Aum in Omkareshwar August 29, 2010
Posted by admin in : India , add a commentAfter a rocky start to our last part of our Indian adventures we set off on the 3 hr local bus journey to Omkareshwar. I was more than ready but I sensed and knew that Laura was not. She was an absolute trooper. We still do not know what the problem was exactly, but despite the need to battle through the usual hecticness of Indore, rickshaws and carrying her overly weighted rucksack we made it to the station, and were directed in an amazingly, not Indian fashion (the guy came to correct himself on the correct bus number- unheard of!)
The bus went with ease, we were allocated a seat (also unheard of) and had a relatively comfortable ride. We had seen many pilgrims in Varanasi and all over India visiting various holy rivers and en route we saw many more. These guys wore orange T-shirts and barefooted carried a stick with two urns of water. The same guys seemed to be heading to and from Omkareshwar. “Bowl Bom!” they cry and echo to each other and other random passers by also repeat in earnest. Making our way to Omkareshwar it became aparrent that this is where these guys had been and had been walking back the 86km to Indore, in the sun, barefooted.
We rolled into Omkareshwar and the ’station’, a dust bowl patch of land with nothing more than a few stalls selling “puja” (prayer) offerings. Instantly bombarded with people pushing to get on the bus. There are people EVERYWHERE and lots of them! We are unable to get off the bus because, as usual people want to get on the bus first. So I do my usual “right let’s go!” barge for it and after a strong shove by a man twice the size of I, shout very loudly 3 inches from his face to let me off the bus. We squeezed through, collected our bags and began a trek down a road to somewhere called “Majaraja guesthouse”, unsure exactly where it was or how far.
After 20 minutes walking we are flagging and losing enthusiasm. Another guesthouse beckoned, but after a quote of Rs 400 we declined, stood firm and headed towards the main square. These place is really “starey” and it is clear that most people have never seen a westerner before. It is really damn busy though and we wonder whether such a small place can hold so many people! What is going on!? To avoid lugging bags around in vain I leave Laura, perhaps foolishly in the middle of the main square to find the guesthouse. There is no space at the guesthouse as there are only 9 rooms, but a man, I assume is the helper catches me up when I walk off dejectedly and wondering how we are going to find anything else. The lady at the guesthouse tells me that we landed on the climax of the 30 day Shiva festival and that things will get quieter tomorrow and more so the day after and if we cannot find anywhere that we can come back and they will let us stay in their actual house with them. I return to find Laura surrounded with people looking at her gaumlessly to relay the news. Ignoring the crowds we focus on blocking everyone else out, the photos, the comments to each other and wide eyed stares. Eventually some kind of event organisers shoo everyone off continually until the throng dissipates, bar the stragglers.
We decide to wait for a bit and then return without trying to find anywhere else and take the guesthouse up on their offer. What a good move we realise later. The man who chased after me helped us set up our beds and we were sorted!
That night we make for an early night and just head out for chai before bed and things are a little crazy. People everywhere, flashing toys reminiscent of Disney World, drums beating, screams and loud, excited chatter from all around, enclosed in one square. A procession begins to come towards us from further up the road. Chanting and wild, epileptic dancing, flailing to a cacophony of different vibrations begin to arrive in the square. This is too much for Laura, so I head through the masses to try to buy some water for us before we retire. I get caught in the parade and give a little jig, which is instantly picked up by all around, the stares begin and people try to drag me into the core of the movable dancefloor. I resist being persuaded and physically dragged in by Sadhu’s (holy man/monk) and pilgrims alike, secured water and pushed back through to find Laura. Back at the guesthouse I realise that we had been actively looking for a Hindu festival, but that we couldn’t find any in the Lonely Planet or heard of any in fact. Inadvertently we had stumbled across one in miraculous fashion and I was going to go to bed! I can’t and knew I would regret it. So leaving Laura I head back out to get right in the middle of the action. That I did. Like Holi (the festival of colour) coloured dust is thrown about as a blessing and a man carried shrine is taken from the top Ghats (bathing steps leading to the river) to the temple on Omkareshwar’s island (the Island is in the “Aum” shape). I dance like a lunatic and everyone wants a piece of dancing with the foreigner, the drummers gather around me and play as hard as possible, so I am immersed in the loudest, most intense drum orchestra ever, literally from all angles, being covered in dust and flailing like the best of them. At points I am literally being pulled in different directions and my arm burns from overly tight grips, so after exhausting myself pull back and call it a (mad) night. A few guys follow me back and have clearly been smoking too much Bhang (marijuana plant all ground together), usual questions ensure as do a few cigerettes and more chai before finally bed.
The next morning we wake to realise the gravitas of the place we are staying in, as if the first impression of it being consumed into the cliff and undergrowth weren’t enough. It was 600 years old and owned by a Raja whose ancestors were paid off with a palace and land in return for not destroying the place. The guesthouse was a courtroom and jail (rooms 7 and 8), but luckily we were in the storage room! We were brought chai by the guesthouse helper and after premium room number 1 was empty we’re allowed to venture across to the ‘balcony’- a smooth rock face jutting over the Narmada river, one of the 3 major holy rivers in India. The rock looked like the bottom of the sea, where it had definitely risen from many years ago. The view was spectacular.
That day we stayed around the guesthouse, feeling zero compulsion to do anything bar take in the amazing scenery and feeling of the whole place. Every moment the air was filled with various chants and readings of the Vedas (Hindu scriptures) or Ramayana (story of Rama and Sita- come on GCSE Religious Education takers!) overlapping each other in harmony and volume throughout the day. We took in the colourful view of the orange pilgrims bathing and collecting the water from the river to take home with them while bathing in the river’s holy water. The bridge on our other side saw various people throwing flowers, rice, water from their home town, coconuts and other offerings into the river, while boats chugged away in a far louder volume than necessary for such small boats. India, all consuming, all go and all the time.
That evening the guesthouse helper who we were introduced to as Rajinder sent up a Sadhu into room 1, who we had noticed the night before in passing sleeping outside. We learnt that he was blind and so the guesthouse helper did all he could to make his stay pleasant, set up his bed, guided him around and set him up outside that night for the evenings puja. This was all while dashing around ensuring we had something to sit on and that the sweeping had been done! My Hindi was coming along and that night the lady who was talking to us in broken English complimented my “excellent Hindi” and was surprised to know that I had been learning it for just 3 months. Ace! This supported a few previous comments from others and so I was chuffed.
That night Laura retired early and I sat out on the cliff with the two men, trying to understand their deep spiritual conversations. I understood about 10%, through gestures, words, and intonation, but deeply wanted to be a greater part of the conversation. Either way I knew that this was the moment I had been looking for in Sikkim and felt blessed this situation was given to me against all the odds. That night I sat for 6 hours next to a small camp fire, watched puja being performed with the blast from a conch shell horn and myrrh incense thrown onto the fire. I was even offered a pipe of Bhang from the Sadhu, which couldn’t be refused given the circumstances.
It turned out to be 1am before retiring to bed, which made the next morning slightly more difficult, especially as we hadn’t put the mosquito net up for 2 nights now due to Laura’s fatigue and me getting immersed into the situation. I awoke with over 50 bites all over my body. So, so itchy! Either way I had picked up cream from the Indore chemist and so that was a welcome relief. That day Laura felt slightly better and we had a walk around the market stalls, then picked up a juice from a juice bar. We were going to walk down to the Ghats when the heat made her feel bad once more so I took her back and then headed out alone once more. Down at the river people playfully splashed around in the holy water, but again, I arrive and all eyes and conversation switches. I get in and have a swim, which initiates an impromptu swimming effort upstream from all the macho looking boys. Flapping against the water, like they are trying to hurt it their swimming is as poor as their tact. One man asks for the obligatory photo, which I decline and everyone laughs at (it gets really boring), then I have the same questions bombarded at me and everyone wants my attention, which I am trying to avoid. This time however people get really close and are splashing around me, ’swimming’ that means kicking me inadvertently. The man repeats his request for a photo and asks why, then people direct splashing at me when I do not respond to their request. They follow me when I move. I feel a stone hit me in the shoulder, which shocked me as I have had the rest before, but that is a nasty gesture. I retort to the continued requests of the photo man that he is not my friend as he says and that is not possible when his friends are splashing me and throwing things at me. He replies that I don’t understand Hindi.
“Throwing stones is an international language of abuse and hate, not friendship. It is shame that this country is so good and yet the men in it so bad. Why do you treat visitors in this way so that they feel like they don’t want to be here. Why don’t you tell these idiots that when I don’t respond to their questions”, went my tirade. I float off downstream to get away further, when more people see me and the same gawks ensue. Then a fairly old lady splashes me in the face with an evil look on her face. I splash her back with force and get out. “This is my trouble” I direct to the photo man, as I leave the river. He tries to get out in time and finally I can sense that he feels and sees the situation as a whole. It’s too late, I’m well dressed and gone. It is a shame but I report to Laura that it was a mixed bag… the water and river was great, but the company less so.
That evening saw another extended session of puja and a broken conversation about where I can find my guru. Inside- I think was the answer. Rajinder appears to think I speak more Hindi than I do, due to my well placed Hindi words and familiar Hindi noises of ‘yes’ and ‘no’. I feel slightly betraying of his trust, but cannot communicate the lack of my understanding either! Either way I feel that I am understanding enough to take something from the conversation and when “Babba” (an affectionate term that means father literally) talked he spoke with an incredible presence and wonder that meant more from how than what was said. Rajinder brought and organised food, put a plate together for Laura against my suggestion that she couldn’t eat it. What a great place, just Rs 250 per night and chai and food is given to us for free!
The next day we decided to head out to walk around Omkareshwar, but Laura needed to eat before we walked around the island for 7km. We headed to the other guesthouse we almost stayed at, but before hand I sensed something was going to happen on the cliff. Babba was performing puja, but this time we were ushered to take part and throw offerings of incense onto the fire with the words “swaha” (I pray eternal words to the eternal God), after which Babba gave us both a blessing and a big bear hug. Some people just make you feel good and peaceful and this man does that better than no one else I know.
The guesthouse had a restaurant which was good and a change of scene. Immediately we were approached by a french lady, who was traveling alone. We could tell she hadn’t seen Western faces for a while and missed it. We learned of her trip to ‘horrible’ Mahabaleshwar due to the fact that no one could speak English and that she was due to leave the next day in a grossly overpriced taxi to avoid a train she was booked on due to the station. For a lady on her own that is understandable, but she had visited Indian before and so we enquired why she returned. She didn’t know, which we found strange, but a lovely person and we ended up eating and chatting all afternoon about various adventures, which is nice to do with other travelers every now and again. We could tell she was pleased to have the company and confided that she felt down the last few days and we could sense that we were charging her batteries, which was good to know.
That evening though the Mandir (temple) near Ganesh guesthouse we were sat at wailed pratana (a verse or prayer) with an irritating pace and fervor that was unrelaxing and a little psychotic. The restaurant did good food, but we then realised how much better we were off by standing firm and going on. I’d like to say we were driven to our guesthouse by intervention, even when space was unlikely and we were almost beaten by the situation. We took our new friend round to our guesthouse to see the view and from what Laura relayed that made her time in Omkareshwar and we were more than happy to know we had injected some good into someone else’s experiences.
That evening we reflected on what had happened so far. Laura finally ate something of volume and solid and felt better that day and we were in our second to last night already! If only we had more time here, but we knew that was the wrong way to look at this situation… we had to do the walk tomorrow as it was now our last chance.
The next morning Rajinder, as he had been doing brought us chai and some snacks. We headed out to the island when we bumped into Rajinder. He was carrying wood and rattled off something quickly in Hindi to which I replied “tikque” and shook my head from side to side. He led us over the bridge towards the island and gestured up with the wood. We followed him and matched his quick pace. We were told to wait 5 minutes. None of this was in our plan, we wanted a quiet walk around the island without anyone, especially Rajinder who spoke to me in normal Hindi, expecting far more from my language skills that was remotely possible. This was getting wearing, as constantly double guessing and listening to someone speak who you do not understand is hard at times. Either way we waited and then followed him at his fast pace towards the Sangen (fork) in the river, stopping occasionally for a Sanskrit translation into Hindi- none of which we understood. He had clearly been here before as he said “hare om” and various forms of religious hello to many people who looked at him fondly in return with many welcoming gestures. We reached a chai spot where we were introduced to his friend, sorted a spot away from the onlookers and chilled out of the sun for a while. Across the path was a temple, our next stop apparently. We walked in a Laura and I walked around. Rajinder walked straight up to the priest in charge and then brought us to join them at the smoking floor. Rajinder seems to know everyone! It turns out that the Sadhu at our guesthouse knows this Sadhu and their temples are connected somehow.
We eventually realised that the heat of day is getting stronger and that we need to move now if we are to make it, much to Rajinder’s some kind of protest. He motioned that he was going elsewhere so we left him and headed off alone. The day was baking, but despite this there were many “village people” (read people who stare at you as they haven’t seen a westerner, giggle to each other and the men act all macho while speeding up and slowing down to ultimately circle you) following the same pilgrim path. We climb further up and there is no where to hide from the now 11:30am sun. We remember what it is like to be this hot again now.
Towards the top of the hill Rajinder bounds up to us with his usual contented smile and together we make it to the top of the hill to a bar that sells cold water and coke. How good is a cold coke when you are literally burning on the inside and out? Very. At this point Rajinder looks more unsettled and anxious to move, but we are taking it easy, out of convenience, ease and need. At the top of the island the old 12th Century Mandir was its usual
impressive sight and someone had even built a large shed with plinths to house some of the stone carvings that had been vandalized by the local monkeys. At this point Rajinder gives us the option to go around the rest of the way, as we are half way round or to head back. It has taken us 3.5 hours and it is now the midday sun. We opt out and take the route back. Past some village huts we finally emerge at the top of the island at the top of the steps we had been looking at from our guesthouse over the last few days. What a view (again!)
We arrived back in the square and slinked off quickly to the juice bar for a bit of solitude. When we returned we caught Rajinder leading Babba out and realise that Babba is heading off to his Madir. We say goodbye in the usual form of respect and shaking of hands. I give Rajinder a glance who looked focused.
We went back to the guesthouse and “did some stuff”, before asking the lady about Babba and if he had gone. “Yes he left with Rajinder to another place. They never stay in the same place”. Our hearts sank. We said goodbye to Babba, but not Rajinder, after all he had done for us and after we had assumed he was the guesthouse helper. It turned out Rajinder was Babba’s helper. I couldn’t help but fight back shedding a tear. Curse my stupid nodding and fake Hindi…. Perhaps Rajinder thought we knew his position and that we were ungrateful at all his help and were really rude at not saying goodbye… Why was he doing everything to help everyone and not just Babba?… Why had he taken us for that tour just before leaving?…. The lady confirmed that Rajinder was much later than he should have been and that Babba was wondering where he was.
I am never going to forget the ceaseless kindness, peace, wisdom and caring that Rajinder clearly shows everyone he meets, without any form of expectation of return. This is a true Sadhu, someone who marches forward in life permanently doing, but for others, in true charity, not one that makes one feel better as a result. That night I felt awful and slept very badly.
How could I have failed to show appreciation for this man? I just take refuge in the fact that he needs no appreciation and takes peace and appreciation as well as everything else from Yoga and God as opposed to human feedback.
The next day we were up early and set off again up the dusty track to pick up the bus to Indore. The bus again was fairly easy despite the seats being “squeeze and one ass cheek on”. I reflected long about Rajinder, how I can find him and how in this life I can take lessons from his being as well as all the experiences I was exposed to during those short 4 days.
All I know is that I want to go back to Omkareshwar.
Khecheopalri lake August 5, 2010
Posted by admin in : India , add a commentWe finally left Pelling feeling recharged and ready for some more of Sikkim, as time was suddenly streaming along without signs of slowing down. It was a bright and warm day when we sat on the roadside waiting for our jeep to take us around the mountains once more, along dangerous roads and to somewhere new, interesting and with its unique unknown experiences.
You can see the route we took above, winding around the hills with shafts of light spotlighting various parts of the sparsely populated hills. It is quite something to be able to see houses if you look up and down 170 degrees.
The jeep was more comfortable than usual but that is probably now because we are used to having legs dangling outside or contorted to ensure 10 people can fit in one jeep. We rolled into Khecheopalri during mid morning as usual and shouted to be dropped off at the trekker’s hut. There was no one around and so we hung around a bit until a little girl walked in off the road and asked to help us. She told us the rooms were Rs150 and it is hard to haggle with young girls without feeling guilty and also wondering if they can make that call in the first place. We did anyway and secured the room for Rs100 (1.20 pounds for a twin). We needed food and the girl vaguely told us she might do food. There is no one else around, so is she the manager of this place!?
We decided to head out to have a quick look round and grab a bite to eat. The 4 restaurants in Khecheopalri all said they were not doing food at all. great- what were we going to eat and this would mean we have to leave tomorrow. We went back to the Travelers Hut and asked the girl if we could eat and after making our request for Chinese noodles (we are sick of greasy veg Chinese noodles now, but it is what is cheap, filling and generally on offer).
Throughout Sikkim we were looking for a nook of complete peace, a place to meditate, take stock, get back to nature, go past boredom and more. There are some remote places we visited, including Yuksom, but none of these places were quite right for different reasons. In Khecheopalri lake we found it. Refuelled we headed to the lake itself and passed the meditation centre (looking good) and then before the lake saw a sign for “Home Stay”. Walking up a steep path towards a lookout there were two lone buildings, one shrine and one a guest house. One way looking out across the valley to Yuksom and the hotel we had visited just a week and a half ago and the other overlooking Khecheopalri’s sacred lake.
The lake is the shape of a foot print, which was supposed to be that of Shiva. The story goes that one day the indigenous Lepcha people were collecting the local nettle to eat when a conch shell buried itself into the ground and water started filling up the lake. It certainly had a very spiritual feeling about it and was the most quiet, relaxing place we have been in Sikkim yet. we were right to think that things would not stop surprising us and impressing- we love this state of India the most so far.
We met Sonam the manager of the guesthouse who promised to tech us about the local medicinal plants and head out into the jungle. Sold! We agreed to be back the next day and headed back for what would now be the only night we would stay in the Traveller’s guesthouse. For dinner we arranged to eat the same as the family to ran the place and sat in their outside kitchen watching the young girl, who turned out to be 10 years old and her sister make fire and cook for their family of 5. Dinner was what we learnt to be pumpkin Dal, a watery version of the South Indian Dal, with pumpkin mushed in to give it some substance. This was accompanied with the tips of the pumpkin plant, with skin peeled off- something we have never thought of eating, but was delicious and something we are definitely going to try in the UK.
The next day after a night of tossing and turning because of the heard beds we headed off for the guesthouse, with beds of the same nature, knocked together by Sonam himself. We negotiated free tea and a reduced food rate to fit our budget with him and started exploring our new wooden abode. The place was surrounded by wildlife and plants of all kinds, the perfume of a marijuana tree outside was delivered by the winds streaming up from the valley, but everything was peaceful.
We met two Spanish girls who had been staying for a few nights, but were covered in bed bugs and scratching like mad. We hoped that our room overlooking the lake was blessed and we wouldn’t succumb to the same fate. We sat for the first time on plastic chairs looking out over the valley, soaking up the nothingness filled beauty of the landscape.
For dinner we were scheduled to make momos, something I had already learnt in Gangtok. The filling was slightly different and casing made sightly wider than I was taught, but hey, everyone has their own style of moms, as Sonam pointed out. All 5 of us sat as a production line producing moms of every shape and creative style we fancied. In total we made 98 momos! Sonam also organised some Tongba with dinner and guaranteed that this with the momos would ensure we slept well. This millet had been fermenting for at least 1 year and so was stronger than what we had drunk in Gangtok. After eating around 28 momos myself and Laura also eating till she couldn’t eat anymore! We did sleep well that night, despite unconsciously moving around due to the hard beds. We had a great night though and Sonam was a real wild card after drinks, but unfortunately his Japanese wife was not impressed by his playful stupidity of crazy singing and crazy faces. We had a great night as the Spanish girls had a drum and Sonam was adept at making flutes with bamboo, while Mr Bean had a harmonica. It was a Chang and music filled night, but unfortunately Sonam was apologising in the morning, we suspect due to words from “the Mrs”.
The following lunchtime we were cooked another local dish mostly harvested that day from the jungle. “Mr Bean” delivered the goods, a local with a massive grin, bowl haircut and yellow wellies- what a legend! We ate a massive amount of rice with green Dal, another watery Dal which was made up of spices, onion and stinging nettles. This was accompanied by friend potato and local edible fern. There are apparently 7 types of edible fern in Sikkim, which are a staple and cheap diet of the locals. We would be going out to find some ourselves in the next few days. We also decided that we would show Sonam some of our local dishes. That evening we would make a beef and ale stew and the following day the Spanish girls would make Spanish Omlette. Helping to make the fire however we knew that it would be a hard task as all the wood is wet and so constant air feeding is required to burn anything. We realised that the first fire of the day was the most difficult and arduous because of the wet ground developing over night and soon you really begin to appreciate what it can take to make just a cup of tea in this environment. I also took 45 minutes of wood chopping, fire fanning and water boiling just to have a hot stand up wash, something we would not make a daily habit of for sure!
That day we had a small hike up to the lookout point and I experienced my first actual leaching. Sonam is a wealth of knowledge on the medicinal plats around the area and showed us at least 6 different types of plants for; killing pigs and leeches, stopping bleeding, reducing headache and stomach aches, antiseptic cleansing, making airplanes and more! It is amazing to see people really use their land and understand it to get along in an environment that has its unique challenges of being situated on a hillside. We sat on a flat rock at the view point and overlooked the lake to see the famous footprint shape. After this Sonam showed us a holy cave where monks go to meditate. He warned us of bears sometimes living there, but also explained how to ward them off by running away and then by playing dead if they go for you, as they are only attacking to defend themselves. The only problem that I got was a massive cloud of tiny flies taking off as I peeked out of the side of the cave. No worries though Titapate (antiseptic cleaning leaf) sorted that out, bar those in my eyes…
That evening we headed off to the next village, a 30 minute walk away to collect the needed supplies. A Kazakhstani couple turned up, so it meant we were cooking for 9. After walking too far and then weighing out 2.5 kg of potatoes and the rest of the few ingredients they had (they had some soya tofu and strong beer though!), we headed back up the hill weighed down and being rained on.
It was dark when we arrived back and people thought we had deserted them, but after a rum and coke we got cracking and I mobilised everyone to preparation duties as I stoked the fire. The meal was a mission and ended up taking 4 hours, which meant we ate at 10:30 (late for Sikkim!) and I had blisters from fanning the two fires we needed with a massive rice sieve! BUT the food was ace and really tasted like an English beef stew, despite using local variations. This is what cooking is all about. unfortunately the locals disappeared and didn’t eat with us, which was disappointing as we wanted this to be inclusive, but Sonam went to eat with his family without telling us at all. As a result there was more than enough and it cost more than we had wanted but it ended up being part of the next 4 meals, which made things easier later.
The next few days we bumbled along, ralaxing, meditating a little, but generally hiding due to the rain that started and was not going to stop now for a long time. This meant our plans to meditate in the cave or over looking the lake was thwarted and we actually started to get a bit of cabin fever. It is hard work to continually have to build a fire to eat, drink or do anything it seemed! It really is harder to relax and meditate than you think. There is always something to “do” and I am especially bad at “doing” things that are not really necessary. Our meditation comprised mostly facing out of the guesthouse at the view, sometimes this was “zoning out”, but either way I started to understand the fundamental starting point of Taoist meditation that I had been learning up until then.
The Spanish girls had their last day and although they couldn’t make spanish omlette, made 2 courses, including Bruscetta and a dried shrimp dish, which was good. More rum and a good night we said our goodbyes.
The next day we went out on the hunt with Sonam and his wife, who turned out to be a true sour puss. Deep in the jungle we were scouting out Sisnu (edible stinging nettle) and edible fern, but the rain and wet ground meant that leeches were EVERYWHERE. Sonam with just flipflops and shorts ignored them and said that they remove bad blood. the rest of us reviewed and flicked off the i9nvaders from below and weren’t impressed with their approach of sticking out straight to look like a stick and then clinging on when you brush past. Things became more and more dense and we eventually gave up on leeches. I simply tied my shoes up as tight as possible and pulled my socks up. There are so many types of fern that a positive identification is hard. You need to pick those that are young with the leaves uncurling in a spiral before unwrapping its leaves. Some ferms are poisonous and if you rub any open wound or part of your body, including your eyes then that area will not stop burning for 3 days Sonam assures us. We sloshed through deep streams and thick grasses to search for just a few “spring vegetables” as they call the edible fern. When we arrived back it turns out that we only took a walk around the lake- the back way. Sonam’s feet had at least 26 leeches attached and full of blood. He covered them in ash to kill them through dehydration and blood poured down his legs…. they love the ankle area best. Laura also had been fully attacked and had 24 leeches, included fully infested socks, which she noticed only after peeling off the leeches and then rediscovering more after putting them back on! I can out fairly ok with only 7 due to the tightness of my boots. There were loads literally queuing up around the lip of my boots and when I opened my shoes they were off to find my pulse… unlucky suckers!
That evening after battling with the fire again, due to increasing water logging of the cooking area we eventually ended up with a meal harvested from the jungle and we ate 3 plates hungrily.
After a week in Khecheopalri we decided that we had overstayed our visit as well. Although we were indeed lucky that we did not have bed bugs (well a few suspect, but nothing major) we had been sleeping badly and became increasingly irritable, which is not the intended vibe of Khecheopalri and although we had completed some meditation we felt this was difficult due to the conditions making us wet, dirty, generally cold and hungry. We should be able to meditate to reduce our needs in these respects, but failed. We decided to head back to “Real India” and West Bengal to Darjeeling, which we diverted around due to the strike a month ago. It has gone quickly in Sikkim, but we feel that we did well in staying for a week in each place to understand it more than just as a fleeting visit, which most people seemed to do. We would love to go back to Khecheopalri despite the challenges it brought.
On our last night we thought we would have some chicken, as we agreed with Sonam it would be good and he seemed keen. we decided 2kg was enough for 4 of us but with some misunderstandings Sonam wouldn’t eat with us again as it was not local chicken (apparently it was from Siliguri). He went down to pick up some sugar, but promised he would be back to show us his way of doing this- the main reason for cooking the meal. Once again he deserted us and we battled with a fire with just wet wood, until Mr Bean came back and started cutting down bits of the house making it easy. Very frustrating to be left to cook despite paying for the meal and not being told where dry wood is or anything to make life easier. Sonam eventually returned and told us he would cook it. It was 9pm so we were skeptical, especially as it was 2kg. Sonam announced it was ready in 15 minutes after holding it naked flames… a sure fire route to a burnt skin and raw centre. Surprise surprise it was grossly undercooked. He put it back on the fire but after 15 more minutes was still not cooked. Sonam insisted that that is how the locals ate it and they even ate it raw, with the Lepcha’s drinking the blood also. We refused and you could see his disappointment as he had to buy a whole chicken and sell 3kg to provide for us. They ate the chicken anyway to prove that they were telling the truth and I ate a few pieces that were dubious, but was weary because of Aurangabad. Yet I couldn’t see how they could be so confident and for us to not eat it. Surely they had done this before!? Perhaps it was so fresh that bacteria couldn’t have developed yet? Either way this proved that some cultural gaps were extremely difficult to close.
The next day we headed off at 6am again ready for a 3 jeep journey. With another jeep that has material as a roof and DIY welding on the body we set off one saturated roads hoping for the best.
Pelling to bake, watch the world cup and chill. August 4, 2010
Posted by admin in : India , add a commentA 6am jeep ride in the torrential rain was like being at Universal Studios, only on this ‘Wet and Wild’ ride you CAN die. The land was really saturated and we went past many landslides that had been cleared. At one point we went under a small waterfall. The goat in the back of the jeep took it all in his stride though…obviously quite a norm to have such a journey!
Arriving in Pelling, we went for breakfast a hostel in town with the hope of securing a cheap room there too. The breakfast hall was really crowded with about 60 people all eating Subzi Puri (Indian style breakfast of veggie slob and fried chapati). It turned out that the crowd was a Bhutanese film crew. A few of them wearing traditional Bhutanese clothing socks with flip flops and a silk dressing gown! One man in this attire was the most famous actor in Bhutan. Al got the all important tourist snap, which we didn’t want but we thought would be apt considering the temporary entourage they had collected.
In the breakfast hall we also met 2 English girls and 1 Israeli guy, who turned out to be good companions for the following week. They were the most British people I had spoken to since arriving in India, and weirdly, very refreshing and funny!
We opted for a room in another hotel nearby, after I stayed and drank tea with the girls and Al marched around in the rain haggling for the best deal. What a star 
Our room was at the top of Pelling (the whole town was situated on a steep hill). It was a clean room with a communal balcony, hot shower and a TV (for the all important final of the World Cup)- all for Rs200 (4 quid). So we were happy and looking forward to digging in for a little while. We both agree in the philosophy that when traveling for a long period of time and moving around a lot, it is important to have chill out days too. This felt like the right place to achieve this.
With the continued interest to do volunteering work, we hear about the possibility of working at an English school and orphanage run by a Buddhist monastery, Pemayangste. We decide to explore this opportunity and walk up to the monastery to speak to the monk in charge, Cptn Yongda. The walk out of Pelling to the monastery is fantastic. Large pine trees line the steep winding road, with cloud flowing through the trunks makes the place feel very magical. We saw this sign on the way, it seemed pretty apt:
En route to the monastery we stumble across a little bakery. They serve good coffee and selection of bakery items. I am in heaven, as only days earlier I had dreamt about eating cake! This served as a good pit stop for our ascent to the monastery where we located Captain Yongda. He was in the middle of a meeting, but saw us waiting in his office, so unexpectedly excused himself so he could speak with us. He was one of those people that had an amazing aura about him. I think he is the first person like it I have ever met. He felt important, but kind and generous all at once. He explained to us that it wouldn’t be possible to work at the school as we required a work permit in Sikkim. He could see we were disappointed, so said that if we keep a low key we could help out at the bakery, which we then learnt gave the profits to the school and orphanage, also set up by him. Excellent! I was so excited to be able to put my bakery skills to good use. He asked us if we could teach the staff some English bakery. Green Tea cake immediately sprung to mind! Al was eager to teach Cheese Twists…sorted. We agreed to come and help in a few days time. Just as we were ready to leave his office, he invited us into his important meeting and introduced us to several important distinguished men of Sikkim, including the Mayor and Headmaster of the school.
After a quick introduction we headed back to the Monastery to have a look around. There was one room that we couldn’t pin point at first, but the sound of a low drum beat echoed around the wooden building and a drone of Buddist chanting could be heard. We had heard of this monastery from other foreigners who said it was amazing, and it was. There is an air about a place and this was one of them. Truly intoxicating peace combined with awe of the intimidating statues towering over the rooms, decorated by detailed artworks from the ancient scriptures (as above).
The top floor had a massive wooden carving of the Buddist circle of life, which was described to us, but didn’t prepare us for it. It was massive, took 5 years to make and was really intricate. Around the walls images of the different incarnations of Buddha and his disciples. Interestingly there were also curtains scattered around the wall that looked out of place…. Al had a cheeky peek and found the above image. The Buddists today mostly renounce the sexual yoga and spiritual development through sexual acts, but as an old monastery we guessed that these pieces had been produced before this change in the Buddist moral code. Feeling guilty of having a look under deliberately placed cover but believing that this is an important part of Buddist history and also assured by the thought that if no one sees us then no one is offended (a philosophical treatment in itself) we sure caught a glimpse of things that no one else had dared, as we found out later in the hotel. We felt awed as we left and a sense of peace from the leader of the monastery, the place itself, setting and the thought that we can help support their activities.
As we had just arrived we decided to rest in our decent room for 2 days before helping out at the bakery. We watched some of the world cup games on our TV, ate at the hotel restaurant and became acquainted with the staff who were Sikkimise through and through. That evening we decided with our new traveller companions to buy in some beers etc. The shop down the road were charging far higher than the “MRP” (maximum retail price), which is a good guide to avoid being conned. There are a few “added extras”, e.g. blags that people give to charge more. This time it was transportation from Gazing, where most people in West Sikkim buy their weekly provisions. With company Al really couldn’t be bothered to engage in a debate, but let the lady know that we knew her game.
That evening was spent drinking “Hit” 8% beer, a few Old Monk rum and cokes and some laughs with most people staying at the hotel (collectively we were loud enough to force everyone to join in!) We met a crazy New Zealand guy whose mustache has grown so long it was permanently in his mouth. I told Al that he better not go that far! We watched the world cup and relaxed, intermittently staring out at another amazing view and chatting to the owner about Sikkim. The owner was a very proud Sikkimese man who disliked the West Bengalis treating the place like a holiday home. This is why most the hotels are closed during the low season, as the Bengalis only come to capitalise on the tourist season, so the place is empty in low season. He was pleased to hear that we were to be helping out at the bakery the next day and also warned us of the bakeries in town who are very bad at changing their stock and reports of people getting ill from them. Who would have thought- illness by cakes. The world is so unfair.
The next day we set off at 7:30am walking the 3km through the wet heavily forested road, lined with rocks dripping water through the moss that covers them to the school. No one was there. We had let them know, but also knew that we were still in India. At 8:30am two girls we had seen the other day turned up. We went inside and tried to tell them that we had come to help, but they didn’t seem to understand or want to either and instead started cleaning. Despite numerous attempts to help we failed and were met with “Yonga, ok”. We waited almost an hour until another man turned up and who spoke enough English to know what we were trying to do and made some suggestions of how to help. They didn’t seem to know we were coming like they were supposed to. Eventually however another guy turned up who was to start learning and ultimately becoming the main baker. He was happy for us to help and teach him some recipes.
We soon found out that this was to be harder than we thought. The place was ultimately very poorly maintained and levels of hygiene were poor. There was no real record of how old items were, moldy dough was left on the side, nothing was washed well and the place was, overall dirty. The guy took no responsibility nor directed cause, but Al reiterated that the most important aspect of getting this right had to be a good level of cleanliness and effective stock control in the first instance. The next issue was ingredients. There was no butter, a kind of requisite for a bakery. Al went first to bake his cheese straws and substituted butter for oil. We paid for the cheese to make them and other ingredients and were amazed when they turned out better than they do at home. The price per unit would be fairly high as a 200gm block of cheese is Rs100, but the tourists would love them. A success under the circumstances and while Al began cleaning and sorting out the equipment I set about baking a green tea cake with no butter and only black tea. In just half the day the cake was out and despite being a little sunken in the middle due to fluctuating temperature in the oven as a result of bread being cooked in the meantime. Al had passed on a recipe and the kitchen was now spotless, old rusted tins disposed of and things a little ordered. Next Al got wind of an entrance problem, where the rainwater flowed around the steps in and meant kids had to walk through water. He set about building a bridge and moat to stretch across the front of the bakery so that in the monsoon the water wouldn’t cause an entrance problem. Using the silver and gold rock in the area he made a gold entrance for the place that looked amazing!
At around 4pm we were invited for lunch at the school. We headed up and met some of the local kids who live at the school through being orphaned and were cooked a freshly picked meal of ’spring greens’ with Dal, rice and Nepali (hot) Aloo Dum, which was becoming a favourite of ours. We were starving and so ate gladly, especially because of how fresh and good for you a vegetarian/ rice meal is for you. We left the school and headed back to the hotel afterwards full to the brim and having realised that we had done all we could at the bakery at that time. Our first volunteering experience was a good one and despite initial misunderstandings, felt they had been glad of the support and that we actually left something of worth behind to benefit the place, which is something that many people do not feel afterwards.
We also bought some bread to supplement our breakfast next day as we sensed that things were racking up towards ‘expensive’, a bad point of adding things to your bill. The single aluminium pot we bought in Tashading was becoming useful for storing random bits like tomatoes and onion that can be used to make sandwiches or supplement egg on toast for breakfast and makes things cheaper. We are all about cheaper.
After another “Internet day” and relax we said goodbye to the English girls and set off for a walk back down the road we came from. The rains had developed many more waterfalls that we collected water from and Al clambered up insisting on a shower in a waterfall, which is easier said than done! We had no direction, but always find that the best way. We saw fresh landslips since our arrival, found the local TB clinic which we learned is in every town or available. TB is still a killer in India, but the government are making free medicine available to make this a thing of the past. After a few hours we reached a point where a traditional village was supposed to be. We saw a few houses that were wooden but built on base pile of uncemented stone and double slanted tin roof with a gap at the top point to let fire smoke out. This didn’t seem like a village though. Either way the rain which had been a drizzle was now a downpour and so we decided to head back, by jeep if one was passing through. After 10 minutes of heading back we heard a jeep sound, but it was a goods carrier. Eitherway they let us ride with them to Tashading, bouncing around inches from the roadslips above the overly large drop below with our heavy stone cargo. We said our thankyous and without saying a word in acknowledgment or goodbye set off back to the saftey of our hotel room. En route we decided to eat in a roadside shack looking place for a fix of Indian food and ate well for Rs40 (60p). Many places are such a disappointment, but it is always great when you find a cheap shack that serves great food at almost no cost.
That evening as we were due to set off to Khecheopalri Lake Al asked to watch the preparation of a Thentuk, the Tibetan soup we had been eating to add to his growing recipe collection, so ended up making his own dinner! We realise that Sikkimese food is great, but the range is fairly limited and so Indian food is always welcome as we realised at lunch. We did also realise that we were going to take home a bad momo habit and craving that we would need to maintain!
The next day after our usual combo of egg on toast with additional market extras we sorted our bill, reminded ourselves that 35 pound for 5 days stay with hot water and TV, including most meals was still excellent value and waited by the side of the road in glorious sunshine and a sweat for the first time in a week waiting for the arranged jeep to the lake.
- Written by Laura
Yuksom in the clouds July 31, 2010
Posted by admin in : India , 2commentsWe were told that there was a share jeep that would pass through Tashading to Yuksom at 11am or 1pm. With luggage in tow we waited patiently on the side of the road waiting for the jeep. The 11am one was stuffed, no way would we be able to catch that one. So we continued to wait on the side of the road for several hours, each time a jeep whizzing through or packed with people, our confidence that we would catch one decreased by the hour. No one had mentioned in conjunction with jeep advice that it was market day, so extra busy. The one good thing about sitting on the side of the village road indefinitely was the fantastic people watching opportunities. For the past week, the village had seemed pretty sleepy, and now there were all sorts of people coming out of the wood work! One old farmer lady dressed in traditional Nepali clothing with a massive gold nose ring hiked passed us with a huge basket hanging from her head. She didn’t have any shoes, and to be honest it looked like she had never owned a pair in her life! Those feet must have taken a battering, I had thought to my myself, recalling the hectic climb we had endured to the river only day ago.
It seemed we were a pretty good market attraction for the locals too. The westerners sat at the bottom of the market with big bags were turning out to be great amusement to the kids who spent the next few hours walking past us, up and down the hill, each time shouting NAMASTE! a little louder than the last time. We had to chuckle.
The rain began to start about 2pm and a jeep finally passed us at about 3pm with just enough room for us and our bags. By this time the rains were really coming down. This jeep ride felt a little more hair raising than the last. Despite the lack of views, we did get to see the Phamrong Falls en route, which really were breathtaking.
Arriving in Yuksom was like arriving in a massive cloud. Wet and very foggy. We fell into the nearest hostel, escaping from the outdoors. This turned out to be a good deal as we had a whole dorm to ourselves for Rs60 (90p) per night. Cold and damp, but we were getting used to this…
Yuksom is the place where the major treks to North Sikkim start and the main trailhead for the Khangchendzonga trek. Being off season, the small town felt a bit more like a ghost town, especially with the impending cloud that was not looking like it was going to go anywhere. Only one cafe was our access to food and tea. It was OK, but portions weren’t particularly generous or that appetising. When it is cold and rainy, we have realised that a good cuppa is pretty key to our sanity.
Nevertheless, Yuksom had a few local walks with some interesting things to see. So we spent one full day taking the sights in. A fair few Gompas lined the town, 2 of which we walked to. The most fascinating thing for me was Norbugang Park which is home to the coronation throne of the first Sikkim Chogyal. It was a beautiful park, really nice a fresh with the fine rain. There was an actual footprint fused in stone infront of the throne which is believed to be of one of the crowning lamas. Dubious? No. It was spookily realistic.
The walk to the park took us out of the little town, where immediately ALL of the stray dogs started to follow us (or shall I say, me). They aren’t aggressive or too gammy, but all the same, I really would have preferred if they hadn’t followed us (collecting their friends on the way). I have begun to wonder if I smell of dog or something. Al insisted that it is because they can smell my hormones. GREAT. Anyone who knows me well enough will know that I am not comfortable around dogs at the best of times! One slight deterrent I did discovered on this walk was my umbrella. If I opened it in the dogs face it stopped them from following me for all of about 3 seconds!
The walk took us past Kathok Lake, a Holy lake with loads of prayer flags. It was murky, but peaceful all the same. I say peaceful, it was until we left the lake edge, where we proceeded to scream like little girls. LEACHES. Little buggers on our shoes. It was our first experience of them. Although we had been anticipating them, when one is ‘marching’ very quickly towards skin and you can’t get it off of you, it is a tad disconcerting. Meanwhile, dogs and locals are stood there watching us with amusement as we struggle to rid ourselves of these blood sucking pests!
When we had reached the Norbugang park and enjoyed seeing the coronation throne, massive Buddhist prayer wheel and Monastery; we devised a cunning plan…. With the dogs still in tow, we thought it would be amusing if we locked them in the grounds of the Monastery. So we quickly darted out the gates, shutting them in on our way out. The dogs stood there with their heads through the bars watching us longingly. I felt a little bad, but not for long. We walked back down the hill in hysterical laughter…only to see a monk on his way up. CRAP. He would release the hounds! We kept up our speed, but before long we had our furry friends trotting along side us once more.
With the weather persisting, and only much longer treks to do in Yuksom, we decided to relocate to Pelling the following day.
Tashading or was that Tashadingaling? July 29, 2010
Posted by admin in : India , add a commentCruising along the Sikkimese country is beautiful mixed with fear. Boulders strewn across the road and recent slips degrading the road in too recent times makes things a little more distracting.
Heading further and further into the cloud line we finally admitted that things were feeling a little ‘chilly’, something we said we would relish in the Indian plains, baking in 40C plus heat. The lush, dense forest makes it worth it and it is still actually hot despite now being at 2000m above sea level.
We rolled into Tashading despite the jeep driver forgetting to tell us when to get off. This really quaint little village, built on a and stretching along it up to a Buddist Gompa we made it in the middle of low season- more and more we realise the BEST time to visit. We found an empty hotel and negotiated our usual “off season discount” of about 25-50% every time. The owner was the local school teacher and after eating in the one crappy restaurant that had anything to eat except momos he offered us a kerosene cooker. This is perfect fuel for the poor costing just Rs12 per liter (18p to cook at least 6 long-cooking time meals), subsidised by the Indian government. Nice one.
We had good views in Gangtok, but this takes it another level and we start to feel as though the view will a) never tire us and b) never stop impressing for each place we move to.
We also realised that we were in the middle of nowhere through a massive brown and black spider that was sitting on our wall. A mosquito net is crucial in India, not just for mosquitos, but we then realise to stop any other malicious insects and other animals from joining you in bed. We decided to leave the spider alone and in the morning it was gone, which was perhaps more disturbing, but we did not see it again. This place is a breeding ground for a multitude of species of spiders, butterflies and moths of all kinds. In the bathroom alone I counted at least 30 different types of moth, not just those with different markings, but those that were inherently different. I have never been interested in wildlife until I visited India and started encountering a variety of different animals, but this has taken my interest into the next level.
After we were setup and had eaten we headed up to the Gompa (monastery). We were tired as we were up at 5am, but pushed onwards and up for the 20 minute uphill climb. It was worth it. Gompas are beautiful but this especially so and the Tibetan Buddist design work around them intricate in the wooden carving and brightly coloured paintwork depicting scenes from the Buddist scriptures. It was positioned on the highest point on the ridge and so the views were as equally serene. The place was so tranquil we could have slept there easily in the most springy grass I have felt before. Driven by hunger however we retreated back to our Guesthouse/ Hotel and relaxed until the next day.
Tashading was a real local community and small enough village where we quickly became familiar faces and recognised and acknowledged the people there. We developed relationships and understandings with the local ‘off license’, the local fuel and medical store, and the local restaurant owner. This is great as they quickly know what you need and understand that they cannot rip you off. A few places tried to and we quickly made it known that we knew the score and moved our business elsewhere- permanently. I enjoy making this point immensely, as I still find it hard to understand how some people think that foreigners are so stupid and are prepared on paying double the going rate- I guess many do.
We had a few days of wandering around and generally hanging out, listening to people and seeing what people do in their daily lives in each place. On our second day we found a shack that was perched on the back of the steep mountainous hill, made by a young guy who based it on a Goan back shack. The place instead had 4 locals drinking cheap rum at 11am. Apparently he did food, but this turned out to be pasta only as he had nothing else… although it did have italian herbs, which none else has even heard of, so that was interesting. It was a shame though as he told me that he was going to change the place into a shop selling shirts, as the tourist season doesn’t support it out of season. Instead locals all turn up, drink too much and have constant fights. This is surprising in a place that is so quiet and with so few people! he seemed despondent though and like other young people I have talked to wants to get out of Sikkim and head for the cities to get ‘real’ work and a ‘real life’. It is funny that grass is always greener on the other side and I always explain the realities of living in a city like London when they claim that they love London so much, while they can tell me nothing about it. We sat on our private roof terrace that night discussing how we would love to live in Sikkim and the life here. We also decide to walk down to the river below the next day and go for a self-styled trek.
We were told the river was around an hour walk down some steps to the river- it wasn’t far. We set off in the heat of the day and timed it to coincide with the daily routine of the early morning cloud cover (which literally surrounds Tashading) being burnt off by the sun and to get back before the cloud builds up again in the afternoon covering the village and raining later in the afternoon, before the distant evening storms in the plains. The steps were fine, despite being steep- for 2 minutes. Quickly the steps turned into mud steps, which narrowed as we headed deeper into the thickening jungle. The humidity increased massively, as did the heat and the climate change was incredible in how it changed. Sweat dripped non stop off my nose and I became dizzy with overheating. The river was only slightly bigger.
We headed deeper into the wilderness after we passed the hill people cultivating corn and carrying huge bails of greenery for their small number of livestock. The path disappeared and became steep, which slowed progress. Tropical animals sounds surrounded us now and we could not see our feet. I fell and landed in stinging nettles (5 times the size as those in the UK) after banging my head and really became disorientated. To make matters worse we packed only 2 litres of water to keep our weight burden light. We then had to decide whether to set back up or to continue into what was now pretty much nothing. We pushed on. Eventually the sound of the river really grew and actually looked reachable, but we were now walking along sections that had sheer drop offs into dense undergrowth- not a good place to slip, despite the ground being algae covered clay.
Our final decent was negotiating 5 rocks that were balanced across another steep drop into nothingness, these wobbled alarmingly as we hald onto each other, but finally charged through, incurring more stings and cuts. the river was no longer the peaceful thing we were daydreaming to previously, but completely not made for swimming in. Pools created by massive rocks generated by landslides were welcoming. Laura jumped into the side stream and instantly sank to her knees- she was still sinking. It was quicksand. Laura pulled herself out the other side and I jumped in arse first to spread my weight before climbing up onto the rocks on the other side. We knew that water tricking through rock is clean at the top of the hill and less so at the bottom, due to the increasing number of potential pollutants, but we had no option and filled the bottle with water. We sat in the pool with weight spread half onto the edge of the quicksand pool to cool off in the fresh water. I washed my underwear and sat naked for an hour in the sun. A beautiful moment to be cool and clean at the same time after being drenched in sweat. It is great to be reminded what nature can give you if you are prepared to take it.
The grueling climb back up was even harder on our legs and worked my lungs harder than they have worked in a while, but ascending from the tropical environment and back into the temperate environment higher up the mountain somehow made it easier because you were getting cooler as you were getting hotter- if you know what I mean!
We deserved meat after all that exertion and so headed to a man we had seen killing chickens by breaking their back the day earlier. The chicken in Sikkim roam free and are a beautiful yellow colour. We fried it in spiced and ate this with a tomato/potato combination while sipping Hit cool beer the guy had pre-chilled for us (they don’t do this unless requested due to the cost of chilling drinks. We watched the football until the power was cut, as it usually is on a 4 times a day average.
After 5 days in Tashading we again decided to move on, as we could have easily stayed for longer, but more of Sikkim was calling. We knew that there was bound to be more places at least as beautiful as this and we were aware that we had also used half of our maximum time in Sikkim. We decided to move to Yuksom, which was the start of treks and the first capital of Sikkim.
Real Varanasi July 5, 2010
Posted by admin in : India , add a commentAfter our relaxing 3 days we prepared ourselves for ‘the real Varanasi’ and headed off by autorickshaw to be dumped 15 minutes walk away from our destination “The brown bread bakery”. Rated by the Lonely Planet, but not by us. Overcharging, uninterested and the volunteering they apparently offered seemed to be seasonal (I am not sure that poor and abused kids are only in such a condition from October till May, but overall felt the whole brand they have built up (Everyone knows The Brown Bread Bakery) seems to be a self fulfilling prophecy of money-making to me. My advice? Ask around there are loads of good projects to get involved with, don’t follow a guidebook to help people, chose a cause you actually care about, one that you can actually contribute to and one that is less well supported. Locals always know of good causes you can help out with. We sacked the place off and followed a tout who took us to another basic hostel come hotel, for just Rs150 for a double room (that’s 1.20 each).
Unfortunately like Aurangabad an overstretched city like this experiences many power cuts. In 46C heat with 60% humidity you feel that. We woke up when ever the power and our life line the ceiling fan turned off. Reading was the only option. It was tough, but had to be done after 3 days extravagance. We considered that we deserved it and sacrifice is a part of travel. The Golden Lodge was a good cheap place though and the guys who ran the place were really interesting guys, the chef had a crazed (as most are) laugh and was happy to have in depth conversation about being a Hindu and of Brahmin caste. Brahmins always wear thin cord around their shoulder and waist. It turns out that there are too many Brahmins working in religious institutions and religious teachers for the amount people need, so now the are setting up businesses and tend to do well as they are the most respected group in society. Before you ask, yes if you wear a cord and pretend it will not wash as you have to have in depth knowledge on the lineage of the Brahmin caste and this is something other Brahmins will ask you instantly.
The first day was pretty much sent exploring the old city, a rambling maze of narrow, cobbled alleyways which ultimately all led to the Ganges and the Ghats. As Varanasi is one of the most Holy cities in India and the oldest constantly inhabited city in the world things center around religious practice. This generally focuses on the Ghats as the Ganges is the provider, absolves people’s sins and the toilet all at once. The Ganges has 25 raw sewage points in Varanasi and yet people bathe, drink and wash in these waters. This is despite the fact that 8 million fecal particles exist in every litre of water, over 100x the recommended for drinking water. I know this due to the many conversations I have had with Indians about the irony surrounding the situation. Hindus do not eat pigs as they eat and wallow in their own excrement and are the lowest class of animal. And yet the most holy river for the Hindu religion has more poo in it than most other rivers in the world. Ha. Tragic really and everyone in India agrees, generally with a slow shake of the head in dismay.
Either way the Ghats are a hive of activity at any point as not just foreign visitors pour into the area. Mostly Southern Indians come to Varanasi for their major “Puja” (prayer) and every morning will visit the golden temple, make offerings to Shiva and then walk down the alleyways to the Ganges to bathe in the holy water or float a candle down the river. The place is a mass of colour, sounds and action. Different ceremonies are happening at the same time, people bathing, chanting, waving flames around, tai-chi like moves on the banks, loudspeakers reciting prayers all at the same time.
The next day we took another another stroll through the lanes of Old Varanasi to get used to the layout and the place in general. We looked at some of the temples, performed puja ourselves at the Ganesh shrine to wish for good fortune in the wealth department (Ganesh’s specialty) before investigating a boat ride the following morning. Before a further explore we needed tea. It was just 10:20am and I was already soaked all the way through in sweat. It is seriously hot in the summer in the confines of the old city. Gazing across from the highest view point on the river bank we saw a dust devil form and die on the sands on the other side of the Ganges through shear heat. It was that hot.
Understanding the fabric industry:
After a brief scope around we headed back towards our hotel and stopped in at some of the many clothing shops lining the streets. Khadi is the Varanasi fabric of note and what they are famous for. It is a hand woven cloth that can use various materials, but ultimately results in a loosely woven, but thick cloth. Ghandi used Khadi as a symbol of Indian independence and urged Indians to only buy Khadi cloth to support the people. In India it works well as its thickness absorbs a lot of sweat, but its loose weave means that a draft penetrates to your body, cooling you down and drying the material quicker than machine made fabric. The sellers were a mass of information on fabric and were more than happy to teach you what they knew. Did you know that in order to tell what material is being used you can pull off some of the thread and burn it? If it smells like newspaper it is cotton, if it smells like plastic it is polyester and if it smells like burning hair then it is silk. A lot of the sellers will mix polyester with silk and sell it as raw silk to improve their profits, but not if you know this! If you are going to try this then you must take thread from both directions of the fabric and test it, as fabric is produced by weaving thread in two directions. You can also see if a fabric has been machine or hand woven. Machine made fabric shows uniform lines on one direction as small imperfections deposit more colour in some areas that you can see.
We sat with the Khadi wallers (men) and drank tea from disposable unbaked clay pots, which you chuck out of any window onto the street for the rain to reclaim the clay into the earth. What an ace idea (although seen in some UK festivals it is not used widely enough!) We discussed the nature of Khadi, who produced it, learnt about its background and became more and more interested at looking at the distribution of Khadi clothing in the UK. Not only does it support local people with a fair wage, but is also a practical material that Westerners know little about.
….and back to reality:
Being spat out of a shop after sitting there for hours is like being given birth to… the heat and smells hit you once more like being slapped…. in a good way! The next day we thought we would relax and catch up with ourselves. You need time to relax and take stock, sitting and observing things as they happen, for me, is the most valuable experience, as you get to pick up on things that you wouldn’t otherwise see. I learnt about Paan that day and how people process Betel Nut bark to produce a highly concentrated stimulant that is rolled in a Betel Nut leaf with dried coconut, the actual Betel Nut and tobacco. This is the red substance that we now know covers the pavements and stains the rubbish bins (people spit like they would with chewing tobacco but all over the place). Apparently unscrupulous dealers are replacing the red jelly that is formed with red food colouring that is reducing the potency of the mixture, something many Paan chewers are concerned about.
At the Ghats a tout/guide/ overly friendly person introduced himself in the usual way, which spells money grabbing. We are becoming accustomed to this now though and as long as you do not feel guilty for taking and then not giving (what the Indians often pray on) then there is no problem. The guy was helpful in showing us around and explaining some of the temples and the well that Shiva and Parvarti supposedly bathed in together. Then he fetched us some tea and then tried to sell us some marijuana, when this didn’t work he tried to take us to his shop and then the factory where the things he sells in his shop are produced. When a decisive “No” is given they continue to follow, but as long as you don’t mind that and continue as you would then they lose interest and leave you alone. Shanty (to be easy/ chill!) is the key.
Meandering through the lanes, picking up the best spinach and onion pakora (deep fried crispy veg) en route and realising that rice flour is the key, we stumbled across the burning Ghats, which is where wealthy Hindu’s burn and scatter their dead. We actually ended up walking above the pyers quite by accident. Usually priests lead you up there and drag a donation to help pay for the wood that is used during the burning process. There was no one around and so we saw 7 bodies at different point of decomposition, flesh and form exposed to leave a prominent image in our heads about this truly interesting ritual. Different types of wood are offered, sandlewood being the most expensive, the amount of wood is weighed and then calculated accordingly depending on the size of the body. The bodies are carried down to the Ghats through the lanes with two pole bearers at the front and back, who are not related to the dead. All the way “Rama is true” is repeated, which they ultimately say to mean “Here is the dead, the one thing that is guaranteed is to ultimately be reunited with God (Rama)”
The next day the boat ride came. We woke at 4am to get there for sun rise and after a spot of negotiation agreed on a slightly above the guide price, but this meant we secured a full 2 hours, which many people had said was too long. It was not. Trawling slowly down the Ganges watching morning puja take place, with more people spilling onto the Ghats to perform their personal prayer and blessings. The morning was misty and yet still humid, which gave the distance a dulled view and dampened the colour of the place, giving it a really eerie feel. Across from the Ghats on the other bank is a flat of sand that is flooded during the monsoon, a few temporary huts and boats sat there bobbing in the slow current and just a few boats were out pulling out inadequately sized fish and definitely something I would not want to eat. We slowly rowed past all the Ghats to the south, each having been built by a different civilization that owned or influenced the city at the time. At the southern most point I landed ashore to pick up some tea and slowly headed back upstream to see the same backwards. We saw a fish that was dead by “natural” causes- I suspect the toxicity of the river. We saw a dead cow being ripped apart by wild dogs and a man literally 6 meters away having a wash. We saw people washing their clothes directly next to the sewage outlet pipes. We saw the ceremonies and daily chores all being performed simultaneously. You can see why the Ganges is believed to be the prover of everything that the city needs, but unfortunately it just isn’t as effective at doing that as it should be given the state it is in.
The next day we had arranged to do some Yoga with a guy that was recommended to us by our Hotel Manager. After a lot of the warnings of fake teachers we felt this would be ok. It was. For Rs200 (3 pounds) each per 1.5 hour session we covered the basic Hathi Yoga positions and 30 minutes of meditation, which compliments Yoga as ultimately the aim it to develop external and internal strength. We both left feeling great and looked forward to the next day. The next day came and went in a relaxed “what did we do today” kind of way. This session was equally good and straight afterward we headed to the Ganges feeling very Shanty for the evenings Ganges puja, which literally worships the river as provider. The ceremony was awesome, with intoxicating loudspeakers blasting out recitals of blessings and prayer. 7 bells were rang in time continuously and the drums rolled along with the spoken prayer. The usual throng of sellers left you alone if you looked involved in proceedings enough out of respect (for once) and just during the climax of events the rain began, people’s faces lit up as the monsoon rains finally reached Varanasi. It was just a shower, but the season had finally caught us up and at the most meaningful point. Magic.
The next day we had an afternoon train and so we just had time to go back to the Khadi shop to complete our final round of negotiation. This needed to include packing as the postal service require you to have a cloth stitched wrapper sealed with a wax stamp. We picked our colours and arranged things for our return journey back through Varanasi, which we felt was inevitable considering we pretty much buried ourselves in the old city, while there is some much more to explore.
To Varanasi and Luxury! July 3, 2010
Posted by admin in : India , 1 comment so farLanding on in our 2-tiered AC cabin because every other class was full, we were happy as we had previously decided to try every class in order to compare and find out what the differences were. Thus the relatively expensive Rs1950 (30 pounds for both) was a must and we didn’t feel bad. Feeling good about saving Rs700 on avoiding a hotel in Agra, we decided to treat ourselves to a spot of luxury when we reached Varanasi. Checking out a few Lonely Planet options we saw that there was a hotel called ‘Hotel Surya’, which had a good restaurant and pool for just Rs800 (12 pounds) for the room per night.
Both of these experiences fit into the upper middle class style that was also facing us on the train and so it all made sense… unfortunately for the train ride the people opposite us were the worst we have had to share a space with for over 8 hours. The middle classes in mid/north India are all so aloof and value themselves so much that they are rude and really selfish. They were ready to sleep at 9:30 and turned the only light off despite the fact they knew we were eating and reading. On the light goes…. you can already see what was bound to happen, but the tutting and childish game of turning the light off every 5 minutes was wearing especially considering the “two fat ladies” were just drinking coke and eating crisps and making the most (impressive in some circles) disgusting burping that made me feel ill. What was interesting though was that in sleeper class we have always been faced with a dominant male character who is very much the head of the household. The man in this situation just sat back and said nothing while sharp words were being exchanged and ignored literally everyone all night. I suspect this relates to other middle class people I have seen and met. The women are subservient to the man of the house, but not in the middle class.
I have to also emphasis what we suspected on previous train journeys. AC cabins disconnect you from the country and passing land. For us that is not ideal at all. It is sterile. You are given blankets and a towel for the shower, but really, where is the fun in all that!?
Being disconnected from the outside for 10 hours and eventually being woken up by vile scoffing noises we neared Varanasi. Having picked up on the fact that more expensive hotels in major cities will pick you up for free, we gave them a call to arrange in order to avoid the hectic onslaught of touts and rickshaw drivers. We were whisked away in a jeep in sweltering 46C heat sticking to your T-shirt within 5 minutes. When we arrived at Surya this was a moot point. A really good looking hotel, which would cost at least 75- 100 pounds per night, we realised we had made a good choice. First one in the pool was a loser and after that we ended up expending our stay by “just one more day” for 3 days. The good thing was that if we just stayed here in the pool and spent the cash on accommodation we were still within our 8 pound a day budget! Even more reason not to leave- sweet! To be honest we did well to avoid the spa treatments and get carried away. All we needed was a pool to jump in when the heat became too much and relax.
This was clearly disconnected from Varanasi. We were next to the Radission so the area was fairly posh (as it gets). Again we inadvertently ‘met’ a middle class family and I hate to say that it makes eating hard, but it does. They are very loud people and so ‘having a quiet meal’ is hard. Either way I had the first meat dish since Aurangabad- a mutton curry- which was good and was cooked through (I chose Mutton as it needs to be cooked for a long time and should therefore avoid the undercooked chicken issue experienced last time). The Indian gravy tastes so much better with a meat that needs slow cooking, the flavour develops. Laura craved some western food and so had moussaka. This panned out, but is a risky game in India- western food is generally terrible, and something I avoid generally as it is generally either bad quality or small in size. This was the only meal we had in the hotel restaurant due to cost. The remaining nights we ate street food. We found a great stall dishing out a mash up of all the food he had. Pani is a hollow crispy semolina shell, usually filled with spicy liquid (Puri) and coriander. Yet this guy mixed it with fried potato with tamarind and beans. It tasted so much like BBQ beans that considering the stuff this guy was using was quite different was really amazing. Culinary creativity on the streets!
We met another traveling couple who reconfirmed the benefits of working and traveling. Being a lumber jack in Canada or picking berries for 20USd per hour? Maybe a hostel worker in Australia? All seem doable to earn enough and carry on traveling. Forever maybe? Ah day dreaming in the sun, but definitely worth thinking about….
Working North via Jalgaon June 28, 2010
Posted by admin in : India , add a commentThis is a grubby little town, similar to Aurangabad. It is dusty hot, essentially “Arid” all over. That is fine though as we only have one night here before continuing our journey up to Agra.
Despite the general grime of the town, due to its position on the railway line it has become a hub market town and is on the silk route north. There are tailors abound and actually on organised ’shopping street’ that is in marked contrast to the rest of the place. Suits, shirts and Salwar Kameez’s (ladies trouser and long dress and scalf combo) were the order of the day, but we only perused the Salwar’s for Laura, as I am only trying to reduce what I am carrying and not gain more stuff, that tends to accumulate over time by default. My 4 items of clothing are also holding firm and my washing routine including Rs1 washing powder sachet can wash 3 items with no problem and is just enough to keep me fresh!
After walking along and spying some material that would suit Laura over the street, through my broken Hindi, sign language and persistence pointed us towards a market where we could turn the it into a Salwaar. Using the vague directions we found a man with a sewing machine, who quoted us double to what we were told, but as we had 5 hours left in the place figured that was fine as long as he produced it in time.
As a small town the people here stare at you a lot more, especially Laura and don’t feel at all bad at stopping in the street to just gawk at you. So it was not a surprise that there was a gathering of heads facing us and watching us and the situation unfold. We thought nothing of it. That was until we came to do the measurements and failed to consider the social complexities we were dealing with. A lady needs a lady tailor on the street, because of the need of touching the lady. As a result we were being pointed to a ladies tailor further down into the market, but due to the Indian people’s permanent “yes of course as long as you are giving me money attitude” mentioned nothing of it. People all around found this very amusing indeed.
The Hotel Plaza was the only real saving grace of the place for us, as the staff were interesting to talk to and very helpful indeed, which we are finding to be very rare traits of Indian people without an anterior motive. This was a Lonely Planet recommendation due to its cleanliness, but we are finding more and more that we don’t agree with most of the opinions given and so are using it less and less as a decision making tool of any kind- a good thing. The drawback we felt of the place was that it only let Westerners stay there and so as a “Our Pick” have concluded that the Lonely Planet is keen to keep everyone well within the ‘path well trodden’ and that we try to avoid.
The protectionist nature of Hotel Plaza was somewhat justified however, as reading on the steps of the hotel you would attract a group of people who would just stand and stare at you. Apparently this is because most of the people walking by have just come from the train station and are country people who rarely see Westerners. Either way it is a pain having your reading and Chai efforts continually interrupted by people asking the same boring, generic questions;
“Hello, where you from?”
“Ah England”
“What your name?”
“and Madam?”
“Ok”
“My name x……”
Then queue a silence and the guy (always, as women will never approach and talk they just look at you like you are wearing pants on your head with war paint on or something else massively inappropriate) will then just stand and look at us or ask some random question like;
“What Hotel Management like in UK?” (sic to this and everything above in speech brackets!)
As a commuter town it is a strange situation to be looking out and seeing a constant stream of people walking by in uniform spacing. I counted 27 people per 20 seconds, which usefully I thought meant that to see the whole 1.09 billion people in India at this rate would take 25.58574 years. Hmmmn, anyway, you do have time to think about this kind of core issue when traveling and give yourself space!
After a while you start to get used to the gormless comments and ignoring people is now a lot easier, although I’d rather say after the introductory comments “I’m sorry gumby you faded out there… what was that you fancy my girlfriend do ya- well gutted. Bye!”
So next day I asked the Hotel Manager.
“I have a question for you… why do the Indian people stare at us so much?”, I inquire.
“Well… let me tell you something and what I think and I’ll be frank. They look at Madam. Now, I know you people. I have been here 20 years and know white skin and how you are. But these people have not, they only know this area. In your culture you have lots of freedoms; sex before marriage, but here sex only after marriage and young people are very frustrated. Some people are only married at 28 or more, so from 16 – 28 they are frustrated.
If a lady is standing outside the front here smoking then I advise her to come inside, otherwise people will stop and stare. These people, especially the uneducated think the girl is a hippy and easy if she smokes. There was a problem in the 70’s when all the hippies came to India. They smoked drugs, sunbathed and walked around naked. So people now often think white people are all hippies- free and easy, so they might have a chance (with a lady). The trouble is the more they stare the more their mind is working and this can lead to trouble. People in India are good people, they care about their local community, most people are scared about what people think of them. If madam was to start to shout, people would go away quickly, as they care about what their community think.”
“Ok, so how can I tell people in Hindi to have respect?”
“Tamiez Rakier” (Phonetic spelling only!)
So the next day glad to be leaving we arrived at the station, but no train on screen. Laura panics.. is this the right station, have we missed it, is this the right date etc…. Turns out the train is 16hrs late! Damn, ok back to Plaza, who still had our room in the same condition. Right…. we deserve a beer!
Recommended the Bombay Hotel halfway down the 2 minute walk between the hotel and station we enter. Men… everywhere. Hmmmn that generally means a bar in the traditional sense of a male only drinking hole, oh well it was Laura’s idea (as I still had a recovering stomach), we are up for it anyway, let’s go… We were ushered into the back room. One loud man with a table of 3 quiet goons insisted on ‘making friends’ and especially picked up on Laura’s order of a large beer, the same as mine. “You know… this is bad, no no, women should not drink” the man directs at me. Again it is clear this is going to be a difference of woman’s place in society and this also means that the women are not spoken to but the men have ‘issues’ directed at them.
After forcibly discussing some of the merits of the difference in culture, India’s beauty and the usual topics of our status in society I was told, “Hey, have some of this (whiskey) in your beer, it is really good”. Well, obviously I am not stupid enough to think this was done, but after 5 minutes of continual harassment I give in and think go on then I’ve had worse and if it feeds your small ego then great. After a half shot is added and I drink it laughter erupts and the whole place thinks this is hilarious.
“Good?” the man asks sarcastically.
“Fine” I retort “is that what your are drinking?”
“No I don’t drink that”
“You should try it, it is really good. Here have some beer in your whiskey and lemonade”.
“No” the guy insists in the same manner as I was in 10 minutes ago.
“Go on…”, I say pouring it in anyway.
Unhappy about the turn in the situation and the establishment’s eyes fixed on what is happening. So the guy tries it and winces, everyone laughs and settles down.
“Have a bottle of rum with me”, the man says next. Oh bloody hell my acceptance and diffusion didn’t really work, but in retrospect it was unlikely to, but with a love of situational experimentation it was worth a go. I am not up for a bottle of rum really due to my stomach, but can always have a few rum and coke’s and the 180ml bottles are not heavy duty. The guy is slurring from one, so let’s match him and see how things pan out…
“Ok, if you are buying”, I say
“OF COURSE!”, he replies
Using the guys directions on how I should pour a rum and coke (I usually have it two thirds coke and a third rum, if not half half, so the measures I am given are fine with me.
“Strong?”, he asks
“Sure”, I reply
He is finally happy about getting the English guy drunk, but when in reality I could drink another. Finally after we finish the bottle the guy is now looking worse for wear. He staggers to the toilet and I suspect a little too long. After coming back he tells us we have to go, which I found hilarious. He really does think he is the man. Well turns out he was the mayor of Jalgaon’s husband and the 3 other guys really were his goons. No wonder that they were not taking part in any banter aimed at us or at them. We walk back to the hotel drained from the intensity of the situation and bellowing of the guys loud mouth and return to the hotel. After mentioning the situation to the manager he tells us that the local government are massively corrupt (more than usual in India) and really arrogant, power hungry people with low moral value. So our conclusions were pretty spot on then.
The next day it was time to leave again. We arrive at the station and waited for an hour on the platform. Having another look the train had become another 6 hours late. A wait on the platform then? No, let’s go to lunch in the same place! Returning to the station again the train was another 2 hours late, but surprisingly we both were taking this in our stride and made me realise that we were now accustomed to this kind of thing and ‘Indianised’ in the lack of information, certainty of anyone in the country about anything, events that are possible and the rest. We were slowly seeing what the real India is like.
After a 24 hour delay we finally boarded our sleeper cabin, where we found a lovely Indian family going on holiday up north to see family. They moved about to accommodate us and we dug in for the night. Sleeper trains really are great. You are sweaty, it is hot and noisy. Chai walla’s (“tea men”) shouting till late, but everything has an amazing charm that I will cherish as a key part of traveling in India. The windows are open so you can see the country flow past, at night the breeze makes it warm enough to not need anything to sleep with, but not too warm. The price is half of any AC train and people bring their own food because they are poorer than those traveling in AC class. Throughout the night I dozed, woke up every few hours, got off the train and had a brief look around, bought some chai and then got back on the train before reading some more of “The Darma Buns” book by Jack Kerouac (perfect for such an occasion) and then fell asleep again.
Waking up in the morning with the world still whizzing by is another moment that makes you smile. The landscape transformed. Now there were hills of dusty rock formations, wide gorges and arid landscape. We had hit the Rajastani desert. Another 6 hours of training through an increasingly dry land we arrived in Agra, 26 hours late.
