Star Signs, The Missing Sock, and Momos

No spell-check, so you're at my mercy :)

October 1, 2010

This morning, we went for a run before we walked back into McLeod for our soup class with Lhamo. Both of us had dreamt strange dreams the night before, and we woke up feeling a little bit blue: a couple of times, I had woken up in the night confused. Where am I? I looked around the room for a little bit, and then I thought, oh yeah. I'm in India.

In my dreams, I don't really remember what happened, but I do remember seeing the sky. A couple of years ago, Dave and Yvonne had taken Joshua, Sarah, and I out to some property they were considering buying. It was late in the afternoon, and the weak sunlight was just about to fall over the horizon. The sky was this milky-white color tinged with pink. The air felt cold and dry in my lungs, and I was hunching my shoulders against the chill. I remember thinking that this was the most beautiful sky I had ever seen.

We've lived in Tacoma and New Orleans, and although we've had very ambivalent feelings about both places, I'm sentimental about them. I love the Pacific Northwest; I love the candy-colored homes of New Orleans. But really, no place is home quite like Minnesota. When I feel homesick for a place, it's for Minnesota. It's for snow.

Done with our run, we showered and walked into McLeod past dozens of monkeys sleeping one on top of the other and grooming. I tried to remind myself that I'm in India and I love it. By the time we reached Lhamo's kitchen, I had remembered.

There were a couple more students today: Morten from Sweden, Philo from France, and Andrea from the Canary Islands (which apparently is part of Spain. You learn something new every day.). Again, Lhamo delivered his staccato directions, and we made little dumplings for Mhutop Soup and small, square noodles for Thentuk. I'm loving working with dough. Although wheat might not be the greatest for me, I don't think I'll be giving it up again. Making bread, momos, noodles, and dumplings is just way too much fun.

As we ate, I asked Morten if he cross-country skied. When he looked confused, I explained that the town I had grown up in - Mora - prided itself as a Swedish community, and every year we held a Vasaloppet. We were led to believe that all Swedes ski. Morten laughed and said no. The first time he had ever skied was last year, and even then, he'd done it only once. We told him that we had been looking up Swedish geography ever since we had started reading The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, and again, he laughed, saying he'd never read the trilogy.

After we got out of class, we walked down to Nisha's kitchen to see if she was having the second half of her class today. No one was there, so we headed up to the Green Hotel to drink tea, read, and write. In a bit, we'll go and see if she's there. We want to learn how to make more Indian dishes!

September 30, 2010

We woke up early to go to the Amchi clinic. Amchi is a traditional Tibetan medicine, and the particular doctor we were going to see had once been the Dalai Lama's own physician. Tourists and Tibetans alike go to see this doctor for both serious and not-so-serious ailments, as well as check-ups. After a urine analysis and a brief examination, the doctor will provide you with a prescription for traditional Amchi herbal medicines. Apparently, people swear by him.

We rushed to stand in line by 8 AM, taking the shorter, steeper route to McLeod, but when we arrived, a sign said that the doctor was getting older and now he only saw 60 patients a day. No one was there and the sign said regular clinic hours began at 9 AM, so we went to go check our e-mail and relax for a little bit. Back at the clinic, people were milling about, but when we saw mostly Tibetans with serious conditions, we reconsidered. Although it's fun to find things that are more genuine - less touristy and more local - there's fine line between abusive voyeurism and respectful participation. Neither Joshua or I have anything serious plaguing with us, and it felt wrong to take up the doctor's time when there was so many people who obviously needed him. For them, this wasn't a curiosity or an experiment; this is how they take care of their health.

That said, I was experiencing the most incredible stomach cramping, but the thought of sitting (or, more likely, squatting) down on a public toilet just made me more nauseous. Instead, I made Joshua walk all the way back to the guesthouse with me. We staid a little while, resting and waiting for me to feel a little bit better, and then we walked back to McLeod. Joshua brought the telephoto lens, and along the way, he took some great photos of the monkeys swinging from the branches, grooming each other, and foraging around for food. They're cute, but they're also a bit intimidating. We've heard rumors of aggressive monkeys, and if you get to close to one that's eating or protecting its young, they bare their teeth and smack the floor with their hands. Back off!

Our first order of business in McLeod was signing up for the Dalai Lama's seminar. Before we got in line for the passes, we had to get a couple of passport photos. Other tourists were doing the same thing, and as we waited for our the man to print and cut out our photos, we met a man from California and chatted for a little bit. He's staying in India for a couple of months, and although he just arrived in Dharamsala, he thinks he'll stay for a while: the Dalai Lama's teaching, and afterwards, he wants to take a meditation course at the Tushita Mediation Center above Dharamkot. He was very friendly, and Joshua spent most the conversation secretly envying his fingered vibram shoes.

At the Tibetan Branch Security Office, we filled out a couple of forms and then got our passes for the seminar. Although the seminar itself costs nothing at all, we paid 10 rupees apiece for administrative costs. Before we left, the man in charge told us to get an FM radio: the Dalai Lama will be speaking in Tibetan, but English translation will be provided on the airwaves. We're to bring headphones so as not to disturb others, a pillow to mark our seats, and a cup. Young monks walk through the crowds to serve tea.

Next, we walked down to the Men-Tsee-Kong, the Tibetan Medical Clinic and Astrological Center. About a mile and a half South of McLeod, the complex sits much lower on the mountain and has spectacular views of the plains below. When we got there, it was closed for lunch time.

Heading back up the road a short distance, we entered Peace Cafe where we ordered Chowmein and Fried Lamo. To drink, we sipped Slice, a soda drink in a glass bottle that basically tastes like a thick, pureed mango. While we ate, we watched (ironically) Chinese soaps on TV.

Back at Men-Tsee-Kong, we entered the Medical Museum. Inside, we browsed through rows of brightly colored pills, herbs, and minerals with little plaques that identified each and described their uses. Downstairs, we looked at enormous, detailed Tibetan paintings with the human anatomy, the blood system, the nervous system, and the solar system.

Outside, we walked by classrooms with Amchi doctors in training and other rooms with thousands of herbal pills being packaged in big cloth sacks. On the second floor of one building, we found the Astrological Center and asked about their Horoscope services.

I don't think either Joshua or I had expected Men-Tsee-Kong to be so serious. Like everything else in McLeod, I guess we thought the museums, consultants, and astrology to be watered down for tourists. They were not. Instead, we found functioning and active centers where people come regularly to be treated, pills are made for mass export, and students go to learn. The Astrological Center was no different; for nearly 3,000 rupees, they would take the exact date and time of your birth and prepare an entire reading for you, including your personality, proclivities, strengths, and weaknesses. Most importantly, they would provide a medical timeline for you: an analysis of the ailments from your past, and prediction of ailments in the future, with the exact year and month in which you would begin to feel these ailments. The reading takes four to five months to complete, and they would send to you, wherever you are in the world.

Although I think getting an astrological reading would be fun, I wouldn't pay that much money for it. As Joshua and I walked back to McLeod (up a big frickin' hill), we agreed that we wouldn't pay more for a more legitimate astrological reading; we're not really looking for legitimacy, we were just looking for the experience, and yet again, it felt sort of disrespectful to treat something people take so seriously as some sort of tourist novelty.

On our way back, I spied Tibet Charity. We had read their posters all over town, asking for volunteers to help with rabies vaccinations. There are hundreds of stray dogs here, and they all tug on our heartstrings: their lovely and scruffy and sometimes ugly, but none of them are aggressive with humans, and some of them will follow you along, acting as a furry guide and protector. Joshua doesn't let me touch most of them, but sometimes - if they look particularly clean or cute - he relents. I always wash my hands afterwards, but you should see them while I scratch their ears. They look like they've found heaven.

On the doorstep of Tibet Charity, a lovely dog sat, guarding his territory. Joshua called him 'Paul' right away, and Paul rubbed up against our legs, looking for a little bit of affection. We both gave into his sweet smile and rubbed his ears. Afterwards, he led us to the offices inside.

The man behind the desk looked a little perplexed. When we told him that we were wondering how we could help, he asked us if we were vets. Sadly, we shook our heads no. Apparently, the vet he had been promised had never shown up, and although this was supposed to be the week where they would catch and vaccinate all the stray dogs, they couldn't do it without a vet. To top it all off, no one had volunteered. They had put out 500 posters with e-mail, phone, and directions, and not a soul had volunteered until us.

He thanked us for coming. 'There's not really anything for you to do,' he said, 'but just you coming means a lot. This is a pretty thankless job. Not many people care about animals here. If you take care of children or refugees, people pat you on the back. Not with dogs. It's good to know that there are even a couple of people who care.'

When we walked out, Paul whined goodbye. I don't have it on me right now, but I'll post up the Charity's address in a couple of days. It only costs two dollars to vaccinate one dog, and I'm sure they would appreciate any help you could offer, if you're interested.

Feeling a little blue, we finally entered the heart of McLeod. Thankfully, the day had cooled off a little bit, and our climb back hadn't made us too sweaty. Even so, we were feeling a bit off-kilter from our strange day. It seemed like everything we tried sort of fell flat. We felt like strangers more than ever.

At Lhamo's Kitchen, we took off our shoes and entered a small, brightly painted room. Along the edges, beautiful pillows and seats ringed a table, and at the front of the room, there was another table with pre-prepared ingredients and simple range.

Before we began, we washed our hands. We waited a couple of minutes for our teacher and the other students. At 4 PM, Lhamo started classes. It was just the two of us and another Israeli woman named Efat.

At first, we didn't know what to make of Lhamo. He was abrupt and he repeated his instructions over and over again in heavily accented English. Every once in a while, he would look up at us and say, 'understand?' And we would all feel compelled to nod our heads and say, 'yes,' even if we weren't quite sure what he was referring to. After a while, he cracked a smile, and once there was some down-time in the cooking, he shared a little bit about himself. He used to own a restaurant, but it was too much. He likes teaching now, and even though the money isn't great, he just has to work four hours a day. His mother taught him how to cook in Tibet when he was young, and when he was 13, he walked for one month and 17 days to escape to Nepal. He's been living here ever since. He grew even more animated as he talked about the upcoming elections: on Sunday, Tibetans vote for their Minister. He's voting for the most educated man, a Tibetan who was educated at Harvard and has been living in the United States for a long time. He looked at us, considering. 'What is the best college in the US?' We told him that most people would probably agree that Harvard is the best. He nodded his head in satisfaction. He never went to school. In Tibet, there were no schools before he left, and by the time he came here - to Dharamsala - he was old enough to start working. He always wanted to go to school. The man he is going to vote for is very smart. He respects him a lot.

During our two-hour lesson, we learned how to make three different kinds of momos: spinach and cheese, cabbage, and sweet. The fillings are pretty basic, but we spent the most time learning how to manipulate the dough - spread it out, roll it into balls, create little pancakes, stuff them with filling and then fold them into beautiful little top-hat, origami shapes. When we had finished making about 30 momos, we steamed them for 15 minutes, and then we had a momo feast. They were delicious, and we're already planning to have a momo party when we get back: everyone gets to help make every kind of momo under the sun, and then we'll eat ourselves silly :)

When we had finished with class, we signed up for another. Tomorrow, Lhamo is teaching us how to make traditional Tibetan soups. When we left, Lhamo said a warm goodbye. He's kind of goofy, but Joshua and I are learning to with-hold judgement - at least for a little while. At first, a lot of Israelis seem mean, but once you get to know them a little better, you realize that a lot of it is cultural. They're direct, not mean. I think it's the same with Lhamo.

We walked back to Bhagsu and browsed around the shops for a little bit. We've begun to think that we may even allow ourselves some bigger purchase and post them home. It costs 50 dollars for a 5 kg. package, but even with the added cost, rugs and other fabrics would still cost less than they would at home. We're going to look around for the best deals :)

In one shop, a bought a couple of hippy-dippy long sleeve shirts. The nights are getting colder! As it grew dark, we bought some falafel from a street stand. Matan had recommended it, telling us that his recommendation meant a lot: he's an Israeli and he knows falafel.

The falafel was good, and just before we finished eating, we ran into one of the women we had taken yoga class with. Amira is an older Israeli woman, and although I had found her very abrupt in class, she stopped to say hello and chat. Asking her about her life in Israel, she told us that her parents had been born in Tel-Aviv almost a hundred years ago, before Israel had been formed. Before that, they had come from Yemen. In college, she trained to become a teacher, and for the first 7 years of her career as a high school English teacher, she taught in Jaffa. As a Jew and an Israeli, this was very unusual, and her experiences there were both difficult and incredibly formative. There's a lot of crime in poverty in Jaffa, and she's seen many of her students fall through the cracks. We told her that we knew exactly what she meant.

When Amira invited us to join her for dinner the second time, we said yes. Walking up the Tree of Life where we had eaten the night before, Amira stopped to say hello to almost every Israeli walking by. I suspect they all know each other. One man she stopped to talk to was wearing a kippa and talit, and behind his ears, he had the long curls. Apparently, he lives here to try and bring fallen Jews back into the fold. By way of explanation, Amira told us that there is a battle for souls here in India. When I asked her if she is very religious, she wrinkled her nose. 'I don't like being told what to believe,' she said. I agree.

When Amira was in her 40s, she went to Columbia in NYC to get her doctorate in Education, and after she retired from teaching three years ago, she went to get her law degree. Right now, she's traveling and trying to decide what to do. Should she teach more? Practice law?

A lot of the Israelis we've met are in the same place: they've just finished the military, and they've come here to figure out what to do next. When we ask people about their plans, there's a unanimous shoulder-shrug. They're here to find out.

Saying goodbye to Amira, we exchanged e-mail addresses and walked back to the guesthouse, absolutely exhausted. We'd easily walked over 10 miles today, and the night before, we hadn't gotten much sleep because we had stayed up late reading and writing. Joshua finished the second book in the Millenium Trilogy, but I have yet to catch up with my writing.

September 29, 2010

For our adventure today, we walked to the Tsuglagkhang Complex. To get there, we passed through Bhagsu and McLeod. There are three roads that we can take to get to McLeod, and after 9 days, we know which one is the hardest, the longest, and the smelliest. We know which one has the best views and where we can expect to see the most monkeys. Our favorite road is the low road between Bhagsu and McLeod. It's the longest, but it's also the easiest stroll, and it has the most spectacular views. It's nice to stay in one place for a little longer: you begin to recognize other travellers and locals, and they begin to recognize you. You find the best places to eat, and you can work your way through a menu, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You can explore all the little trails and villages nearby, and rather than burying your nose in a map to get everywhere, you can ask for directions. 'Next to the Green Hotel,' means something.

Tsuglagkhang is the site of the photang, the Dalai Lama's official residence, as well as the Namgyal Gompa and the Tibetan Museum. It sits a few hundred meters past the heart of McLeod, overlooking the valley between McLeod and Naddi. Inside the gate, we stopped to read some of the bulleitins plastered all over the walls. While most of them were written or typed in Tibetan with faces of missing loved ones, a few were written in English. In particular, one asked us to remember the Panchen Lama, a young boy who was taken by the Chinese when he was six years old and has been hidden ever since. He was the world's youngest political prisoner, and he is now 16 years old. The Chinese refuse to reveal his location, despite pleas from political leaders and human rights activists around the world. As an important Lama, he has not only been deprived of his identity and religious education, but the Tibetan Buddhists are also missing a vital religious leader.

Sobered by the cherubic face of the Panchen Lama, we entered the main complex through a metal detector and climbed the stairs to the Namgyal Gompa. Taking off our shoes, we entered the temples and saw incredibly ornate altars. With statues of golden bodhisattvas, devis, and gurus at their center, they were wreathed with flowers, jewels, money, and boxes of food. On the walls, lovely, intricate mandalas sat amidst a Tibetan cosmos of astrology, seasons, and symbols. Ringing the temples, heavy, brass prayer wheels had the mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum, embossed on their sides. By running your hand over the wheels and spinning them, it is the equivalent of saying the mantra hundreds of times. In the corner, butter lamps honor missing and lost Tibetans.

Before we explored the Tibetan Museum, we walked through the complex to find the Namgyal Cafe. In classrooms, monks in their red robes were studying and surfing the internet. In the library, the read beneath the windows. At the gate of the Dalai Lama's home, a guard stood watch. In Namgyal Cafe, we ordered food off the fresh market menu. For the second day in a row, we had pizza. The food was wonderful, and while we ate the spinach and cheese pizza with fruit in curd (yoghurt), I typed and Joshua read. Just before we left, a group of foreign dignitaries walked in, glowing from their private meeting with the Dalai Lama. 'Chairman, will you have a sweet lassi?' asked someone.

In the Tibetan Museum, we paid five rupees apiece to walk through the simple, small, two-floor exhibit. On the first floor, we read about how the Chinese military led a surprise attack on Tibet's major cities in 1949. As a part of the cultural revolution, the Chinese systematically destroyed Tibet's religious architecture and forbade the Tibetans from openly practicing Buddhism or proclaiming allegiance to the Dalai Lama or an independent Tibet. Hundreds of lovely and culturally and religiously significant religious sites, scriptures, and artwork were reduced to rubble, and 1.2 million Tibetans lost their lives. Tibet's natural resources were quickly devoured, and sacred lakes and forests were demolished. In an effort to eradicate the Tibetan race, the Chinese imported millions of Chinese, making the Tibetans a minority in their own country.

In 1959, the Dalai Lama escaped Tibet overland and sought asylum in Dharamsala, India. Since then, thousands of Tibetans have followed suit, making the treacherous journey over the Himalayan mountains on foot. Many have died on the way, and others have lost fingers, toes, and limbs to frostbite. Although there have been a number of Tibetan uprisings in the past 50 years, none have been successful, and those who have protested or chosen to openly practice their religion have been detained, brutally tortured, and imprisoned for many years at a time, if not killed.

On the second floor, a small exhibit was devoted to items that prooved Tibet's sovereignty before the Chinese invasion: currency, postage, flags, and passports. One wall provides biographies of Tibetans who have spent their lives working for the independence and autonomy of Tibet, and finally, a smiling photo of the Dalai Lama calls for peace in our time and an independent Tibet.

When we left, we were quiet. It seems that the occupation of Tibet is an unbearable irony: it is certainly true that no one would deserve this sort of oppression, but it's even crazier that anyone would want to eradicate a people and a religion that value compassion, tolerance, and kindness above all else. In particular, I'm shaken by the story of a Buddhist nun who was detained and sexually molested for practicing her religion in public and a Buddhist monk who fled persecution and was so badly frostbitten that he lost both his legs. He says he doesn't remember meeting the Dalai Lama, because as soon as he entered, he just began crying.

I think something must happen to people when they have power. Do they loose their humanity? Do the numbers grow so big that they can no longer appreciate one, two, or a million lives? I don't understand, but I know that it happens over and over again, in every corner of the globe. In America, the European settlers killed off as many Native Americans as they could and then pushed the rest of them onto pitiful, barren reservations. In Ireland, first Oliver Cromwell, and then the Catholics and the Protestants found something to fight about. In Spain, they wiped out the Jews, and then they moved West, converting thousands by the sword. Sudan. Rwanda. And then, when I look around, it's not just the people that are actively killed, but also those who are forgotten and left to die slowly from poverty, neglect, and disease. Outside of the Tsuglagkhang Complex, men and women of all ages - some missing hands and feet, some with hungry children clingling to them - beg for money, for food, for anything at all.

If you were to ask me, 'Ellie, are people mostly good or mostly bad?' I think I'd first tell you, 'mostly good.' I want to believe in our good intentions, mostly because I want to believe in my good intentions. But really, when I look around, I think there must be something very bad inside all of us as well.

After we went through the museum, we walked back up to McLeod. Stopping at the post office, we bought 104 stamps (for 28 postcards). Looking for a place to sit, we popped into the Rogpa Cafe and sat at the bar with cups of Tibetan herbal tea, tearing off stamps, licking them, and fixing them into place. When we finished, we dumped them all in a big red mail box. We hope you get them :)

Up the road, we stopped at the chorten, a prayer room with bright red prayer wheels all along the sides. Inside, every inch of the walls and ceiling were covered in colorful paintings, and we admired the foggy view of McLeod from the rooftop. Back out on the road, we walked home as it grew dark, stopping to experiment with night photos on the way. In Bhagsu, we hopped on the internet for a little bit, and growing hungry again, we went in search of a restaurant.

At The Tree of Life, we found a lovely, cozy room painted in pink with a restful sitting area and lots of soft lighting. We sat on the patio, enjoying the company of the restaurant dogs (one was named Ellie) and eating Malai Kofta (for Joshua) and Channa Masala, a chickpea in savory sauce dish (for me), with a couple mugs of hot chai masala. When we finished we pulled out our reading and writing for a bit, and when it got too cold, we headed back to the guesthouse.

September 28, 2010

On our first morning without class, we slept in late. When we finally did wake up, we got dressed and headed for McLeod, enjoying the clear, blue sky and the sun on our backs. As we walked into town, I voted for JJI Exile Brothers. I really am in love. In fact, I plan to paint one of the rooms in our future home just like it.

For breakfast, we ordered a Tibetan Farmer's Omlete and a JJI breakfast with tea and a piece of vegan chocolate cake. In the kitchen next store, we could hear them crack the eggs and stir the vegetables as they sizzled in the pan. It smelled wonderful, and with late morning light pouring in through the wall of windows overlooking the valley, we listened to the music sing about going down to New Orleans and laying across a big, brass bed. We read.

It turns out that Tibetan Farmer's breakfasts are a lot like huevos rancheros, and neither of us are complaining. The food was just as delicious as it was the day before, and polished off both plates as we read. The vegan chocolate cake was AMAZING.

We read for a little while longer, and after a couple of hours, we paid and left to go on a little walk. Taking one of the only roads we haven't explored yet, we headed in the direction of Naddi. As we walked, we passed dozens of taxi drivers taking afternoon naps with their feet propped up on the dashboard and their mouths hanging open. Gradually, we left the bustle of McLeod behind, and we wound along the side of the mountain through pine trees and stones painted with Om Mani Padme Hum. In the woods, we could hear monks chanting, and little huts had red robes hanging on the clothes line.

Three kilometers down the road, we found Dal Lake. Actually, we found the dry basin where Dal Lake was. The fenced off depression of land was empty, and in the place of glistening holy waters, there were smelly trash heaps and lots of cows shitting all over the place. A sign explained that Dal Lake is used for holy bathing in September.

A little disappointed, we continued on. Up and over a hill, we were joined by dozens of school children walking home from the school in the Tibetan Children's Village. A couple of them sidled right up to us and stared at us with huge eyes. I asked them their names: Rahul and Ramseng. They asked us ours. I asked them how old they were, and they held up seven fingers apiece. Not knowing any more English, they just smiled and continued walking with us. When we came to their houses, they turned and waved.

On the other side of Naddi, we passed rice paddies and temples to Shiva. We reached the end of the road at a beautiful yoga center that overlooked an enormous waterfall. When we turned around, we followed women with huge bundles of laundry stacked on top of their heads, swaying gracefully down the road.

On our way back to McLeod, we stopped to admire a couple of craft shops. In one, men were cutting wood down to size for beautiful carved tchochke tables, and at the Tibetan Handicraft Showroom, we wandered through a maze of bright silks and items inlaid with turquoise and coral.

Back in McLeod, we found a little Tibetan cafe. Joshua ordered a couple of steamed cheese momos and a toffee banana (which turned out to be a breaded and deep-fried banana), and I nursed a cup of vegetable soup. As we snacked, the small cafe filled up, and a single woman sat down at the table with us. For a while, we sat without talking, but when I noticed her Spanish to English dictionary, I said hello and asked her where she was from in Spanish.

For the next hour, the two of us chatted. Juana knew about as much English as I know Spanish, so we communicated in Spanglish. An older woman from the mountains of Argentina, Juana has been living in Buenos Aires for the past 20 years. She's a pediatrician specializing in neo-natal care, and for the next couple of months, she's taking an intensive course in Aryuvedic medicine here in Dharamsala. She loves it here; the misty mountains remind her of where she grew up.

When we said good bye, I said, 'encantada,' and I left the cafe just beaming. Juana was so easy to understand, and because we both understand what it's like to learn a language, we were both patient with one another and spoke slowly. When I get back home, I need to find a language partner just like Juana; practicing Spanish makes my day.

Before we headed for Dharamkot to make a few calls and meet up with Matan (after explaining last nights fiasco via e-mail, we had finally arranged a new time and place to meet), we stopped back at the guesthouse to pick up a few things. While Joshua called to wish Sarah a Happy Birthday, I sat and tried to catch up on my posts. Three teenage Indian boys were sitting next to me, and as soon as I took out my little laptop, they started talking loudly and gesturing at my mini piece of technology. Finally, one of them got up the gumption to ask me what they were all wanting to know: how much did it cost? 18000 rupees (400 dollars). They looked slightly appalled, but I tried to explain to them that 18000 rupees is approximately half of what you'd expect to pay for a full-size laptop. They stared at my screen. The average national income is 40000 rupees; half of that was sitting in my lap.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, I asked them their names. The boy who was speaking on everyone's behalf told me his name is Inder Kumar Bharwaj and his two friends are both named Misnood. I told them my name, and they all tried it out, rolling the Ls off their tongue awkwardly. I asked them if they'd like to see some pictures of where I come from. They nodded their heads enthusiastically. Going into my files, I found pictures of New Orleans, and they looked at pictures of creole cottages, the French Quarter, and Oscar walking through the Marigny. When I asked them if they'd like to see some pictures from our travels, they nodded again. I flicked through images of Ireland, Spain, England, and Turkey. They were entranced.

When I had finished showing them my pictures, Inder took out his cell phone and showed me pictures of his family. 'This is my sister,' he said each time he came to a picture of a young woman. After a while, I said, 'you have a lot of sisters!' He shook his head, 'they're not really all my sisters, but I don't really know what to call them.'

Once he had exhausted the photos on his cell phone, Inder pointed at my bracelet. I took it off and handed it to him. When he read the mantra outloud, I asked him to say it again, slowly so that I could write it down: Jai maa vaishnu devi, apparently this is the name of a goddess from Jammu Kashmir. I told him I would look her up. Next, Inder gave me a little pop quiz. Did I know all the Hindi gods? I told him what I knew: Shiva, Brahma, and Vishnu are the big three, and Krishna is one of Vishnu's incarnations. Inder seemed pleased with my responses, and then he made me write down all of the gods' wives. Shiva's wife is Parvati, and their son is Ganesh (the elephant headed god). Brahma's wife is Salswati, the goddess of music and education. Vishnu's wife is Lakshmi, the goddess of money, and Krishna's wife is Radha. When I messed up the spellings, Inder took the computer out of my hands and wrote them himself.

After Inder and the two Misnoods left, I kept an eye out for Matan. Joshua finished up his phone calls, and as I was saying hello and good bye to Yvonne, Matan wandered in with a little entourage of lovely Israeli girls. Packing up, we headed over to the Trek and Dine.

To eat, Joshua and I ordered a couple of (supposedly) small pizzas and Matan ordered Schnitzel and beer. The Israeli girls smoked, and when they asked me if I minded, I pulled a cigarette out of my bra. Ok. I know what you're thinking: WHAT?! And I will explain everything: in one of Lonely Planet's insets, they mention clove cigarettes. Apparently, they're very popular in India, and they're wrapped in black paper. When they're smoked, they fizz and crackle as the cloves burn. In the US, all flavored or mixed cigarettes were banned in 2009, so the only place that you can get Djarum clove cigarettes is in India. When I saw a pack, I bought them. I've smoked two, but I don't own a lighter, so I just carry one at a time with me. If I'm with someone who's smoking, I take it out and use their lighter.

Anyway, they all thought it was hysterical when I pulled the little black cigarette out of my bra, and when I had it lit, they all wanted an experimental drag. As we waited for the food to come, Matan told us about jewelry making, cooking class, massage class, and sitar lessons. He had taken all four of them during the past four days, and this was how he had met Ola, Sevan, and Leah.

When the food and beer came, we poured six glasses and toasted, L'chaim. Over a plate of Schnitzel, humous, and Israeli salad, Matan rolled a joint and proclaimed himself a happy man. He passed the joint around and all the girls took great big pulls. When Joshua and I passed, Matan told us how to say 'stoner and sober' in Hebrew. I'd share it with you now, but I promptly forgot it.

Once we had stuffed ourselves silly, we moved over to the cross-legged seating. Matan showed us a video of zorbing, where two people are strapped into a great big padded ball that then rolls down an enormous hill. He said it was fun, and he was glad that the other man in the ball had waited until they had finished to throw up. Taking out cards and more rolling paper, the girls dealt while Matan rolled another joint. We learned how to play shithead (last one to go out is a shithead).

At one o'clock, the waiters began to close the restaurant. We said goodbye to Matan and the ladies, and they took a taxi back to upper Bhagsu while we walked home. Just before we got back, we heard a scuffle in the trees. Back at the restaurant, the Israeli girls had told us a story about earlier in the evening when a not-so-sane Indian gentleman had told them that there was a black panther loose in the woods. 'You need a chaperone,' he said. Then, looking confused, he said, 'never mind. You can go. The black panther's in my head.' Shining our headlamp into the branches, we saw the wide face of red lemur. I'm just thankful it wasn't a panther :)

September 27, 2010

On our last day of class, we woke up early to run past Bhagsu and up through McLeod Ganj. The mornings have begun clear and blue for the past couple of days, and we had clear views of the valley and even the rocky mountains far past these green hills.

At yoga class, Sharat was missing, and his slender, Eastern European trainee led us through the asanas instead. She has the most infuriating ability to hold each pose for many minutes too long, smiling and breathing easily the whole time.

At one point, another one of Sharat's helpers, a lovely Russian woman with a short, curly mop of hair told me that I should stay after class for some additional exercises to straighten my back. Towards the end of the session, we gradually arched our backs more and more until we were ready for the marathon of back-bend-bridges.

Sharat joined us just as we finished the last pose. Gathering us in a circle, he opened the floor for questions, sort of. Some questions were beneath him. For example, if you would like a refresher on the order of asanas, you should have taken notes, and no, he will not repeat them. Is there another center or teacher he might recommend? No. None are qualified. He is a one man show. Are there any books that might help? No. Use your notes from this course. The more he talked, the more amazed I became that the hall could even contain his enormous ego. His incredibly inflated opinion of himself seemed to seduce some, but I was just irritated. To commemorate our experience, Joshua bought a t-shirt that said, 'My body is my temple, and the asanas are my prayers.' I can barely write it without rolling my eyes.

Before we left, I stopped to talk with Alona, the Russian yoga teacher. She was very kind, and she gave me a couple of exercises to improve my posture. As she was instructing me, another woman came over to thank her, and expressed amazement at how much the course had changed her. Apparently, her perspective had 'done a 180,' and her body felt miles better than it had when she first started. Alona said, 'yes, I have seen a certain ease from you when you walk. You have had the second most impressive transformation. This young girl (she pointed at me) has had the most impressive. When she began, her shoulders were up to here (she pantomimed Quasimoto). Now she stands like this (she threw her shoulders back and walked tall).'

I am perplexed. Although I'd say that I feel no different and I certainly did not find a calling of any sort, I had the most impressive transformation? After a couple of days, Sharat had showed me how to hold my hands behind my back to force my shoulders out, and I had been trying to stand and walk in that posture since. He had told me that if I tried to hold myself like that for six months to a year, I would gain the muscles to do it naturally. Apparently, it was already making a difference.

Back at the hostel, we quickly packed a our day bag and headed into McLeod Ganj. For lunch, we ate at a little restaurant called JJI Exile Brothers. As soon as we walked in, I was in love. The room is small and cozy, and the walls are painted a vibrant orange. The menus are handwritten and decorated with colorful sketches, and the soundtrack played music from the 60s: Bob Dylan, Burt Jansch, Skip James, Chuck Berry... On a pin board, there were pictures of the Dalai Lama receiving rock and roll artists. In college, I took a course entitled 'Buddhism and the Beats.' The course reincarnated itself right here in this one-room cafe. I love it, and the food was delicious. We drank tea and gobbled up chowmein and Tingmo (steamed bread) on a bed of stewed vegetables.

At 2:45, we beat a quick exit: Indian Cooking Class started at 3:00. On the opposite side of town, we walked into the Taste of India and found the teacher and our one other classmate, Daniella from Israel (where else?). As we introduced ourselves, we followed Nisha, the cook, down to a room in the guesthouse next door outfitted with a kitchen.

Because there were only three of us, Nisha canceled class for tomorrow and told us we could come back on Friday if we wanted the second half. Although that was disappointing, we should be able to return on Friday, and for today, it meant that we could ask as many questions as we liked.

To start, Nisha showed us how to make Aloo Gobi, the simplest dish on the menu. Aloo is potato, and gobi is cauliflower. For all of the recipes, she used an assortment of spices common to North Indian food: cardamom, clove, fennugreek, nutmeg, cinnamin, cumin, tumeric, corriander, red chilli powder, and garam masala. Aloo Gobi is simply a mixture of some of these spices sauteed with potatoes, cauliflower, ginger, and garlic.

The second dish was Palak Paneer. Palak is spinach, and Paneer is cheese. To begin, Nisha showed us how to make paneer. First, you boil milk, and then you add lemon juice. Once the curd and whey separate, you drain the curd in a cloth and press it with weights: voila! Paneer! For the sauce (palak), you combine spinach puree, tomato puree, and a variety of spices. Just before you serve, you add cream and butter.

The third dish was Dal Makhani. Dal is lentils, and Makhani is butter. After soaking and boiling a mixture of lentil and kidney beans, you add spices and milk. In another pan, you fry garlic, ginger, and onions, and then you add the fry to the dal. Once again, before you serve, you add cream and butter. More basic dal dishes exclude the dairy, and 'Fry Dal' just means that you've added separately fried spices.

Before Nisha made the Malai Kofta, she prepared the dough for Chapati. A simple mixture of flour, salt, oil, and water, it took almost no time at all to measure, mix, and knead into a large roll to rest. After 30 minutes, she separated the roll into smaller balls, rolled them with a rolling pin, and then cooked them like pancakes on a griddle until they bubbled on each side. Once they were cooked, she plopped them on the open flame for a couple of seconds so that the air inside expanded and made them puff out (my favorite part).

Finally, Nisha prepared Malai Kofta. Malai means cream, and Kofta means dumpling. The most labor intensive recipe thus far, Nisha suggested that we stretch out the preparation of this meal over the course of two days. First, we needed to prepare onion paste, white paste, and a cinnamon mix. For onion paste, you sautee onions and then puree them in a blender with water. For white paste, you grind pumpkin seeds, cashews, and poppy seeds together, and for the cinnamon mix, you combine cinnamon, cardamom, and nutmeg. Next, you combine all three with other spices and a tomato puree for the Malai sauce. To prepare the koftas, you take plain mashed potatoes and roll them into dumpling sized balls. Then, you take a mixture of crumbled paneer, raisins, cashews, cinnamon, and coconut and roll them into smaller sized balls. Pressing your thumb into the potato balls, you fill them with the cheese mixture and then smooth the potato over so that the potato is completely surrounding the inside of cheese. Next, you deep fry the potato-cheese dumplings. To finish the sauce, you add cream and butter, and then you pour the sauce over the dumplings to serve. Be prepared for your dinner guests to swoon, propose, and then fall asleep, satisfied and drooling like little babies.

As Nisha cooked, she dictated the recipes. We took copious notes, complete with precise measurements, times, etc. She was perfect, and the smells were intoxicating. For a second, we regretted eating anything at all prior to class, but really, we could have been eating all day and still had room for this feast. We ate it all, spewing gratitude and amazement the entire time. Nothing has ever tasted that good. Nisha smiled and sat with us. She told us about her life: she's been teaching cooking classes for 13 years. In the corner, a map of the world is covered in tacks. Each tack represents the home of one or a hundred of her students (Israel has just one tack, but Nisha was able to translate most of her lesson into Hebrew.). There were even tacks stuck in Antarctica; three women who live and work there had come for vacation and taken Nisha's class. It was wonderful to think of all the kitchens across the world that were cooking Nisha's dishes.

Nisha told us about the other food she knows how to cook: South Indian, dishes from Mumbai, her home, and everywhere in between. She loves dishes with coconut and fish. Her family is spoiled; they don't like her experimental meals, and they want her to cook the same way she has for the last 20 years.

I was fascinated when Nisha told us about arranged marraige. She explained that women are becoming more and more educated and independent. In the city, it's not uncommon for couples to live together before they're married. Elsewhere, there are now options. It used to be that arranged marraige was the only way, but now, young people may request a specific mate (which would then be arranged through their families) or they may ask their parents to arrange a marriage for them. In a graceful compromise between the old traditions and new, Nisha explained that while some people prefer to choose their mates, other young people are not as confident or brave; they need help. While her oldest son is comfortable choosing his wife, her younger is not. She will look at ads in the paper or on-line to select a suitable wife for him, and once she has found a good woman, they will all work together - mothers, sons, daughters, and fathers - to see if everyone is in agreement.

I was fascinated, and I found Nisha's explanations very humane and open-minded. Why shouldn't families be involved in such an important decision? Once her sons are married, they'll all live together in a huge family home. They'll only split up if they have to find work elsewhere. I felt so honored to have Nisha share her stories with us, and when we left, we were smiling, happy, and full.

On our walk back to Dharamkot, Joshua got a gut-ache. We stopped at the Green Hotel to check the Internet, and while I answered a couple of e-mails, Joshua used the bathroom (for 45 minutes). When he got back, he told me he was in a bad way, and by way of an explanation, he pulled up the ankles of his pants. One of his socks was ominously missing. We walked back home as quickly as we could, Joshua clutching his abdomin and groaning as we went. Once we were within sight of the hostel, he was almost at a run. He made it just in the nick of time. His punishment for drinking and eating plenty of unpasteurized dairy products was swift and furious; by the time he was through, he was exhausted.

Although we had planned to meet up with Matan that evening, Joshua wasn't quite up to it. Once I was certain that Joshua was tucked in and a bit more comfortable, I headed off to Bhagsu by myself, meeting up with Eshai and Hadas along the way. Just as we got into Bhagsu, the power cut out, and the valley went dark. There was no way I would be able to find Matan's guesthouse in the dark, so I headed back to Joshua, letting the moon light my path.

As soon as I got back, the power came on. Feeling a little bit better, Joshua decided he needed something to settle his stomach, and we turned right back around and headed for Bhagsu. Once we were there, we asked around, trying to find Matan's guesthouse, but no one knew where it was. Finally, we gave up, hoping he wasn't waiting for us somewhere, and walked back to the guesthouse, munching on cashew cookies.

September 26, 2010 cont'd

After we finished lunch on the terrace in Bhagsu, we walked to McLeod Ganj. After reading through the Lonely Planet and seeing all the other classes that we could take, we had decided to forgo another week of yoga classes. While both of us had enjoyed learning something new, neither of us had fallen in love with yoga. In particular, Joshua wanted to find a cooking class.

The walk from Bhagsu to McLeod Ganj rings the mountain, and as we walked, we passed restaurants, shops, and houses stacked on top of one another with rebar sticking out of the rooftops, prepared for future additions. In the street, monkeys, cows, and stray dogs scavanged for food scraps in the gutter and around sprawling trash heaps. At curves where the trees break for majestic views, Hindu and Buddhist temples have been built and painted in bright, lively colors.

In McLeod, we wandered down a new street, looking for the cooking classes recommended to us by Lonely Planet. McLeod Ganj is loud and more touristy, and the roads are filled with motorcycles and autorickshaws that honk their horns obnoxiously as they're passing by: I'm here! Get out of my way!

At the Taste of India restaurant, we found Nisha, the owner and cooking instructor, and we signed up for classes the next day. For 800 rupees per person, we will attend two three hour long classes on two consecutive days. During the first class, Nisha will cook a series of dishes: aloo gobi, palak paneer, malai kofta, and chapati. On the second day, she'll cook four more. At the end of each session, the class gets to eat the feast she's just made. Nisha told us to bring our notebooks and pencils: she'll be dictating the process and recipes as she goes along.

When we left the restaurant, Joshua was practically salivating with anticipation; palak paneer and malai kofta have been his favorite dishes so far, and tomorrow, we'll learn how to make them! It's almost too good to be true! Oh my god!

Relishing our good fortune, we continued wandering. One sign advertising aryuveda courses caught my interest, and we went in to inquire. A very eager, handsome Indian man sat us down and explained the program. While he could parse down the course to 3 days, 5 days is best. During the two to three hour long classes each day, he would walk us through head, face, neck, back, legs, and feet massage techniques and we would practice on one another.

We left, saying we would think about it. With so many classes available, it's hard to make a commitment. We're worried that there might be something better and cheaper just around the corner. Also, Joshua had made things very clear: his priority is learning how to cook all the fabulous things we've been eating.

After wandering around for a bit longer, we headed back up to the Green Hotel for a piece of cake and some tea. As usual, the carot and banana cakes were divine, and we slowly devoured every last crumb. While Joshua read, I finished writing and addressing postcards. Meanwhile, the old man in purple who had invited us to the Karmapa Lama event trembled and hobbled by the tables on his cane, stopping occasionally to share some apocalyptic tidbit with customers. At one point, he encountered a quiet couple with similarly intense religious convictions. Rather than celebrating their zealous kinship, they began a tense religious debate. Thankfully, I couldn't hear everything, but it was pretty clear that while the old man in purple was crusading on behalf of the Buddha and his lamas, the couple were proclaiming the salvation of Jesus Christ. Joshua and I shuddered in discomfort as their volume grew, and eventually, the old man in purple was reduced to stamping his cane tremulously on the ground and chanting, 'deadhead! I will never follow someone who is dead! You're a deadhead!'

Joshua and I quickly paid, fairly tripping over ourselves as we made for the exit. One of my favorite movies is called An Unfinished Life, and before you ask, yes. J.Lo is in it. Anyway, so are Robert Redford and Morgan Freeman, both men I would probably have to consider leaving Josh for, despite their considerable ages. In one scene, Robert Redford is telling his granddaughter that she must be polite to all the guests or visitors on his ranch, 'except for those people trying to sell their angle on God. There's no excuse for that bullshit.' At first, I appreciated this quip for its comic value, but more and more, I agree with the sentiment. Our relationships with God and religion are so personal, and while they might give rise to powerful and meaningful communities, I think the decision to participate needs to be made without force or pressure. I grow very impatient with efforts to convert or proselytize. I think they are more divisive than nurturing or loving.

As the light began to dim, the two of us walked back to Dharamkot. At the Radha Krishna Restaurant, we went out to sit on the pillowed terrace overlooking the valley. Unlike some cross-legged seating, this spot was clean, comfortable, and had a lovely, panoramic view. Above, lights in paper oragami shapes glowed in pleasant pinks and yellows. We ordered Vegetable Kofta and Vegetable Kohlpari with Mint Tea.

While we waited, we cracked open our books to read. I tried to pay attention to the page, but the group on the opposite corner of the terrace were discussing reincarnation a little too loudly. Apparently, on their meditation retreats, they had seen the faces of 'dirty, third world children' in their deepest trances. And they just KNEW that these were the faces of their past lives. One of the other women sighed in jealousy. 'I so want to see my past lives,' she said, 'I go to the gurus and the yogis, the mind readers and the mystics, and I just want them to tell me everything. I only have a month in India, tell me my fate! Tell me my past! I want to know who I've been and how I might be released!' The wiser, a verbose and languidly posed New Zealander, said wisely, 'you have such spirt, my child. You're on the right path.'

The stars were out, and the food was delicious. While we gobbled up savory sauces and vegetables, sauteed and pattied, we listened to what it was like to be a bird: 'I soared and dipped over the mountain tops with such assuredness. Where has all that confidence gone?' the man asked wistfully.

Their conversation veered towards this life, where they had lied and cheated, stolen and left their husbands and wives. They'd traveled the world in search of something, and at last, they hoped to find it here. At last, a contentedness and a sense that all is well, that they are worthy and they have made the right journey... Who or what could give that to them? The men and women in red? Those who have fled and live in exile? Yogis in their contorted positions? Perhaps a woman with cards in symbols of death, life, and rebirth.

Feeling squarer than ever and roughly anti-existential, we paid and left. Perhaps we're both brand new, and neither of us have the baggage that comes with remembering ourselves as 'dirty, third world children' or birds with able wings. I sound catty, but if I'm honest, I think I can identify with their dislocation. With privilege and money, we have so much time on our hands and so little connection to the stuff of survival: food, family, shelter, and the HOME that is made when we make those connections. Instead, I think we search and envy even 'dirty, third world children' for their rootedness. I don't mean to sound like a poor little rich girl, but I am acknowledging that wealth and satisfaction don't always go hand in hand. Spiritual tourism has always made me feel vaguely uncomfortable, but I'm not sure what the alternatives are. There is certainly a chance that we abuse the cultures we wish to observe and learn from, but perhaps it isn't all bad. I don't know.