An online travelogue of Angelo and Esther's 2004 trip through India.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Mercy
Angelo:
Last night we were invited to have dinner at the home-away-from-home of a woman from Oregon whom we'd been bumping into regularly around town. She is in Darjeeling for two years working with Tazo/Mercy Corps a "...partnership to support community development in India. The project, called Collaboration for Hope and Advancement in India (CHAI), takes a proactive approach to building strong communities in the tea growing district of Darjeeling where Tazo purchases some of the finest tea available in the world."
Every morning the Sikkim/West Bengal local paper is peppered with stories of the poor working conditions of many tea estate workers, some of whom live in migrant camps on the estate property. In one story as many as 800 workers from a single camp reportedly died from starvation, deprivation and disease after an unnamed multi-national corporation abandoned them without promised daily food and fuel rations after the tea season failed.
Mercy Corps is working with other local organizations promoting community development on several fronts. Darjeeling is currently suffering from water shortages, and everyone is waiting for the monsoon, as state, city and private reservoirs alike empty at alarming rates and people line up in block-long queues at community taps with as many water containers as they can carry. Luckily, Mr. Genesis Gurung, the jovial owner of the guest house we're currently inhabiting, assured us that their water supply would last until the end of the week, at which time we'll be on a flight to Delhi.
Or Oregonian host brought in an expat Nepali woman who cooked us a lovely dinner of Indian and Nepalese dishes, and a long evening of excellent conversation followed in her quaint and cozy bungalow overlooking the valley to the west.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Reflective
Esther:
The past few days I have found myself extremely contemplative. Have I accomplished everything that I had set out to do in India? Did I fulfill each hope and desire successfully? What did I feel in the beginning of the trip and how has that evolved to what I'm like now?
I recently revisited my early journal entries and found a girl wandering in deprogramming from the world of work, moving provinces and curious of what the future holds. India proved to be the best possible distraction for me. I felt that all my life this trip was waiting in the wings. The point at which we boarded the plane felt more right than I could have imagined. And being here has proven to me that travel is integral to who I am, who we are. It's also reinforced that my ability to live with less is possible, if not preferable. India is a place of extreme wonder, chaos, despair, hope and charisma. It is going to infiltrate my life in so many ways, and yet remain this subtle reminder of what a great Canadian life I have been given.
Eight days left and feeling ready to come home. Feeling a little sad about the trip coming to an end, but that is normal. Life at home is an entirely blank page now. The beauty of embracing the future is the next great adventure!
Saturday, March 27, 2004
The Big K
Esther:
Darjeeling continues to offer magic and wonder each day. The weather has begun to warm up as Spring is showing itself here in regular sunshine with gleeful uniformed school-children gallavanting through the narrow streets, playing versions of cricket, singing at the top of their lungs and eating freezies.
The other beautiful thing about Darjeeling is the slow but certain unveiling of The Big K (as I lovingly refer to it), Kanchandjunga. Angelo and I woke up yesterday to take in the sunrise and get a decent glimpse of The Big K. This mountain is honestly in the middle of the sky! It truly is monstrous and demanding of attention. We have been looking for a glimpse of it since our arrival in the hopes of a peak. The view improves daily as the sun (and at times the wind) grows stronger against the foggy mists of winter. The Big K is dynamic and hard to fathom, considering that people attempt to summit its hard and aged peaks and succeed in the task!
Angelo and I continue to wander the steep terrain of Darjeeling's streets to find wonder in the vistas throughout with wonderful pit-stops in numerous peaceful Buddhist monasteries and Darjeeling landmarks.
Yesterday we walked from Darjeeling to the town of Ghoom where the final destination in the 10+ km walk was the Ghoom Monastery, referred to simply as the Old Monastery. Throughout the walk we happened upon friendly Buddhist Monks who invited us into their monasteries and temples. It was very peaceful and incredibly ornate. It frequently reminded us of our travels in Thailand.
Within the day-trip we encountered the Batasia Loop that has the darling Toy Train move right through it. The toy train is this wee blue steam-operated machine that toots like a toy and moves extremely slow up and down the mountain side.
Today, we went to the Japanese Peace Pagoda which inspired us to remember that the world can unite in world peace.
Each day brings delight in the people, whether they be young children waving "Hello" and attempting their English, elderly Nepalese ladies - decked in platter-like nose rings and aproned outfits telling of their marital status, smiling Tibetan faces - often found to be singing a Nepalese ballad of romance, meeting peer travelers - finally some Canucks in the lot, or in the fresh pine-scented mountain air - reminding us of home. Darjeeling is certainly a highlight as each day unravels the Big K and plentiful amounts of tea to keep us warm in the cool breezy clouds above it all.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Self-Help
Angelo:
Esther and I spent most of the day tramping along the narrow, steep, switch-backing cart-tracks that snake up and down the foothills and mountain valleys of Darjeeling and connect the myriad small villages and tea plantations sprinkled throughout the hills. The misty fresh woody air did us a lot of good, and the towering cedar trees and giant fiddle-head ferns hanging over the trails reminded us of home.
Our wanderings were pleasant enough without a destination as the narrow trails weed out most vehicular traffic. However, we ended up at the Tibetan Refugee Self-Help Centre. The centre was founded in the late 1950s when the Chinese seized control of Tibet and the Dalai Lama and thousands of his followers literally walked (for two months) through the mountains and into Northern India to begin their exile which continues to this day.
The center operates much like the Mennonite Central Committee and their Ten Thousand Villages program, with textile and wood workshops and a little store that sells and distributes the goods. The scenic Tibetan Self-Help compound also incorporates a large communal living area, schools, an orphanage, centers for the aged and recreation facilities.
Without exception, the Tibetans we've met here in Darjeeling have been kind and welcoming with ready smiles usually accompanied by a slight bow over their joined palms.
India Takes It!
Angelo:
Even in sleepy Darjeeling the streets erupted in dodgy homemade fireworks last night when India took the series in their historic cricket match against their arch-rival, (and political nemesis), Pakistan on foreign turf.
Businesses were shut down for most of the day and schools were adjourned after lunch as men, women (okay, hardly any women) and children gathered around televisions set up right in the streets. We could easily follow the progress of the match as we meandered through town gauging solely by reactions from the clusters of people. We didn't actually watch much of the match (still don't really understand cricket) except during dinner, as our food arrived in record time so that the waiters and cooks could join us in the dining room to huddle around the television.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Great news!
Esther:
Angelo wouldn't dare do this self-promotion, so I shall.
His first short film, "Flickering Blue" has just received the first place award recognition in the East Lansing Film Festival in Michigan. He received the news just now at his computer station. It is such a blessing that we can get this news abroad and that his momentum continues to rise despite our distance.
My pride for him and his work is swelling. All of Darjeeling will know it before our time here is done!
Check up on his website and online journal for further updates and links to check out the news!
Change of plans
Esther:
Yesterday marked a day of relief and joy for us as we commited to purchasing flight tickets from Bagdogra (12 kms. outside of Siliguri) to Dehli for April 3rd. This decision was borne out of the results of our last train(s), particularly the one from Mughalserai (Varanasi) to NJP/Siliguri. On top of that experience, we have encountered numerous peer travellers who have had some nasty scenarios (far more terrible than our stories) occur on that same route. This is the route that we would have had to take all the way back to Dehli, and if on time, (most unlikely) a minimum train duration of 28 hours. The cumulative effect of the traveler's tales as well as daily newspaper reports of 'crime on the train on the rise' urged us on to make the purchase. After buying the tickets for a reasonable price, Angelo and I walked out of the Air India office with a huge sense of relief - like we had gained those potential years of our lives back from not riding the train.
Today marked the long last queue at the Darjeeling train station (thankfully open air) to get our refund on the cancellation train ticket from NJP to New Dehli. We now have no more trains to prepare for and dread! So very thankful we had this option and can enjoy the remainder of India, train free.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
The Indian Himalaya
Angelo:
Nestled in the lap of the Indian Himalaya, Darjeeling couldn't be more different from the India we've seen and experienced thus far. Perched on a west-facing mountain ridge at 2134 meters, (Mount Baker, Washington, is 3285 meters at its summit), Darjeeling has been shrouded in clouds since we arrived. We awoke to rain this morning, the first of the trip, a welcome respite after seventy solid days of clear-blue skies, blistering sunshine and dusty streets.
The local population is comprised largely of expatriate Nepalese and exhiled Tibetans. As a result there is some fantastic Tibetan food to be had here: enormous and scrumptious bowls of fresh won-ton soup, momos (steamed or fried rice-flour dumplings), and Tibetan bread, (deep-fried unleavened)... Our favourite restaurant so far is Kunga, a simple, wood-paneled, cozy hole in the wall that flared our reminiscences of the ski-lodges and skating rink shacks of our yesteryears.
We visited the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute which was founded by Tenzing Norgay, the sherpa who shared the first summit of Everest in 1953 with Sir Edmund Hillary and was a resident of Darjeeling until his death in 1986. A musty, outdated but intriguing, museum houses relic mountaineering gear from legendary expeditions and famous mountaineers from Sir Edmund to Reinhold Messner. One of my favourite pieces was an enamel-tin coffee mug on which "Tenzing's Everest Mug" was emblazoned in red paint.
Unfortunately, due to the clouds and mist, we've been unable to get a clear view of Kangchendzonga, (formerly Kanchenjunga), the third highest peak in the world (after Everest and K2). But the sun did break through yesterday, albeit briefly, and we still have over a week here before heading to Delhi and home, so we've got our fingers crossed.
Saturday, March 20, 2004
Day at the Zoo
Angelo:
Today Esther and I went to the zoo for the first time since we were kids, and the reason being that Darjeeling is home to Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park, which is the only of its kind in the world. It is a high-altitude park charged with preserving endangered Himalayan species including the Siberian Tiger (largest predatory cat in the world), Himalayan Black Bear, Snow Leopard and the star of the show, the very rare, elusive and undeniably adorable Red Panda. In the twelve years that I've known her, I've never seen Esther so enamoured with an animal.
The zoo, which clings to a mountain ridge a pleasant 2.5 kilometer walk north of Darjeeling, is shrouded by a cloud forest of towering trees which are obviously distant brethren of our BC hemlocks, firs and cedars, which take on a exotic mysticism in this enchanting environment.
Contrary to many zoo experiences where the animal you really wanted to see is sound asleep in its smelly concrete 'cave,' all the animals at Padmaja Naidu were out in fine form. We marveled at the Golden Pheasant, whose plumage would put the proudest peacock to shame, were awed by the sheer size and powerful grace of the Siberian Tiger, were nearly frightened to death when the Snow Leopard bounded across its enclosure in a millisecond and lunged at a Nepalese tourist who was posing for a picture with his back against the (thankfully sturdy) chainlink fence.
Most of our time, however, was spent hanging around the several Red Panda enclosures, one of which was a simply magnificent representation of their natural habitat. The little fellows were pretty sleepy, and mostly rearranged themselves on the particular tree limb they happened to be sleeping on, or stretching and yawning, but in one enclosure we were able to sit within twenty feet of them as they woke up and climbed up and down their trees, scratching themselves and gnawing on bamboo shoots.
It all made for a rather charming morning.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Darjeeling
Esther:
Before leaving Canada, Angelo and I had briefly planned the first stages of our trip, namely to visit Goa, the Taj and then figure out the rest along the way. Within the early stages of our time in the beaches of Goa, we decided that a 'vacation' was neccessary at the end of the journey and thus, the decision to make our way into the heart of the Himalayas in Darjeeling was set.
A few days ago, I realized that everything after Varanasi feels like a bonus to me. I feel so pleased to say that all that my heart desired within this trip has officially been met and surpassed. This feeling is incredibly rewarding considering that we are still in India!
The share-jeep ride from muggy Siliguri to Darjeeling was breath-taking. We sat in the back 'row' facing two other cramped travellers in a jeep of 11 people, including the mature driver. As soon as Angelo had mentioned that he thought the grade of the drive would be more severe, the jeep began to climb, up up up. The roads were quite bumpy, narrow and steep in grade with hair-pins turns up the mountain-side. As we climbed, we felt this sense of missing the mountains of BC, wondering if we switched planets or time-traveled somewhere else. Are we still in India? We climbed and climbed with, thankfully, our cautious yet mellow driver on the ridge between two mountain valleys, overlooking innumerable tea plantations and wee shakey villages along the way.
Two hours into the drive, we had a flat tire. The driver and 'boy' (Indian term for 'lackey') quickly pulled over in a small town area and changed the tire within a non-eventful five minutes. Off we went and arrived in Darjeeling 10 minutes afterwards.
Darjeeling is cool. We are actually wearing our polar fleece! Darjeeling is also cool. It is like an island vibe with a resort-feel to it as most places are overlooking the misty valley below from ski-lodge-like restaurants and hotels. For the time being, the valley is over-cast, though the morning promises potential views of Khangchendzjonga (spelling?), the third highest peak in the world!
Angelo and I are feeling very mellow, laid-back, optimistic and above all, relaxed. Darjeeling, the vacation to mark the end of a long and successful excursion throughout India.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Cricket
Esther:
I found this great article on cricket in India. I must admit, for the most part, I too find the game tiring to watch, but only when it's being aired on television.
When we encounter cricket games on the fly, usually being put together by boys of all ages, it is incredibly entertaining. Kids are very flambouyant about who is up to bat and getting on with it, ditching the rules if it is is their current best interest. Cricket in this form is played absolutely anywhere there is space. We have seen it in actual fields at school, narrow streets - uphill, downhill, around the corners, on the ghat steps leading down to the water, on train platforms, on rooftops and even in the midst of pressing traffic. The truth of the matter, cricket is India's passion. It is the sport of all sports.
Jeremy Copeland's article definitely captures the essence of cricket in India. To my keen interest, he also wraps up how integral it is to politics in the country. Check it out!
Tribulation
Angelo:
We left Varanasi late Monday afternoon, departing from Mughal Sari Train Station, which is a mere twelve kilometers away but took over an hour to reach by auto-rickshaw due to the cow/traffic choked narrow streets and decrepit surface of the 'highways.' We were just happy to get there, reliving the fear of the dark night we arrived, seven nights earlier, and were dropped off in 'the wrong side of town' and nowhere near our destination, by our nefarious driver. Luckily our driver this time around was a man of principle, and received a generous tip for his good conscience. If there is any truth to this karma stuff, there will be fewer humans and many more dogs in India in fifty-years time.
Before we left Sri Venkatiswar Lodge, the wonderful brothers who have owned and run the place for thirty-seven years imparted some dire warnings for our night train to New Jalpaiguri (NJP): don't both sleep at the same time, watch your bags, don't eat any food on the train or on the platform, don't drink even the bottled water for sale...then smiled brightly saying, 'Pleasant journey.'
A pestilential smog of half-burned petrol and burning garbage mired Mughal Sari and the train station, making our already on-edge psyches titter on the brink. We ducked into the 'Upper Class waiting Room,' were a spidery man with coke-bottle glasses checked our tickets and deemed us unworthy. We were about to return to the chaos of the platform when he said, 'Backsheesh,' (which means anything from donation to bribe), 'Five Rupees.' Since five Rupees is about twenty-five cents, I flipped him a coin and we sat back down. However, an older Muslim fellow jumped to our defense, shouting invective at the poor spider, and tearing my five Rupee coin from his hand. The spider tried to defend himself and a mob rose in our defense. The Muslim fellow handed me back my coin and said: 'I told him you were my guests.' Before he left to catch his train he said one final thing: 'Don't eat any food; they poison it.' Alright. Point taken.
We boarded our train right on time, and found it packed to the ceiling. A young couple was fast asleep in our reserved berths, (Second Class, three-tier sleeper), and it took ten minutes of hard diplomacy, after shaking them to consciousness, to dislodge them. They climbed into an adjacent bunk already occupied by one weary pilgrim, and slept on their haunches all night. You see, if the conductors aren't doing their jobs, (ours appeared only toward the very end of the journey), the folks who purchased General Third-Class tickets, (horrible, horrible cars with wooden seats; the passengers packed in like cattle), filter into Second Class to find what accommodation they can. And who could blame them for trying?
The night passed, minute by minute, and we were awoken from our fractured slumber at around three-thirty in the morning. A thief had been caught whilst going about his chosen vocation, and an angry mob lead by truncheon-carrying policemen choked the aisle and proceeded to kick the poor bastard's ass and throw him from the train. Luckily we were stopped at a platform at the time or who knows what fate would have befallen him.
We welcomed the dawn as we left the impoverished state of Bihar and entered West Bengal. One of the endlessly fascinating features of India is the diversity, (always the diversity), between the different states. Each could be its own country. Unfortunately the rising sun also produced a rising humidity which the open windows and ceiling fans could not soothe. The landscape had changed overnight to verdant rice fields, palm trees and copious lagoons and rivers, each one with its own clutch of naked sun-darkened children playing in the shallows.
Our train arrived twenty hours later, (four hours late), at five o'clock in the afternoon. We were thrilled to be disembarking and relished the weight of our packs on our atrophied legs.
We found a comfortable enough hotel in nearby Siliguri, conveniently across the street from the jeeps that ply the mountain roads up to Darjeeling. We showered off the grunge of twenty-hours of travel, had a comforting dinner of veggi burgers with real buns and mayonnaise in the restaurant next door, and retired to our room to watch satellite television. We watched Dudley Do-Right in its entirety, (disclaimer: we'd never watch this movie under normal circumstances), much of which was filmed in BC. The climax of the film was shot in Aldergrove Lake Park while I worked there, and seeing the familiar landscape with the panorama of Mt. Baker in the background made us feel all warm and tender inside.
With less than three weeks left of our trip, the final train ticket booked, (one train left, thank God, although it promises to be the longest one yet), our hearts have begun to turn westward.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Mother Ganges
Angelo:
The pre-dawn Ganga boat trip is a defining moment of most people's experience in Varanasi.
Mother Ganges descends from the Himalaya, the domain of Shiva, and eventually dumps into the Bay of Bengal near Calcutta; Varanasi is her holy city. India's Mecca.
Despite the appalling filth of the water, (there are thirteen sewage ducts pumping greywater day and night in Varanasi alone), it is unassailably holy in the minds of India's Hindu population, and pilgrims routinely drink the water directly from the mired shore and carry bottles home with them; portable blessings.
There are over 100 ghatsin Varanasi, most of them for bathing and performing puja (respect), and a few for performing cremations as Varanasi is the most auspicious place for a Hindu to be cremated -- they believe that to die here and to be interred in the Ganga liberates one's soul from the cycle of reincarnation. Corpses are routinely carried through town on bamboo cots by their chanting loved ones. Once they reach the river, and the cremation wood is weighed and purchased, the ceremony is performed right on the bank. A fascinating, if somber and somehow pitiful, sight. All of that misplaced hope converging in a single place.
Our boatman was sleepy with an atrocious case of bedhead, but still attempted to play the gracious guide, explaining the history of the various ghats in his narrow grasp of the English language as he rowed us along.
As the sun rose through the lavender gloom, Esther set afloat a small offering of roses and marigolds encircling a single burning candle which we had purchased from a grinning girl before we embarked.
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Henna
Esther:
Before coming to India, I had attempted several applications of henna to my body as well as my hair. Often, the applications ended up too faint (particularly in the case of the body art) or too green (this, to my mom's endless laughter, ended up on my hair). Henna is one of the things that has been cause for my curiousity in Indian culture and beauty. Finally, a successful attempt at henna, or mehndi, application occured to my delight and glee yesterday morning, in the comfort of my hotel veranda.
Rama, the henna artist, was quick and tactful in her work. She spoke little English, but enough to guide me through what was needed for her to complete it. Her touch was very light and soothing. The henna paste was deep green in colour and had a potent essential oil scent to it. The henna was cool when applied and dried quickly after being painted on. Rama began with my palm and worked her way very deliberately to the front of the hand and last, my fingers inside and out.
I sat with her for about 2 hours, hands completely applied and oils added to seep it deep into my pores. This dried for another hour or so before Rama took the scraper to my skin and began to unveil the artistry beneath it's crust. A bright orange hue appeared immediately and to my delight the designs were ornate, deep and promising.
She left me oiled, orange and without permission to wash my hands for the full remainder of the day. The scent followed me throughout the day and my sleep.
Today, I awoke to a deep magenta-orange design planted firmly in my palms. The henna art is complete and yes, full use of my very clean, washed hands has begun again.
Another exceptional Indian (namely Varanasi) experience.
Silk Shop
Angelo:
A couple of nights ago we wandered down a darkened alley looking for what we had been told was "the last honest silk shop in Varanasi," Banasaras Arts Emporium. Threading through the narrow streets of the Old City is harrowing enough, but at night the unlit alleyways are downright frightening. We were about to turn back to the brighter alley we had left behind us when we heard, "Yes, this way, please?" A skin-and-bones old fellow with a slight stoop emerged from the shadow of a narrow doorway and smiled brightly, flashing beetle-stained teeth.
(*Beetle nut is a strange concoction much like chewing tobacco that is wrapped in a beetle leaf to mellow the acidic taste. You can see men rolling beetle-nut 'hits' in small paan (tobacco) stalls all over India, and see the telltale red spit-stains soiling walls and sidewalks, and the ruined teeth in the smiles of most men.)
Our host, Arun, led us into what we later learned was his house, and had been for generations. We were invited to sit in a bright yellow room, on the floor, which, like most Indian shops, was covered in an enormous cotton mattress and dozens of pillows. Two other men were in attendance, sitting drinking chai, one a French diplomat and the other the head priest from Varanasi's famous Golden Temple. More chai was shouted for and appeared moments later. Esther and I looked around, then at each other, as we had come to purchase, or at least look at, some authentic silk, and there was nothing at all in the room except two large green lockers that stood against one of the walls.
We stated our intentions, that we were here to look at some silk, some shawls, what have you, and Arun nodded, sagely, and handed us our tea. By this time the French diplomat weighed in, telling us that we would be there for hours, that this was indeed the last honest salesman in Varanasi, but that any visit to his shop came at the cost of time. The Golden Temple priest sat in the corner and said nothing.
Eventually both the diplomat and the priest took their leave, they had been there since noon, (we arrived at 3:30 p.m.) and we were alone with Arun. He began by telling us his life story, how his father and grandfather had been silk exporters, how this house and business had been his family's for several generations, interjecting now and again with accolades he had received from various fashion designers in Europe and the Americas and stories about the many prestigious friends he had won in his long career. He explained that, like the Taj Mahal, which you visit to witness it's beauty but do not come intending to purchase, we could look at the beauty of the exquisite craftsmanship of his silk and his textiles without having to buy anything.
At this point I was still very skeptical. Arun then procured his hidden keys and opened the first of the two great, green lockers. Inside were dozens of nondescript paper boxes. He carefully chose two, laid them on the floor at his side, and reverently opened them. Inside were the most luxurious hand woven silk shawls, which Arun whipped out one by one, unfurling them in the air above our heads and letting them cascade over the skin of our arms and legs like cool water, each time saying, reverently, "Look at the work, look at the work." The designs in the pure workmanship were intricate beyond reckoning, and the silk shone and undulated in varied shades as the light hit it at different angles. Within minutes we were up to our chins in silk.
By this time, of course, we were thoroughly enchanted. Together we chose several shawls, many more than we had intended, partially because of their unique beauty, partly because of the fact that silk weaving is a dying art, (Arun lamented that young people are not willing to learn the trade), and partly because Arun promised us wholesale export rates.
Tourist textile shops are a penny a dozen in India, and we've seen far too many of them, and they all offer the lowest possible prices, but Arun had won our trust by this time, had fed us Indian sweets and chai, and his product was like nothing we'd seen in our lives.
I mentioned, off-handedly, that the word pajama originated in India, and that I had thought I might buy a pair of silk pajamas during my travels. At this point Arun jumped to his feet, threw open the second green locker and produced bolts of silk in a palate of colours and in varying degrees of quality. He offered to call in a tailor to take my measurements, stating: "Thees kind of quality you will not find in your country."
Moments later, after I had chosen a dark raw silk, a tailor had appeared, sullen but kind, and gently measured me for kurta pajamas.
Eventually, after Arun and his eight-year-old son had wrangled the mountains of silk back into the paper boxes, and the green lockers were once again locked, we were able to extricate ourselves from Arun's shop. It was eight o'clock, we'd been there for over four hours, and had agreed to return twenty-four hours later when my tailoring was promised to be delivered.
An unforgettable afternoon, and one of the true memorable experiences one hopes for while traveling in a foriegn country.
Friday, March 12, 2004
More on Monkeys
Angelo:
I feel compelled to add to Esther's post yesterday, as the writing of it prompted further discussion over chai later that evening with a wise old Indian gentleman.
Monkeys are revered in India primarily because of Lord Hanuman, the Monkey God. The thousands of monkeys that populate the cities and towns here are thought of as incarnations of Hanuman, and as a result killing a monkey in India carries a penalty of six year's prison time.
Another interesting fact relayed to us by our expansive, if dimminutive, host was that when a monkey dies while biting into a powerline for example, as happens from time to time, no human can touch the carcass for several hours. Monkeys descend upon their fallen friend en masse and will attack anyone who approaches until they're sure beyond doubt that their comrade is in fact deceased. This humanistic behaviour, of course, lends some reinforcement to their theory.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Monkeys and Mefloquine
Esther:
Traveling always comes at a cost. Whether it be financial, physical or mental, it is a different form of survival. Within the physical aspect of it, there are the vaccination and pill-popping decisions. The vaccinations were taken care of before we departed, making our arms forever changed. The pill-popping this time around is simply once a week for the prevention of Malaria. The malaria pills are called Mefloquine and they are a new type of dosage prescribed for long-term trips, which is highly convenient when space is the main decision maker while packing and planning for a trip. There are always side effects though. For Mefloquine, it is 'unusually vivid dreams.'
This has certainly been an aspect of the trip that has added for bizarre conversations in the morning upon waking. Angelo often has vivid dreams to start, yet still the change is noticeable. I have been having wacky monkey dreams. This is new, as my fear of monkeys has really only surfaced while on this trip.
Monkeys are everywhere here. They are, at times, revered as gods incarnate and yet also seen as total menaces. In our current hotel room, there is steel mesh wiring along the windows and open spaces everywhere as a preventative monkey tampering tool - which is, thankfully, effective. We have quite a populous of monkeys in Varanasi, hopping the street tops, screeching and, well, monkeying around. They often use the ramshackled electricity wires as part of their mode of transportation, which can cause power outages and a whole lotta racket.
I seem to be coping with watching them more and studying their movements. I have also found laughter in articles like this one below, that make for great pictures of the difference of opinion and perceptions of monkeys in India.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Varanasi
Esther:
After Agra, Angelo and I arrived under the cover of night into the city of Varanasi, home of the Mother Ganges River. Our arrival was not simple, as Holi Festival was in full swing despite the fact that Holi officially ended the day previous (always a reason to celebrate). We bore our packs over many miles in the night due to surly auto and cycle-rickshaw drivers doing Holi in the form of drunkenness or bhang or something. So, we opted to walk and thankfully found people to guide us step by step unharmed.
Tired and wilted from the 17 hour train ride, we crashed hard in our welcome bed and woke to the wonder and diversity of Varanasi. What a difference the light of day can make to a place. We found beauty, our desired destinations without fail and a whole lotta cows. Cows, cows, cows....
Varanasi is the Hindu centre as it has the Ganges River running through it, which Hindus believe is holy water. The river is grossly polluted as it carries all waste, detergent, soap from bathing daily (typically twice required in a day at 6 am and 6pm, called the discipline of puja), run-off of whatever is held in the sewage troughs, flowers, human remains in the form of ashes and also entire bodies deposited within it. Despite all of that, it is quite a sight to take it as the dynamic is vibrant and extremely entertaining. It is a great spot to people watch along the Ghats, steps leading up from the water to the streets in town. Really, it is their version of the Vancouver Seawall, with a twist of religion, erratic massages, primping after puja and focus to devotion added in.
This is quintessential India. Until this point, I feel like we have been quite 'sheltered' in comparison to what Varanasi embodies. Varanasi has age, fanatacism, romance and smells, oh the smells that are like none other. Happy to stay for 6 days and just take it all in.
If you're interested, check out this basic version of Varanasi in a nutshell:
varanasi
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Happy Holi
Angelo:
Holi, also known as the Festival of Colours, (and not without reason), is a celebration of the onset of spring and the ultimate triumph of good over evil. Merrymakers stock up on coloured water and brilliantly coloured gulal (powder) and proceed to pelt anything that moves...well, actually anything at all from people to dogs, cows, ducks, cars, trains and houses. The streets are spackled with a rainbow of colour and even the open gutters that normally flow with putrid raw sewage take on a celebratory hue.
We had seen the early-warning signs earlier in the weekend as we left Jodhpur and a couple of children sprayed our feet with purple water as we walked toward the market where vendors were heaping enormous piles of gulal in pink, yellow, purple, and green, selling it by weight in plastic bags.
Esther and I caught the brunt of Holi on our way to see the Taj Mahal in Agra on Sunday. In anticipation we had put on the rattiest clothes we had brought and timidly entered the streets. Near our guest house things were pretty quiet, but once we entered the main thoroughfare we were confronted with the maddest scene we've experienced thus far. The normally squalid streets were alive with colour. Children ran wild carrying hand-cannons loaded with coloured water, men by the dozens hung out of rickshaws meant to carry two or three, others were piled on top of motorcycles. Those without some form of transportation danced through the streets, all of them caked in a crazy melange of brilliant colours from the tips of their hair to the soles of their feet shouting: "Happy Holi, Happy Holi."
Once the locals learned that we were willing to 'play Holi' they accosted us with handfuls of gulal and hugs, smearing our arms and faces with pink and purple water and smudging our foreheads and hair with green and yellow powder.
Unfortunately, like many North American holidays, Holi is an excuse for far too many people to get drunk and make asses of themselves. This is equally if not doubly true of Holi. Many of the local papers warn of 'hooliganism' during Holi, and we certainly saw a fair bit of it. Luckily we were able to steer clear of the more sordid characters and enjoy Holi for it's purer elements, namely the unabashed joy of children.
Later, we scrubbed our skin and hair under a hot shower, which did little to bring us back to our natural hue, and we left our clothes in the trash bin of the guest house.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
The Taj
Esther:
How do I put into words the way that I feel after today. The day that I saw the beauty of the Taj Mahal in India. I am near to tears now trying to convey the immense joy that I feel upon having 'done' it.
Before I go on to lamely describe the immense structure, (right now wishing Angelo was writing my thoughts), I have to say that above all else I had a dream and pursued it and saw it come to fruition today. I feel happy, wasted-tired due to the awe it ignites within and completely assured in my dreams and the pursuit of accomplishing them. I had dreamed that I would travel India, for many years before buying the ticket. It is like I didn't know why I wanted to come, but it was within me to do it. My poor mother always hoped I would drop the idea, but thankfully encouraged me to do as I desired, because she loves me (Thanks Mom) and put aside other concerns. But India has called for a long time and today, seeing India's treasure, confirmed to me why my heart has desired this. You all are capable of pursuing your dreams, no matter what they are and no matter where you are at now in realizing them. That is what I feel most after seeing it.
The Taj Mahal is truly a wonder. It did not dissapoint the high expectations I had of it. It blew my mind. This structure, built out of love in the form of a mausoleum for a departed lover during bearing a child, is romantic, delicate and potent to look at and experience. I felt compelled to make wishes while in its presence. I felt overwhelmed at man's ability to create. I felt happy and content in so many indescribable ways. I won't attempt to describe it, since you all know what it is and know it is one of the Seven Wonders of the World.
The best thing I can tell you all is that upon taking it in, walking in and around it, turning my back on it felt wrong. I felt that walking backwards was better, despite not being able to navigate accurately. I walked away from it quickly, catching breaks along the way to stop and look for a while longer. It is a wonder.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
The Great Thar Desert
Angelo:
Yesterday morning Esther and I boarded a rickety ramshackle bus and traveled sixty-five kilometers north of Jodhpur to the village of Osiyan on the edge of The Great Thar Desert. Osiyan was a trading post for nomadic caravans between the eighth and twelfth centuries during which time it was controlled by the Jains. As a result there are some very ornate temples here in this meager village of ten-thousand people.
As we left Jodhpur Esther and I were once again struck by the increasingly vibrant colours of the Rajasthani wardrobe, particularly in stark contrast to the brown and rust-red scrubland of the surrounding arid desert landscape.
The men wear enormous, brightly-hued turbans that, on top of their narrow bodies, makes them appear top-heavy. Most wear ornate (we would say feminine) gold earrings in both ears, and jooties, richly-embroidered camel-leather slippers with pointy curled-up toes. But the most fabulous distinguishing feature of the Rajasthani men is their great, bushy, handle-bar moustaches.
The Rajasthani women wear saris of the most extreme day-glow colours, made all the more extravagant by the contrasting (we would say clashing) colour combinations: orange/purple, hot-pink/red, lemon-yellow/green. More often than not the saris are richly embroidered in gold and/or silver. On top of which they heavily adorn every available inch of their limbs with gold and silver jewelry: bangles from wrist to elbow, (often between elbow and shoulder as well), massive ankle bangles, toe rings on every toe, rings on every finger, several nose rings and earrings and hair clips -- all of which are often connected by bejeweled chains. Absolutely stunning, and in some cases, ridiculous.
The children, by comparison, dress rather plainly, but wear dark eye-liner which makes their already ample, dark, wet beautiful eyes and long eyelashes appear even more so.
The relative peace and quiet of Osiyan, after spending time in several manic larger cities, was like a salve for our psyches. We enjoyed strolling the narrow streets without being badgered by rickshaw-wallahs shouting, "Yes? Rickshaw? Where are you going, please?" or trying to encourage our patronage by all but running us down in the street.
The reason we had come to Osiyan was to see The Great Thar Desert. We decided it was probably the best way since I can't stand horses, and camels are like horses, only bigger, uglier, meaner and smellier.
The Camel Camp, a red-rock fort with low walls and squat turrets crowns a forty-meter high sand dune that towers over Osiyan. One can't help but marvel at the fortitude of human spirit that would settle a village in the shadow of a wall of sand that, with the right prevailing wind, could bury the entire place in a matter of hours.
Inside the walls was a veritable oasis of green lawn, shaded bars and dining areas, and a courtyard of white guest tents. We ordered cold drinks and sat at what our host brazenly called, "The only pool on top of a sand dune in the world!" It was beautiful. Stunning, in fact, against the stark desert landscape beyond its walls. As we sat there, relishing the silence, a rogue gust of wind blew against the fort wall shooting a plume of sand several hundred meters into the clear blue sky, which was quite frightening somehow. A thimble-full of the raw power of the desert.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
And the Oscar goes to...
Esther:
Watching the Oscars is an annual tradition for me. It doesn't matter where I am in the world, or how crappy the nominations, or how lame the year's movies were, we end up watching the over-dramatized Hollywood glitz in some small hotel room. This year was particularly novel due to the fact that the live telecast started at 6:30am, Monday, March 1st. I was in, alarm clock set and ready to be a part of the glamour, bed-headed, morning-eyed and eager to hear Billy Crystal's opening monolouge (or song is more often the case).
I personally thought the clean sweep of the Lord of the Rings was a little overwhelming, although it is one killer movie. The highlights of the night, other than having Billy back as host (no more Whoopi, pullease!), included Canadian foreign film win by Denys Arcand for 'The Barbarian Invasions', best original screenplay to Sophia Coppola for 'Lost in Translation' and the fact that still to my unbelief that Sean Penn AND Johnny Depp showed up. I figured Clint Eastwood gave Sean a call and said, "See you there." and there was no option of ditching for him.
For me, the frustration lay in the fact that I neglected to enter a draw which predicted the winners before they were announced. Every year I have done it at our local video store, though this year I didn't have a chance to. I would have won like nobody's business! I called Charlize Theron and Sean Penn, despite his previous 4 nominations and no wins. Every year, I win third prize in those draws, but this year would have been my very own clean sweep.
Hollywood put on a good show this year, so be assured that next year will be sucky. That's my take!
E-mail the travellers if you miss them.