hour bus ride to Dharamsala. As far as we knew, the next bus left at 8 AM, and after that, the only other buses were at 5 and 6 PM. So, the option was: find a guest house, wake up early, and ride through the day, or sleep longer and take a bus through the night. Um. Not appealing.
Matan walked with us, and as we exited the bus station, a man came up to us and tried to get us to come to his hotel. For the next 30 minutes, we dickered with the man for a room that was as he said as it would be. Eventually, we found out that the bus for Dharamsala left at 5 AM, and we told the man that we wouldn't be needing a room after all. He got very angry, and it was a nasty scenario all around. Finally, we managed to leave, and when we got to the bus station, a nice man led us to the correct public bus.
At first, the bus was pretty empty, and for a couple of hours, Joshua and I tried to catch a little sleep. After a bit, the bus began to fill up, and we switched to sitting. For the next 8 hours, I dozed on and off. The seats were too close together and my knees knocked against the seat in front of me. Two other women sat in the same seat with me. People stood in the aisles. The bus was packed, and it wound through the softer, greener foothills of the Himalaya. If the mountains of Ladakh are awe-inspiring in their nakedness, these are lush. All around us were waterfalls, gushing rivers, and thick, green forests. I saw my first monkey. In the villages, kiosks sold rich fabrics for women's clothing, cell phones, freshly harvested fruits and vegetables. The women sitting next to me were wearing oodles of gold jewelry, and everywhere I looked, another woman was wearing a shalwar kameez with the most lovely fabric. Jeans and t-shirts really pall in comparison (or, in my case, a muddy rain suit and greasy hair).
At 1 PM, we arrived at the Palampur Bus Station. Our connecting bus pulled up as we pulled in, and we were on our way in no time. For two more hours, we climbed higher and higher, and then finally, at 3 PM, we arrived in Dharamsala. From the bus station, we climbed a series of steps to the taxi court where we paid a man 170 rupees to drive us the last 8 kilometers into McLeod Ganj.
The streets of McLeod Ganj are narrow and steep. The village is built right into the mountain side, and the hills are covered in pine forest. Monks, hippies, and Indians walk along the side of the roads, and autorickshaws fly by, their drivers leaning on their horns. Our driver dropped us off in front of our guest house, and we went inside. Although it's a bit expensive (450 rupees a night), we have our own toilet (necessary now that we both have the squirts), shower, and a TV!
Not wasting any time, we immediately dumped our packs, used the toilet, and went back outside. Climbing the hill out of McLeod Ganj, we went in search of the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center in Dharamkot, about a mile out of town. Although we had played e-mail tag with their secretary for a couple of weeks now, we had yet to make sure that we were on the roster for yoga classes. Up and over the hill, we passed through busy McLeod Ganj and found ourselves in the woods. Monkeys bounced through the trees and walked alongside us.
In Dharamkot, we found the Center, but a man was walking out of the gate and told us that the office was all locked up and no one was there. We went to investigate, and on the door, there was a handwritten sign that said, 'call Leon or go to the Yellow House.'
Armed with our cryptic message, we climbed the hill to a cafe and tried to call the phone number we had. Unfortunately, the phone number was a dud. Thinking we had seen the Yellow Guest House next to our Guest House, we walked back to McLeod Ganj. No luck there either. We sent a quick e-mail to the Center explaining our efforts; hopefully, it will all work out.
Back at the Guest House, I took a shower and Joshua went to the book exchange to get a new book. Although we're blessed to have hot water from a solar heater, there is no cold water. I'm not sure what's worse: a shower so hot it hurts, or a shower so cold it hurts.
Once we were clean, we walked to a restaurant recommended by LP and ate a dinner overlooking the heart of McLeod Ganj. I ate a vegetable curry and Joshua had a delicious coconut korma. We shared a plate of naan and a cup of tea while we listened to Bob Marley and Kurt Cobain (it's true; EVERYONE listens to American music).
When we finished our food, we went in search of an adapter for Indian outlets and nail clippers (I was starting to look like a sadhu). Joshua went onto the net to send e-mails to the fam, and I went back to the guest house to catch up on my writing. Before I went up, I said hello to the monk in the office, and in broken English we exchanged greetings. As I turned to go upstairs, he stopped me by asking, 'you teach me English?' Like I said, you don't say no to a monk. Just to clarify, I pointed emphatically and said, 'you want me to teach you English?' He nodded eagerly, and I asked him when.
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