Monday, September 27, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Back to back updates?
That must mean that I'm back in California!
And it's true.
India. It's been a love-hate sort of thing. And I have every intention of returning. Many times.
I'll skip the obnoxious conclusive post where I tell you all that I found God -- excuse me, S'iva -- and just throw a couple final photos on the interweb.
Happy days are here again.
I'll meet you at the cemetery gates.
My original flight was one of those tedious three-day-and-four-city affairs that I was, finally, lucky enough to be able to change. In a very welcome surprise, my new flight hopped over the North Pole, treating me to a stunning six-hour sunrise. Eventually we slipped ahead of the sun, the morning twilight ceding to black, only to rise again in a spectacular phoenix-like performance in Chicago. Que wow.
The future? And here's a photo that I didn't take but saw posted this morning by Scott Beale, Mr. Laughing Squid himself. In case you don't recognize it, this, "The City Under the Rainbow," is San Francisco.
I'll be back in around a week's time. So if anybody wants to offer me a super cheap or super awesome place to live in the City, do ring.
In the mean time, if you're in LA or the AV, do ring.
FIN.
And it's true.
India. It's been a love-hate sort of thing. And I have every intention of returning. Many times.
I'll skip the obnoxious conclusive post where I tell you all that I found God -- excuse me, S'iva -- and just throw a couple final photos on the interweb.
Happy days are here again.
I'll meet you at the cemetery gates.
My original flight was one of those tedious three-day-and-four-city affairs that I was, finally, lucky enough to be able to change. In a very welcome surprise, my new flight hopped over the North Pole, treating me to a stunning six-hour sunrise. Eventually we slipped ahead of the sun, the morning twilight ceding to black, only to rise again in a spectacular phoenix-like performance in Chicago. Que wow.
The future? And here's a photo that I didn't take but saw posted this morning by Scott Beale, Mr. Laughing Squid himself. In case you don't recognize it, this, "The City Under the Rainbow," is San Francisco.
I'll be back in around a week's time. So if anybody wants to offer me a super cheap or super awesome place to live in the City, do ring.
In the mean time, if you're in LA or the AV, do ring.
FIN.
Architectural orgasm, a rainbow
A finish line, a flight from Delhi to Chicago rapidly approaching. First: a flight to Srinagar, Kashmir. Kashmir, I had been told well over a hundred times throughout the last several months is (or was?) "paradise on earth." Any Indian who's never been there will swear to it. Anyone from there who doesn't live there now will swear to it. Anyone still living there will mumble it and sigh.
Srinagar, the capital and purportedly most beautiful city of Paradise, reminds me of an old self-deprecating Brazilian joke. Like the Kashmiris, many Brazilians refer to their homeland as Paradise On Earth. It's said that, on the portion of South America known as Brazil, God placed a paradise on this earth. In order to balance the scales with the rest of the world, He populated it with Brazilians.
It's a pretty place. And every face tells the story of twenty years of war, twenty years of paranoia. It was hard for me to ever feel at ease. And it didn't hurt that the guy whose houseboat I was staying on oozed nothing but paranoia, borderline-creepy kindness ("You will love me like a father"), and stories of how anyone I met was going to attack, rob or rape me. On my last night there I couldn't take the dinner conversation (see previous sentence) so I took the family rowboat and paddled around the black waters of Dal Lake, losing myself in mazes of houseboats and plots were the coming spring would see floating gardens. I didn't stay long.
Two weeks to go.
The undisputed highlight of my rambling down the Pakistani border back toward Delhi was my stay in Amritsar in the pilgrim's quarters at the Sikh's holiest site, the Golden Temple. Arriving well after dark, my first view of this magnificent temple complex was just before the holy Guru Granth Sahib (the Sikhs' holy book/"living" god and guru) was carried by a chanting and singing crowd of sacred servants to its nightly resting place. Four spotlights from the four directions gaze across the Amrit Sarovar, or "pool of nectar," -- the enormous tank of water the Temple sits in the center of -- at the gold, gold, marble and Golden Temple.
A description of the marvelous Golden Temple could never fit in the few paragraphs I have to dedicate to it. Sitting, stunned, somebody asked me what I thought. Even in its presence, even with the thing I was trying to verbally paint sitting immediately before me, I had no words. All I knew was that as I pulled at the far, tattered edges of my memory I couldn't think of any other building or complex that I had seen in the world that could measure against this; the Golden Temple under the light of the full moon. For me, it was everything the Taj Mahal should have been. Except without the outrageous admission charge -- without any admission charge, at that -- and with free food, free lodging and a free museum to illustrate it. Merriam-Webster's dictionary has its picture sketched as a visual description of the word "wow."
Minor mentions to McCleod Ganj, home of the Tibetan Government in Exile, and to Rishikesh, self-proclaimed global capital of Yoga (in tight contention with Berkeley, CA). I had a lovely time in both places but what can you say after oozing over Amritsar?
Two boats passing on a watery alleyway of Dal Lake, Srinigar, Kashmir, Paradise, India/Pakistan (depends on who you ask)
Stilted Kashmiri house. Smells like Kashmiri tea -- the only thing India invented sweeter than the average cup of chai. It's like the sugariest cinnamon/apple crepe you've ever had, only in liquid form. Beyond delicious. Paradise for the tongue.
Forty square acres of trash sculpture? Of course, I made a pilgrimage to Nek Chand's Fantasy Rock Garden in Chandigarh. It wasn't what I had hoped, but still a very cool place. Like a dumpster-diver's Disney Land! Fantasy land for the raccoon-spirited.
A rainbow (of paint) on every face. Holi -- an annual festival where it's suddenly appropriate to dump loads and loads of paint and paint powder on complete strangers. Two weeks and multiple showers and scrubbings later, I'm still partly dyed pink. Easily qualifies as the most fun I had while in India. Road blocks by very aggressive painters. Woa to anybody silly enough to ride a motorbike to work.
Three-page, centerfold closeup of the Golden Temple at dawn.
Hold me down.
And this, in hot competition with a New Zealand "Lord of the Rings Tour" for being the most touristy thing I've ever done, is from my visit to Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's ashram in Rishikesh. It's best known as "the place the Beatles went" when they went to India. Abandoned around 13 years ago, it already looks like a relic from centuries past. Complete with dozens of little stone domes that give your "OM" that perfect transcendental echo and reverb. Ravi Shankar, eat your heart out. Ringo Starr, eat your heart out.
Srinagar, the capital and purportedly most beautiful city of Paradise, reminds me of an old self-deprecating Brazilian joke. Like the Kashmiris, many Brazilians refer to their homeland as Paradise On Earth. It's said that, on the portion of South America known as Brazil, God placed a paradise on this earth. In order to balance the scales with the rest of the world, He populated it with Brazilians.
It's a pretty place. And every face tells the story of twenty years of war, twenty years of paranoia. It was hard for me to ever feel at ease. And it didn't hurt that the guy whose houseboat I was staying on oozed nothing but paranoia, borderline-creepy kindness ("You will love me like a father"), and stories of how anyone I met was going to attack, rob or rape me. On my last night there I couldn't take the dinner conversation (see previous sentence) so I took the family rowboat and paddled around the black waters of Dal Lake, losing myself in mazes of houseboats and plots were the coming spring would see floating gardens. I didn't stay long.
Two weeks to go.
The undisputed highlight of my rambling down the Pakistani border back toward Delhi was my stay in Amritsar in the pilgrim's quarters at the Sikh's holiest site, the Golden Temple. Arriving well after dark, my first view of this magnificent temple complex was just before the holy Guru Granth Sahib (the Sikhs' holy book/"living" god and guru) was carried by a chanting and singing crowd of sacred servants to its nightly resting place. Four spotlights from the four directions gaze across the Amrit Sarovar, or "pool of nectar," -- the enormous tank of water the Temple sits in the center of -- at the gold, gold, marble and Golden Temple.
A description of the marvelous Golden Temple could never fit in the few paragraphs I have to dedicate to it. Sitting, stunned, somebody asked me what I thought. Even in its presence, even with the thing I was trying to verbally paint sitting immediately before me, I had no words. All I knew was that as I pulled at the far, tattered edges of my memory I couldn't think of any other building or complex that I had seen in the world that could measure against this; the Golden Temple under the light of the full moon. For me, it was everything the Taj Mahal should have been. Except without the outrageous admission charge -- without any admission charge, at that -- and with free food, free lodging and a free museum to illustrate it. Merriam-Webster's dictionary has its picture sketched as a visual description of the word "wow."
Minor mentions to McCleod Ganj, home of the Tibetan Government in Exile, and to Rishikesh, self-proclaimed global capital of Yoga (in tight contention with Berkeley, CA). I had a lovely time in both places but what can you say after oozing over Amritsar?
Two boats passing on a watery alleyway of Dal Lake, Srinigar, Kashmir, Paradise, India/Pakistan (depends on who you ask)
Stilted Kashmiri house. Smells like Kashmiri tea -- the only thing India invented sweeter than the average cup of chai. It's like the sugariest cinnamon/apple crepe you've ever had, only in liquid form. Beyond delicious. Paradise for the tongue.
Forty square acres of trash sculpture? Of course, I made a pilgrimage to Nek Chand's Fantasy Rock Garden in Chandigarh. It wasn't what I had hoped, but still a very cool place. Like a dumpster-diver's Disney Land! Fantasy land for the raccoon-spirited.
A rainbow (of paint) on every face. Holi -- an annual festival where it's suddenly appropriate to dump loads and loads of paint and paint powder on complete strangers. Two weeks and multiple showers and scrubbings later, I'm still partly dyed pink. Easily qualifies as the most fun I had while in India. Road blocks by very aggressive painters. Woa to anybody silly enough to ride a motorbike to work.
Three-page, centerfold closeup of the Golden Temple at dawn.
Hold me down.
And this, in hot competition with a New Zealand "Lord of the Rings Tour" for being the most touristy thing I've ever done, is from my visit to Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's ashram in Rishikesh. It's best known as "the place the Beatles went" when they went to India. Abandoned around 13 years ago, it already looks like a relic from centuries past. Complete with dozens of little stone domes that give your "OM" that perfect transcendental echo and reverb. Ravi Shankar, eat your heart out. Ringo Starr, eat your heart out.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
"Going native"
As this little trampoose begins to rattle to its natural finish I'm proud to report that I've learned to blend in with the locals.
At first, things were a little awkward.
But, as they say, perseverance pays.
Sometimes we saw eye to eye.
Sometimes we didn't.
But love was inevitable.
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a barn like this?"
I hope you enjoy the photos. I suffered a traumatizing cow tongue in the mouth for the sake of that last one.
At first, things were a little awkward.
But, as they say, perseverance pays.
Sometimes we saw eye to eye.
Sometimes we didn't.
But love was inevitable.
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a barn like this?"
I hope you enjoy the photos. I suffered a traumatizing cow tongue in the mouth for the sake of that last one.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Quit monk'ing around
Ladakh. The temperature fluctuates between cold, really cold and oh-god-why-did-I-buy-that-flight cold. It's too cold to shave. I have the beard to prove it.
I thought my first impression of Hemis was unbeatable. "Most magical place I've ever been," I repeated to myself. Seeing Hemis covered in snow, I happily stood corrected. I would again have to reassign this title the very next day but I'm getting ahead of myself. Overall it was a quiet stay here, meditating in a cold guest room and spinning prayer wheels in the main Gompa (monastery). The one thing I think bears mentioning before I move on is the one other foreigner I met here. After a day of trying not to slide to disaster on the nearby mountain ridges I returned to the gompa to find a monk struggling to carry water up the hill. Not initially excited to offer my help since I could barely breathe at this altitude without bearing a load, I felt the pinch of obligation and accompanied him back to his cell. Here I enjoyed one of several hundred cups of tea I had that day and was introduced to an Argentine fellow. A painter, living in Spain for the last 20 years or so, Arturo had set aside a few months in Ladakh to try and sniff out the long cold trail of another painter. The chief differences of the later from the former being that he was Russian and that he is dead. Both were in search of Shambala -- more commonly known as Shangri-La. Rumor has it that the Russian found it. The Spaniard, I'm afraid, didn't seem to be doing so well. Welcome back to the 18th century. Next stop: El Dorado.
Actually, my next stop was Gotsang. Another monastery. Another hour's breathless walk, chasing snowy peaks into the clouds. Bear in mind that I had already hiked a good hour and a half directly through snowy fields into the mountains to arrive at Hemis and you'll have a sense of how hidden Gotsang is. Known for housing a cave where the famous Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambava, the bringer of Tantra to Tibetan Buddhism) and another famous guru whose name I can't remember, but is somehow related to (or was himself thought to be a reincarnation of) Naropa, meditated for some time. At the time of my visit this new bearer of my Most-Amazing-Thing-I've-Ever-Experienced Title supported a population of four people. The caretaker; a Korean nun in the middle of a three year, three month, and three day retreat; a Vietnamese Lama, sent by his guru for the winter; and one other monk or nun with whom I didn't have the opportunity for introduction. Full of foreigners. Typical.
The only respite in the Little Land of Snows (the former kingdom of Ladakh, culturally and geographically similar to Tibet, is often called Little Tibet. Tibet, in turn, is known as the Land of Snows) is warm food and hot tea. Water is out of the question. Even if I wanted some of the icy stuff I'd be unable. My water bottle would routinely freeze through after a night of sitting on the desk in my room. So tea it is. The average Tibetan, it's said, will easily consume over fifty cups of tea per day during the winter time. I was doubtful about this claim until I realized that I was drinking -- on a slow day, mind you -- well into thirty cups of tea, myself! Thankfully, not all of it is caffeinated.
God save me.
I met very few foriegners in Ladakh. They say it's not the season. I can't imagine why... It is, however, festival season! The Tibetan New Year (Losar -- Happy Year of the Male Iron Tiger!) was only a handful of days back. Dosmoche, a three-day masked dance performed in several monasteries in order to defeat evil spirits, was the prior weekend. Starting today is the birthday celebration for His Holiness the Gaylwang Drukpa, head Lama ("Rinpoche") of several Ladakhi monasteries simultaneously and the head of the Drukpa sect of Tibetan Buddhism. Next weekend is another festival and so forth. It's like this all winter. I think it's what keeps people from killing themselves.
And it is, without a doubt, absolutely worth it.
One of the highlights of my (recently ended) trip to Ladakh was a visit to the enormous Hemis monastery. The town and monastery are high enough in the hills -- excuse me -- in the _mountains_ to be completely concealed from the valley below. This despite the fact that the monastery is said to house anywhere from 300 to 500 monks at any given time. Judging by size alone, I'd say the population of the monastery is around four times that of the "surrounding" town. Rhapsodizing to myself about the beauty and magic of Hemis in the winter, I determined to return and spend as much time as I could here after Dosmoche. I met a lady who agreed to let me stay in her family's house and about a week later I returned. That is, after the roads were finally cleared. The entire region had since been battered by a blizzard. A town to the west had been dumped with over three feet of snow overnight and nowhere had been unscathed.
I thought my first impression of Hemis was unbeatable. "Most magical place I've ever been," I repeated to myself. Seeing Hemis covered in snow, I happily stood corrected. I would again have to reassign this title the very next day but I'm getting ahead of myself. Overall it was a quiet stay here, meditating in a cold guest room and spinning prayer wheels in the main Gompa (monastery). The one thing I think bears mentioning before I move on is the one other foreigner I met here. After a day of trying not to slide to disaster on the nearby mountain ridges I returned to the gompa to find a monk struggling to carry water up the hill. Not initially excited to offer my help since I could barely breathe at this altitude without bearing a load, I felt the pinch of obligation and accompanied him back to his cell. Here I enjoyed one of several hundred cups of tea I had that day and was introduced to an Argentine fellow. A painter, living in Spain for the last 20 years or so, Arturo had set aside a few months in Ladakh to try and sniff out the long cold trail of another painter. The chief differences of the later from the former being that he was Russian and that he is dead. Both were in search of Shambala -- more commonly known as Shangri-La. Rumor has it that the Russian found it. The Spaniard, I'm afraid, didn't seem to be doing so well. Welcome back to the 18th century. Next stop: El Dorado.
Actually, my next stop was Gotsang. Another monastery. Another hour's breathless walk, chasing snowy peaks into the clouds. Bear in mind that I had already hiked a good hour and a half directly through snowy fields into the mountains to arrive at Hemis and you'll have a sense of how hidden Gotsang is. Known for housing a cave where the famous Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambava, the bringer of Tantra to Tibetan Buddhism) and another famous guru whose name I can't remember, but is somehow related to (or was himself thought to be a reincarnation of) Naropa, meditated for some time. At the time of my visit this new bearer of my Most-Amazing-Thing-I've-Ever-
And so I fled to Kashmir. More on that later.
The soundtrack to Dosmoche and the Tibetan Buddhist Festival Season in general, courtesy of two monks with enormous trumpet-like 'gyaling's, and several more with cymbals, drums, bells, etc. Just add wooden masks
Three very cold wayward souls. Leh, Ladakh, India (sort of)
Ever think that there's nothing more obnoxious than a swarm of clueless tourists? Well, you've clearly not dealt with the National Geographic folks on tour. Part of me is amused that I'll have been in attendance at an event being exoticised by the National Geographic Magazine. Look for me in the triple-wide center fold. (Third from the right. Ooh, la la.) The other part of me was busy arguing with the fellow on the left for treating people like animals. I may have jumped the gun but I certainly won't say that I feel that I was entirely wrong in my impression. My thoughts beyond that are, of course, a bit much to try and compress to photo caption-size so I'll save them for personal conversation later on if anyone's interested in more juicy details. Next issue: Andy gets schooled by Mr. N'tnl Geog.
No, really. Quit monk'ing around.
Two monks dressed as skeletons; possibly chitipati, possibly a symbol of impermanence? Either way, these guys were positively brutal. Their counterparts with less elaborately decorated skulls would offer candy or money to the crowd. If you could grab it fast enough they'd usually let you keep it. Much, much, much more often, if you try to grab the offering it would be snatched away and your knuckles would be CRACKed with a colorful wooden stick. These guys have reflexes like thunder dragons. Like Lords of the Funeral Pyre. I have another photo of an old lady cowering from one of th, hands pressed together, as he offers her money.
The famous Indus River. One of the few sections that wasn't frozen through. Photo taken on the rarest of days: a day with blue skies.
Lost in the crowd during a day of special prayers and teachings by the resident High Lama at the Shey Palace, Ladakh. Shey Palace and the neighboring Thiksay Monastery look remarkably like Lhasa's Potala Palace. There's a funny story about Thiksay in particular being constructed from a monk's drawing of Potala, quickly etched onto a carrot by a monk fleeing to a life of exile in India. By the time he arrived in Ladakh the carrot's water loss had caused it to shrink. So, too, had the drawing. And so Thiksay Monastery, or the Little Potala, as it's fondly called, was constructed as a sort of little brother to its Tibetan counterpart.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
BBBack in Bangalore
Except not.
Just got into Delhi this morning after forty-some odd hours on a train and booked a flight straight away to Leh, capital of the semi-state of Ladakh. Now, Ladakh is my antidote to the heat of the south. In the heart of the Himalaya, in the same general region as K2, this is said to be the only still-remaining home of untouched Tibetan-influenced tantric Buddhism in the world. It also contains a little town that's supposed to be the coldest inhabited place on earth behind only some town in Siberia.
I'm flying in and out because all roads, which go through some of the highest passes in the world, have been snow-closed for months. I'm very excited about all this and very much hoping that I have enough layers of clothing to pull this thing off. The plan is to make a return to the California winter in a month or so feel absolutely tropical. It's hard to imagine the plan not working.
Delhi. I still don't really know what to say about Delhi except that she's lost her fangs. The sky is almost blue today. The pollution has miraculously parted, making the Delhi air breathable! I know my way around town, I know how much things I want are supposed to cost, have become much better at haggling, standing my ground against the particular brand of Indian scammers and so forth since I first stumbled, confused, through town on my way to Nepal. So back into the mountains! Back into the cold! Bring on the red nose! Bring on the shivers and daydreams of warmth and the "why am I here?"s!
I'll post photos soon if I can find an internet connection. Promise.
PS I had the opportunity to pay a very lacklustre visit to the largest remaining mangrove forest in the world. I'm (bittersweetly) happy to report that it is not being damaged by tourism. The average visiter can no more wander through this tiger-laden treasure, spanning two countries, than secure a private audience with the Pope.
Just got into Delhi this morning after forty-some odd hours on a train and booked a flight straight away to Leh, capital of the semi-state of Ladakh. Now, Ladakh is my antidote to the heat of the south. In the heart of the Himalaya, in the same general region as K2, this is said to be the only still-remaining home of untouched Tibetan-influenced tantric Buddhism in the world. It also contains a little town that's supposed to be the coldest inhabited place on earth behind only some town in Siberia.
I'm flying in and out because all roads, which go through some of the highest passes in the world, have been snow-closed for months. I'm very excited about all this and very much hoping that I have enough layers of clothing to pull this thing off. The plan is to make a return to the California winter in a month or so feel absolutely tropical. It's hard to imagine the plan not working.
Delhi. I still don't really know what to say about Delhi except that she's lost her fangs. The sky is almost blue today. The pollution has miraculously parted, making the Delhi air breathable! I know my way around town, I know how much things I want are supposed to cost, have become much better at haggling, standing my ground against the particular brand of Indian scammers and so forth since I first stumbled, confused, through town on my way to Nepal. So back into the mountains! Back into the cold! Bring on the red nose! Bring on the shivers and daydreams of warmth and the "why am I here?"s!
I'll post photos soon if I can find an internet connection. Promise.
PS I had the opportunity to pay a very lacklustre visit to the largest remaining mangrove forest in the world. I'm (bittersweetly) happy to report that it is not being damaged by tourism. The average visiter can no more wander through this tiger-laden treasure, spanning two countries, than secure a private audience with the Pope.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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