How Do I Disappear?

Cathy leaned across the table and finally opened her mouth.

"She's driving everybody crazy."

It was just the two of us. Everyone else had left the dining room. I had come down late, to avoid morning prayers, and I hadn't finished eating.

"I know it's awful to talk about her this way, after all she's been through, but it started before everything with Daniel and it's only gotten worse."

Cathy was a Southern Baptist from the Midwest. She spoke with the quiet excitement of someone who knew she shouldn't speak badly of a woman in mourning, but who could no longer control herself. She spoke with the sotto voce rapid-fire-ness of someone who was squashed quite a bit, and bored quite a bit, and not listened to quite a bit, and now had the knowledge, the info, the dish, the horrible tragic tale, and was serving it up to a stranger.

"And after all, it's herself who she's really hurting and someone should do something about it before it's too late. To be in such denial and such anger and then to take it out on all of us. And like I said, it's not just about Daniel, it started before that. And she's so mean to the Indians. You'd think she'd be more sensitive, being married to a Tibetan. I mean, it's not right, the way she speaks to them. We're here to build bridges and make friends and set a good example. The way she yells at them and bosses them --- oh, it's awful, and they talk about her, they talk about her behind her back, and our backs, and they just hate her. And with all that's going on in the world ---"

It was September, 2002.

"We're all going to be murdered in our beds. She'll take it too far and make someone angry and they'll use it as an excuse to murder us in our beds."

The day before, Islamic militants had entered the offices of a Christian aid organization in Pakistan and shot seven people.

Cathy knew the aid organization. She and her husband David had worked in Pakistan for many years, and Cathy had also lived in Pakistan as a child. She came from a missionary family and had grown up there and in India, though you never would have known, except for how well she spoke Hindi. Otherwise, she seemed just as adrift and American as the rest of the Southern Baptist missionaries staying at the Rokeby Guesthouse.

"Just the other day I heard her correcting Mr. Prakash on how he pronounced her name --- Mr. Prakash! Not John or Leela! Mr. Prakash ---"

Mr. Prakash being the proprietor of two stores and a hotel in Sisters Bazaar, the little village down the road, and reknowned all over North India for his homemade peanut butter. I'm not kidding --- if you told an Indian of a certain age and background that you had gone for a visit to Mussoorie, in the foothills of the Himalayas, you might hear them say, "Well, I certainly hope you went up to Prakash's Store in Sisters Bazaar to get some of that delicious peanut butter!"

I think --- for most of these Indians --- part of the appeal was that Mr. Prakash's peanut butter was the only peanut butter they had ever had. It was an exotic delicacy, because Indians don't eat peanut butter. One doesn't eat peanut butter in India.

Except at Rokeby. We ate a lot of Mr. Prakash's peanut butter at Rokeby. It was like manna to the Americans. It was served by John and Leela, two of the guesthouse's employees.

"And she wasn't just correcting, she was insisting! Insisting that he that he say her name the German way. He would say "MA-rrria" and she kept saying "NO! It's Ma-REE-a." But not even like that because I can't even say it the way she wants it said. And she's one to speak. She acts like her Hindi is so good, but it is awful, really awful."

I like how Indians say my name. Maria is a good name to have in India. It's easy to pronounce, even if it is pronounced with the accent on the first syallable, and there is a famous Bollywood song about a girl from Goa named Maria. The only part I know is the chorus:"Oh, Ma-ri-a! Oh, Ma-ri-a!" When I sing it to people, they are delighted. Sometimes they then ask me to sing an American song, and I usually launch into "Oklahoma!"

One of the missionaries at Rokeby was from Oklahoma. Her name was Tiffany and her last name was the same as mine. It was an odd coincidence --- a woman with my first name and a woman with my last name, the three of us ending up in this same little corner of India.

Maria, with my first name, was the manager of the Rokeby Guesthouse, which was owned by the Methodist Church. She didn't quite fit my picture of "German guesthouse manager" or "German evangelical missionary". She was a heavy woman, with black hair down to the middle of her back, who usually wore a garishly coloured salwaar kameez, and lots of turquoise jewelry, and a big black cowboy hat. She wore that hat all the time, even at the dinner table. She lived at Rokeby with her two extremely beautiful daughters, Christina and Sophia, and a quiet, sad-eyed husband named Sonam, who had been born in Mussoorie to a family of Tibetan refugees. She was matter-of-fact, blunt, more than a little intimidating, with a very loud voice. Whenever I made a joke, she looked me dead in the eye, paused for a few beats, guffawed out of nowhere, and then stopped abruptly. She seemed taken aback by her own laughter.

Tiffany, with my last name, had just graduated from bible college, and had come to India a few months previously with Marisa (from Virginia) and Rick (from Tenessee) to live in Delhi and "church-plant" --- a phrase I had never encountered before --- which meant, they were there to convert people and start churches. From what I could gather from the various missionary handbooks lying around Rokeby, they were going to go about this mainly by being very, very nice to Indians. In order to be able to be as nice as possible, they needed to speak Hindi, so they had come to Mussoorie, like I had come to Mussoorie, to study at the Landour Language School.

They weren't very happy in Mussoorie. They had been there for almost three months and they were bored. There wasn't much to do except study Hindi or take walks, and it had rained every single day since they had arrived. Maria ruled Rokeby with an iron fist, they were only allowed to watch a half hour of BBC World Service news each night on the TV in the common room, and they had to "secretly borrow" an extension cord so that they could watch DVDs on Rick's laptop in his room after Maria had gone to bed.

Every night, while I lay in bed reading, I could hear them watching DVDs and laughing. Their laughter was tempting. I could have gone and knocked on their door and said, can I watch? And they would have said, "Sure" with big smiles. They had tried to be friends with me, right from the start. But… were they just being nice? If I started to socialize with them sooner or later the Jesus talk would have to start, wouldn't it? So, I kept my distance. I just didn't feel up to it: lectures about faith, defending my lack of it, whatever conversation it was that would ensue. The long prayers before meals and the inspirational posters on the walls and all the religious books… that was more than enough.

And it wasn't just Rokeby. The whole area was filled with missionaries and churches. Koreans, Germans, Australians. Methodist, Anglican, Lutheran. Even the language school had been founded by missionaries, back in 1910. You couldn't throw a stone and not hit a Christian up here in --- wherever it was we were.

I wasn't sure where we were. We would talk about where we were as if we were in Mussoorie, but, actually, we weren't in Mussoorie. Mussoorie was a forty-five minute walk down the side of the mountain from Rokeby. Sisters Bazaar, where Mr. Prakash sold his peanut butter, was ten minutes walk further up the mountain and then a little place called Chardukan was right around the corner. Landour Cantonment was the gated army base between Chardukan and the near side of Sisters Bazaar and the language school was called the Landour Language School and it was just down the road, so I guess you could just say we were in Landour, but really Landour was quite a bit down the hill in the opposite direction, almost in Mussoorie. It used to be a separate village, but Mussoorie had sprawled.

In Mussoorie, it was a lot busier than wherever it was we were. We, the missionaries and the language students, sat up on our silent hilltop, peering down at the bustle below. What had been a favourite vacation spot for the British colonizers was now a favourite vacation spot for the Indian middle-class. Hotels lined the hilly streets, jostled each other, sat on top of one another. Honeymooners and weekenders from Delhi spent their days walking along the promenades, escaping the heat of the plains. They ate ice-cream and popcorn, filling their lungs with the crisp air and taking in the mountain view.

Though, during the monsoon season, you didn't get much of a mountain view. At first, when I had just arrived, the cool rain was such a relief after the heat of Delhi. But it just kept raining and raining and raining some more, and though Rokeby was much cosier and warmer and brighter than the Devdar Woods, Mr. Prakash's hotel --- even though Rokeby was the nicest of the guesthouses that the language students lived in, I was in the same boat as Tiffany and Marisa and Rick. It was cold and damp and grey and boring.

The weather settled in on me. I was weighted down, I was trapped, on edge, on guard, pointless, unmoored, foreign in a bad way. I cried all the time and felt overwhelmingly sad and whenever the rain stopped for an hour or two I went out on the verandah and stared at the wall of dark grey mist that completely obscured the valley. I tried to conjugate verbs in Hindi, but most of the time I gave up and just sat there, watching big grey monkeys chase little grey monkeys down the soaking, pine-tree and white-fence-lined twisting cobblestone road.

"Just awful. Awful, her Hindi is awful. Your accent is better than hers and you've only just started studying. She's lived here for twenty years!" Then Cathy caught herself. She had gotten carried away, strayed from the point, become a little mean. Though I couldn't blame her: Maria spoke to her like she was a slightly stupid child. The longterm residents at the Rokeby had very mixed feelings about Maria. The guesthouse was kept nicely and the food was very good and what with everything she had been through --- but she rubbed everyone the wrong way, and imposed illogical house rules, and yelled at both the servants and the guests.

"It's just her attitude. She's always right. That's what happened with Daniel and it is just a sin, the way she ignored what his teachers were saying. Everyone at his school knew there was a problem, and the principal came and spoke to her, but she just said, "No, not my Daniel" and decided the teachers were the ones who were wrong. But everyone knew he was running with a bad crowd."

Drugs were easy to find in Mussoorie. In the wooded lanes down the road from the Rokeby Guesthouse, deals were done at sunset as snowpeaks leaned over the tea stalls.

I knew this because my teachers at the language school told me. Some of them smoked a lot of pot, and they told me that if you wanted to buy some, you should go to Lal Tibba, a place where there was a beautiful vista of the mountains, and several tea stalls whose proprietors would be happy to oblige you.

And if you wanted more than pot, that could be done too. The taxi drivers down at the bus stand --- no problem.

"She just said that the principal was lying, was out to get Daniel, was out to get her and Sonam, didn't like Tibetans, or some hooey like that. Well, Daniel was very charming. Very handsome, very sweet. He had her wrapped around his finger. So young. Fourteen. A year before he had still been a little boy.

"It was just four months ago, on the last day of his freshman year in high school. After exams were over he went with some friends to a hotel in town and they rented a room to have a party. The other boys were taken to the hospital and had their stomachs pumped. He was dead when the ambulance got there.

"Maria bribed the coroner to have it listed as a heart attack."

Cathy paused. She drew a deep breath. "She bribed the coroner, and since that's what's written down, that's supposed to be a fact now. Daniel died of a heart attack. Nothing else. That's what she'll say if you ask her. That's what everyone is supposed to believe."

That's the impression I had gotten when I first arrived at the house. Her son had died, and he had died suddenly, tragically, of a medical condition. Maria hadn't told me this --- no one had told me this --- Cathy was the first person to mention it. But there was this homemade poster hanging on the wall in the entryway, with a photo of Daniel, and an inscription, and somehow the way the inscription was phrased, the way it spoke of God's decision to take Daniel --- it made me think this.

Though what was Maria supposed to do? Hang up a poster announcing that her only son had died of a drug overdose?

***

One day, on a rare, rainless afternoon, I wandered down through Mussoorie to the Savoy Hotel. It was a huge rambling place, falling into ruin, filled with echoes of the Raj --- elegant parties, important people, glamour, power. England.

It's still open, but people only stay there for the historical experience. The rooms have heavy curtains and heavy furniture, and incongruous TVs, and Raj era bathrooms, and mold. The grounds are overgrown, the plaster is crumbling. In the cavernous dining room a piano still sits in one corner, waiting to play a fox trot, and through the cracked window panes on the French doors, one can see the courtyard where cocktail parties were once held, decorated now with free-flying plastic bags instead of twinkling lights.

I feel my spirits lift a little at the Savoy. The endless possibilities of an abandoned place. I've always felt that ruins are some of the best places in the world. They are definitely the best places to play. Enough remains to create form and content, but there is enough decay to free you from reality, from the present. The world you create can be just as vivid as the real one --- perhaps more so --- but it can be anything you want it to be, you are anyone you want to be, and though tragedy will surely strike --- for what is a game of imagination without some tragedy, some high stakes, some intense emotion --- tragedy will strike with the sweet pleasure of the theatre.

I wish I was a child again, there in the Savoy. I'd get lost, I'd spend hours, perhaps I wouldn't come back.

***

I learned many things at Rokeby's dining room table. I learned about Daniel from Cathy. I learned from Cathy's husband that Christina Ricci has an occult agenda and Ally McBeal has a lesbian agenda, and Tiffany told me that Kumudh was the worst of the teachers, but she was the only was who was a Christian. Elizabeth, a Presbyterian missionary from Belfast, confided with a blush that while in college she had gone steady with Richard Trimble, the leader of the Ulster Unionist Party. As for Maria, she sat at the head of the table and revealed that:

She was from Hamburg.

Her father was a Spanish Gypsy.

She had been a championship ballroom dancer, but her career had been cut short when she injured her ankle.

She had been a hippy.

She had lived in Israel.

She goes undercover into Tibet to prosletize and believes that the unreached people of Tibet are the last nation between us and the return of Christ.

But the return of Christ might happen at any moment, the world is so full of evil nowadays.

***

Maria never knew her father. He left when she was a baby, left her and her mother in a one bedroom apartment in a highrise on the edge of a highway in a suburb of Hamburg. Her mother worked as a cashier in a supermarket. She was a heavy woman, with dull blonde hair and a life that had proved to be somewhat unfair and exceedingly boring.

Maria was thin and dark. Dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes. She knew she looked like her father; she had a photo of him: a thin, smiling man with a dark mustache and sunglasses. When Maria was six, her maternal grandmother came for her one and only visit, took a look around at the apartment and a look at Maria, and said to Maria's mother: "That good-for-nothing, dirty gypsy!" Maria's mother replied, "He wasn't a gypsy, he was Spanish." Her grandmother replied, "Same difference. You're pricing cans of dog food and looking after his --- " she paused and jerked her head in Maria's direction --- "and he's off in his caravan, wandering the world."

Beginning a pattern that was to continue throughout her life, young Maria took what she wanted from this exchange: Her father was a Spanish gypsy. Her father was a traveller. Her father was a wanderer, without a care in the world.

***

So I sat on the verandah and I read in my room and I walked in the rain and those first two weeks at Rokeby all I could think was:

Why am I here? What am I doing in India? I've run away again. I've got to stop doing this. I need to get on with my life. I need to… concentrate on my career, buy a house, have a baby, settle down. And why am I trying to learn Hindi? What a useless thing to do. Completely useless at home, and quasi-useless even here. This is my third trip to India and I've done fine without Hindi before.

No, no. I haven't run away. This is it --- this is life. My life. This isn't an escape. This is real, this is visceral, this is the honest to God, actual, most real part of my life. And this is productive, this is part of my career. How can I write if I don't go out and do things to write about, and in a month I'll be down in Bhopal working with the theatre troupe, and there it will be good to finally speak some Hindi, and I'll buy a house when I get home, and having a baby would be nice but isn't that jumping the gun a bit, and I don't think I ever want to settle down.

But still. If I'm here in India living my life to the fullest, why do I feel this way? Maybe it's just Rokeby. Maybe that's what the problem is. I'll give it the rest of the week. If something doesn't clear, I'm heading down to Rishikesh. Things will be better there.

I began to check bus schedules, plot my escape.

***

But then, the rain stopped. The sun broke out over the mountains. And Matri Prasad arrived.

Matri Prasad had travelled long and travelled hard. He turns up in Mussoorie one Saturday afternoon, grey beard and grey hair, wearing a white kurta top and white lunghi bottom, carrying an orange cloth bag holding all his possessions, with prayer beads wrapped around his wrist and a small black umbrella with a pink plastic handle under one arm. On his feet are Birkenstocks.

Matri Prasad has a gentle voice, with a slight Texan accent. He has come to Mussorrie to learn Hindi. It is important for him to learn Hindi, since he had moved permanently to India the year before, to live out the rest of his days in an ashram and no one spoke English at the ashram. He had thought he'd learn Hindi pretty quickly, living in an all-Hindi environment, but he soon realized that he had absolutely no aptitude for foreign languages, and that he would need to seek some professional help.

He decides to stay at Rokeby. He had been warned about the Christian missionaries, but Maria gives him a good rate, and a quiet room with a separate entrance, and permission to meditate in the garden in the mornings and evenings, and repects his special diet. He leaves a note tacked up on the dining room bulletin board explaining it: fruit and milk in the morning and evening, vegetarian at lunch. He signs it, "Matri Prasad, American monk."

Yes, before reaching Rokeby, Matri Prasad had travelled long and travelled hard. When the summer heat reached a peak at the ashram in May, he set off for the hills. He tromped the Himalayas in his Birkenstocks, visiting power places and pilgramage places. Up up, high, high, on top a glacial mountain near the source of the Ganges, he took a ritual dip in the holy river, and was so chilled he couldn't get out, and was rescued by a fellow holy man, a sadhu who had spent so many years up in the mountains that the cold no longer bothered him. The man dragged Matri Prasad out of the river, and took him back to his cave, where he warmed him by a fire, and fed him some fruit and milk, and they sat in silent and language-less communion. They sat for days, until Matri Prasad finally decided it was time to move on.

Yes, Matri Prasad had travelled long and travelled hard. In 1968 he had left the suburbs of Dallas for California. Did he leave for college or just for fun? For enlightenment? He's forgotten at this point --- it was so long ago. Another life. When he left Texas, he was still Paul Franklin Washburn. In California, he became Matri Prasad. He found a guru whose name was Ma. He joined her ashram near San Diego and in 1971 went to India to her ashram there. He loved her dearly; he carried her framed picture in his cloth bag; Ma had left her body in 1982.

In 1972, after a year in India, he went back to the ashram near San Diego. And there he stayed. And stayed. And stayed. There was much chanting. There was much fruit and milk. For thirty years he stayed there, until he decided to go back to India, back to Ma's ashram. For good. For permanent.

He moved to Omkareshwar, smack-dab in the middle of India. In the middle of nowhere. In Omkareshwar, Matri Prasad teaches English in the charitable school run by Ma's foundation. Each morning, he gathers the poor children of Omkareshwar around a big photo of Ma, and they sing hymns, and then he talks to the children in English about Ma. He doesn't feel he is doing a very good job with his classes, having had little experience with children and no experience teaching English, and he knows so little Hindi, and has no textbooks or paper or pens. It makes him happy to hear the children sing, but the experience overall is frustrating.

In the dust of Central India, Matri Prasad struggles with his ego.

In the snow of the Himalayas, Matri Prasad struggles with his body.

In the crisp cleanliness of Rokeby, Matri Prasad struggles no more. He rises at 4 and meditates in the garden, sitting on a stone bench, overlooking the lights of the Dun Valley. At seven, Leela brings him fruit and milk in his room. He studies his Hindi, goes to class and talks about Hinduism with the teachers during his tutoring session. He returns to Rokeby for lunch. The dining room is sunny, and filled with nice people who speak English. After they read from the Bible, and thank Jesus, and say their prayers, they wait for him to he say his: under his breath, a momentary muttering of Sanskrit, and a sprinkling of water around his plate. Then lunch begins. The food is always good and he eats a lot of it, sheepishly explaining how he gets really hungry by lunchtime, what with just eating fruit and milk for breakfast and dinner.

After lunch, he studies more, or goes for a walk along the clean roads, looking out at the tall pines, the distant snow-peaks. And then more fruit and milk. And then more meditation in the garden. Then sleep.

It is heaven. A balance has been struck.

With Maria, he feels he has met a strange kind of soulmate. Perhaps she feels it as well? They are close in age, and have taken similar paths, in an odd way. In California in 1968, he could have become a Jesus freak. And she could just as well have become a hippy Hindu in an ashram, as opposed to a hippy Christian in a mission, couldn't she?

***

"A gypsy. A Spanish gypsy." She kept this as a secret, as a jewel, and as she grew older, she never stopped to reconsider whether or not it was actually true. Maria's mother never spoke about her father, and Maria never mentioned this secret to her mother. Maria never mentioned it at all, until, as a teenager, she started winning ballroom dancing competitions and then she began to occasionally toss off statements like "It must be my gypsy blood." The other dancers could never tell if she was telling the truth, and, truth be told, she couldn't tell, either.

It was 1971. Maria was sixteen, olive skinned, with dark flashing eyes and long dark hair and a good figure. Her speciality was the tango and she had either won or come in second in all the local amateur competitions. People were starting to talk, to suggest that she could turn pro. She was going to the national amateur championships in Frankfurt, and if she did win --- travel, glamour, glory. When she thought about it, the image in her mind of a future like her mother's --- the image in her mind of the supermarket checkout line --- dissolved.

Then, just a week and a half before the nationals, Maria broke her ankle when the heel popped off her tango shoes. It was a bad break. She didn't go to nationals. She spent three months in a cast. She realized that though she might dance again, she would never go pro.

She lay on the living room sofa with her leg elevated, while her mother fed her bitter consolation and semi-sweet chocolate. She started to lose that ballroom dancing figure and wondered if her mother's words were true. Was it better to be disappointed now than later? Better to face reality instead of following her dreams? Perhaps being a fat supermarket employee was her true fate, just now catching up with her after a short and glamourous detour? How far can you run from Fate, from that long arm of Fate, before it snatches you up? Was there no Gypsy blood, was she now becoming the person who she was really supposed to be?

After months of mulling this over, after reaching a point where she was about to give in, she finally got the cast off. And on that day, she would later recount, the long arm of Fate was thrown off-track by the hand of God.

She met a Christian hippie at the doctor's office. They struck up a conversation in the waiting room. He was really nice, and told her that she had not lost her only chance, told her that there was more --- more to their lives, more to the world. There were endless possibilities, you could find endless possibilities in the love of Christ.

He invited her to a fellowship potluck later that week. She went, she liked it, she went again. She loved it, she went again. And again. And again. She saw the possibilities, she joined the club, joined the commune, joined salvation, and, six months later, she joined a caravan to a mission in the Holy Land.

***

I decided to stay a while longer at Rokeby. I was feeling better with the sun out, Matri Prasad was an interesting addition to the dining room table, and I was finally making some real progress with my Hindi. But I did go down to Rishikesh one weekend. You might have heard of the holy city of Rishikesh --- that's where the Beatles made a big splash in the Ganges with their guru. The town is full of ashrams, sadhus, pilgrims, and backpackers studying yoga. It was good to be there, I felt like I'd edged back into the "real" India, a guidebook India, full of crowds and cows and temples.

It's easy to get lost in this India, on purpose or by accident. People disappear in this India. They disapppear into ashrams or disappear into the mountains or they just disappear into their guesthouses to sit around and smoke pot. Most reappear after a while. But some disappear for real. I see posters stuck around Rishikesh: on walls, in cafes and guesthouses. Missing people posters.

"Missing since July 5^th, 2002. Last seen swimming in Ganga near Laxman Jhula in Rishikesh. Age 22. Blonde hair, fair complexion. Contact Australian Embassy, Delhi."

"Missing since March 24^th, 2002. Heading from Rishikesh to Valley of the Flowers in Himalayas. Age 28. Dark hair, beard. Contact Italian Embassy, Delhi."

I don't think these people are usually found. I think some of them drown the Ganges, and some of them fall off the edge of a mountain. And some of them just want to go away. And so they do.

***

Maria continued to hold court at the dining room table, surrounded by Matri Prasad, the missionaries, and myself. And I learned that:

She had never tasted real sushi, but had figured out how to make a vegetarian approximation from a cookbook. We have it one night for dinner; it is excellent.

Ten years ago, she worked with the Indian government to help uncover an international ring of smugglers dealing in the pelts of endangered animals.

She had once healed her husband through the power of prayer.

***

"We went on a camel safari in Rajasthan: my husband Sonam, myself, my son Daniel and my daughter Christina. My daughter Sophia was too young to come; we left her in Dehra Dun with Sonam's mother.

Out in the middle of the desert, Sonam cut his leg on a rusty bit on the saddle. We bandaged it and put antibiotic cream on it, but still it got infected. I thought we should turn back but Sonam said it was no big thing so we pressed on. But it got worse and worse and finally I insisted we head back but by then we were five days away from the town and the leg was not good.

The camel men took us to a village and an ayurvedic healer put a compress on the leg. And Sonam lay there outside in the desert and under the stars and I sat over him and prayed and prayed and prayed.

And the next day, his leg was healed. Jesus heard my prayers and healed his leg.

Perhaps you think this story isn't true. Perhaps you think it wasn't Jesus but that ayurvedic medicine, but I tell you, though that medicine might have helped, the next morning all the swelling, all the pus, was gone and no medicine did that. Jesus did that.

And, you know, if I was standing here telling you that Buddha healed my husband or Krishna healed my husband, how many of you would be more inclined to believe that? If I said crystals healed my husband, what would you say? If I said that I held a picture of the Dalai Lama over my Tibetan husband's leg, what would you say, hmm? If I said I chanted "om" all night long? But Jesus? No, you don't want to believe that. The truth is much too ordinary.

Not to the Tibetans, it isn't. You might not think I could pull it off, but I can. I put on the traditional clothing of Golok nomads --- this black hat, the turquoise jewelry, I braid my hair like the women do, and with my colouring, I pass. Not all Tibetans have flat noses and slanted eyes. Some look almost Western. And I go with a Tibetan woman who speaks Chinese as well and she handles all the talking.

I won't divulge the specifics of how I get there. But one thing I can tell you --- I don't go over the border from Nepal on a tour bus. I go "under the radar," so to say. I must. The Chinese would not let us in otherwise, especially not to the area where we go.

The Golok nomads there, in this area --- a remote place even for Tibet --- have never heard of Jesus. They cry when we tell them about Him and ask "Why has no one told us of Him before?" A boy came to me who couldn't move or talk or hear and I prayed over him and our Lord Jesus healed him. I prayed to Jesus and he was healed and his mother cried. That's the power of Jesus.

In Tibet, my name is Lobsang."

***

The problem with going away is that you can't ever do it completely. You always bring yourself with you, even as you bring yourself to a foreign place. I mean, it's true, isn't it, what any Buddhist monk with a book deal would tell you: The answer lies inside. Contentment, happiness, true escape lie in taming your wild mind, not the wild world.

Matri Prasad knows this, and he's trying, he's trying, he's gotten quite far. But the problem is, no matter how much he changes himself, there's one thing he forgot to change: his name.

Paul Franklin Washburn. Matri Prasad would like to think that Paul Franklin Washburn no longer exists, but he keeps popping up, whenever there are forms to fill out. He leaves official traces behind: at every airport he flies into, at every hotel he stays at. In the ledger at the ashram. In the attendance book at the Landour Language School. Here in India, where beauracracy reigns supreme, and every interaction demands a piece of paper, Matri Prasad cannot escape Paul. He had changed himself, but why, oh why, he wonders, had never thought to legally change his name.

***

Cathy still hadn't finished the story.

"Right after the funeral she decided that she'd make that little cottage out back into a memorial for Daniel, sort of a clubhouse for his friends from school. A collection was taken up, and she bought a pool table and his friends painted the mural."

I had wondered about the cottage. There was a sign saying "Daniel's Den" hanging outside, and flowers painted around the door, which was padlocked.

"But when the students came, she started to take them aside one by one, and tell them that if it wasn't for the principal, Daniel would still be alive today. It was very upsetting for the kids, very confusing. The school declared all of Rokeby off-limits and Maria locked the clubhouse up.

"She told Elizabeth that after Christina graduates and goes off to college, she's going to take Sofia and leave Sonam and go to Tibet. She's already broken her husband's spirit and then she'll break his heart."

And with that, Cathy was finished. She sat back in her chair. I didn't know what to say.

***

The time came to leave Rokeby. I had planned to study Hindi for a month, and I did. The day before I leave, I have my final Rokeby Sunday dinner: beef strogonoff, mashed pototoes, green beans, tomato salad, and jello for dessert. The next morning, I go to Maria's quarters to settle up my bill.

I hadn't been in her part of the house before. It was decorated with lots of Indian and Tibetan textiles, and hippie-ish pottery, and lots of photos: photos of the family, photos of friends, photos of Tibet.

After I pat my bill, she shows me some of the photos: Maria in Tibetan dress, standing next to her Tibetan companion. The children of a village they had gone to, smiling and reaching out towards the camera. A lame boy who she tells me was healed after she and her companion prayed over him.

She doesn't say anything about the other photos: a much younger and thinner Maria, sitting next to Sonam at Lal Tibba. Two dark-haired children opening presents underneath a German Christmas tree. In front of the Red Fort in Delhi, Maria smiling with her arm around Daniel.

I said goodbye to Maria, and went to the verandah to wait for my taxi. Matri Prasad was out there studying. I told him that Maria had shown me photos of her trips to Tibet, and he said that he had already seen them, and she had told him all about her work there. He said that he admired much of what the missionaries do --- helping people in need, providing medicine and food --- but that he is disturbed by their belief that Jesus is the only way to God. "That," he says, turning briefly angry and vehement, "that is the devil's evil lie."

My taxi came and took me down to the bus stand. But I had just missed the bus to the train station in Dehra Dun, so I decided to share another taxi with a older Punjabi couple who were returning home after a vacation. We got in a cab, and drove on, past the hotels and the cotton candy and the ice cream, past a crowd of schoolgirls dressed in striped ties and blue blazers and kilts, past one last little white church.

As we edged out of Mussoorie, rain began to fall for the first time in days, and then the rain turned to hail, which thumped on the taxi, violently and alarmingly, seeming as if it might shatter the windshield or crash through the roof onto our heads.

***

Six years before, during the third week of my first trip to India, I was in Khajuraho --- where they have those famous temples with all the erotic stone carvings --- and I missed the bus out. But then I met Sandy Lal, who had his own jeep, and was about to leave for Delhi, so I got a ride with him. Sandy was about 45, half Indian and half English. He had a used car dealership in a suburb of London, and to me, he was so quintessentially English in a very working class, pint-of-beer-down-the-pub kind of way about him. But then I saw him interact with Indians, and he was a completely different person: a privilaged, educated man, who had gone to one of the best private schools in India, the son of an officer in the Indian army. He'd pull rank, boss the peons around, schmooze with the other privilaged Indians. And then turn around to me and say, "Do you fancy a beer, love?"

The trip took two days. Sandy was a wealth of information, pointing out places of interest, introducing me to delicious new dishes when we stopped for lunch, giving me the lowdown on India. We took a slight detour to see the famous fort in Gwalior, and sat among the ruins drinking Indian whiskey, and then drove on until Agra, where we stopped for the night. Sandy asked if I wouldn't by any chance fancy sharing a room, and I said no, and he said, fair enough, worth a try, and we got two rooms and the next morning I went to see the Taj Mahal while Sandy visited some friends of his parents. We left Agra at noon, and on the way out of town Sandy insisted on stopping at Akbar's Tomb to see the famous tribe of black-faced monkeys that had been kind enough to adopt two orphaned red-faced monkeys, in defiance of all the rules of the jungle. We reached Delhi in the evening, and Sandy dropped me at the YWCA and wouldn't take any money for gas, or let me pay him back for the meals he had bought along the way. I was a bit sad to see him go; it had been a nice journey.

The road between Agra and Delhi had was congested and hot, it had seethed with people and reeked of freshly poured tar. But before we reached Agra, the road had not been like that at all. It had been winding and isolated. It passed through the Chambal River Valley, the badlands of India, an 8,000 square mile expanse of empty, dry, desolate zig-zagging ravines. At one point, we pulled the car to the side of the road and got out to stretch our legs. I scrambled off the tarmac, down the sandy dirt, and then up a little ridge, and down again. I stayed there a moment. I looked around. Nothing ahead of me, nothing to the one side, nothing to the other. Behind me was Sandy, and the road, and a billion people. I went back to the jeep, and we headed on.

I still think about that place.

I find myself going back to that place quite often. When I go back there, I look around. Nothing ahead of me, nothing to the one side, nothing to the other. Everything behind. And so I start walking forward. Up one ridge, and down another, and then into the ravines. And so I'm gone. Behind me is my luggage and my passport. Ahead of me is blankness. No possibilities, no choices, no chance. I've removed myself. And that's it. That's the end.

Chasing Monks

I am chasing monks. Down the crooked streets of old Tibetan Lhasa, along the wide avenues of new Chinese Lhasa, I compile my list of “best monk” sightings. Some monks wear emerald green bowler hats, like inexplicably misplaced leprechauns. Others sport gold brocade visors, the long square brims shading their faces. Some are ancient and weathered, clutching prayer beads and avoiding my female eyes. Others are just teenagers and bouncing off the walls with adolescent excitement. Maroon imitation Nike windbreakers over their matching maroon-colored robes, they suck on Popsicles and ask if they can practice their English with me. On the street corner, in the temple, at a café, I open my Tibetan-English phrasebook and teach them to say “How are you?” and “Thank you very much.”

One day, out on the hunt, I turn down an ancient lane behind the Jokhang Cathedral and find yet another English-seeking monk. No older than sixteen, he leads me up a flight of stairs to a balcony, through a doorway, and into a tiny temple.

A huge golden deity fills up half the room. On a raised platform next to the statue sits an older monk. He pounds a drum with a long curved drumstick, and at the same time chants a mantra, and clangs giant cymbals, and accepts offerings of yak butter from visitors, and smiles in greeting to me.

The young monk sits me down at a low table below the older monk’s platform, brings me a cup of yak butter tea, and opens up his English textbook. It is in Chinese, of course, but he has written the Tibetan translations of the Chinese characters in the margins. But even if it wasn’t in Chinese, I could guess that’s where it came from: the exercises run along the lines of “Are you an artist? No, I am a worker.” I teach him to say “I am a monk” instead.

Before I know it, the yak butter has congealed on the top of my cup and five other young monks have heard that I am captive in the temple. They all gather around, trying to teach me some Tibetan, and they all laugh heartily at my attempts. The old ladies of the neighborhood continue to stream in with their bags of yak butter, and glare at me with the disapproving look of old ladies everywhere. The older monk continues to chant, to bang the drum, and to clang the cymbals right above my head.

I’ve somehow slid into antiquity, with only the English textbook stringing a Maoist lifeline to the present. I could sink into this place, give in to the flickering butter lamps and the drone of the monk above my head. I could sit here for an eternity and no one but the old ladies would mind; everyone here is used to eternity, after all. But then, without even meaning to, I glance at my watch. My young monks let out a gasp of collective excitement: it’s an Adidas sports watch. As each one grasps my wrist in turn, taking a look at its glowing face and multiple settings, I discover that just like there is a worldwide “disapproving old lady glare,” there is also a worldwide “look of glee on a young man’s face when examining a gadget.” And with this I’ve slid decidedly out of my romantic antiquity and into reality. Eventually I pull myself --- and my watch --- away.

The older monk gives me a final smile, and the young monks follow me out onto the balcony. As I walk down the stairs and continue down the lane, they line up along the railing, waving and laughing, jostling each other and shouting goodbye.

Despite the maroon robes, they don’t seem like monks at all. I was a Catholic schoolgirl and I’m used to men of the cloth. But these are teenage boys, not men, and I feel like their favorite high school teacher --- the cool one whom some of the kids have a crush on. And they are even more excited about the novelty of me, the little peek I gave them into my world, than I am about the glimpse I’ve gotten into theirs.

But then again, they’re also excited because they’ve sent me down a dead-end street. After a minute or two I reach a wall and have to turn back the way I came. The monks are waiting on the balcony for me. One of them has dressed himself up in a Chicago Bulls baseball cap. There is a hint of reckless excitement in the air. My English-lesson friend is holding a bucket full of water and I can see right away what he’s about to do. As I start to run he follows above me along the balcony, and then hurls the water wildly. The monks collapse in laughter.

The water misses me by a wide margin. I smile at them and giggle good-naturedly, assuming that this cannot possibly be as strange as it seems. And then I scurry down the lane before they can get me for real.

So the next time I go chasing monks, I’ll forget about eternity. I’ll leave my watch behind. Instead I’ll pack a loaded water pistol and be ready to fire, just in case the monks decide to turn the tables and chase me.

Published in Tibet: True Stories from the Travelers' Tales book series, 2003 and Worldhum.com, January, 2002

Emails from India, 2002

Sat, 10 Aug 2002 01:32:25 -0700 (PDT)
hot and cool

hello everyone ---

arrived in delhi on wednesday night. i was prepared
for it to be hot, but it was worse than i had
expected. 85 degrees at midnight and felt like 200%
humidity. not the best climate for our first day... a
little overwhelming, even though both of us have been
here before. stayed in an air-conditioned room, ran
errands on thursday, and then high-tailed it towards
the hills on friday morning. (even at six AM i was
dripping with sweat!)

had a lovely journey up to shimla... first lowered our
body temperatures by sitting for six hours in an AC
train. it passed through the plains of the punjab,
flat, flat fertile land... and then finally more green
started to emerge, more trees, and finally hills in the
distance. we then changed trains and boarded the toy
train that winds up into the mountains. it IS just
like a little toy train... chugging slowly through the
hills, passing little stations, all brightly painted
and lined with flower boxes. stopped for snacks every
so often, but mostly peered out the big glass windows,
feeling the cool breeze on our faces. that portion of
the trip took about 6 hours, so it was evening by the
time we arrive din shimla.

shimla was the summer capital of india during the raj
era, and has many elements of an english town... mixed
in with its present status as an indian holiday
destination (lots of delhi-ites up for a cool weekend
in the mountians)... then that is mixed in with the
crowded, hill-country bazaar....

i was here on my first trip to india... many things
have changed, but there are also new elemnts: espresso
bars, atm machines, cyber cafes, dominos pizza... the
new india! i like it here, watching the indian
families stroll past eating ice cream, looking at all
the faded raj grandeur, enjoying the cool breezes!

when we got off the train, we were approached by the
oldest porter in shimla and he insisted that he could
carry both our backpacks. the man was very old, and
had a limp, and a hacking cough, and was blind in one
eye, and came up to about my shoulder. but the men
around us assured us that he could do it, and he
assured us as well. he spoke no english so my new
basic hindi knowledge came in handy, since i was able
to say "aap thik hai?" - "are you all right?" every so
often. we went very, very slowly... people kept
staring, and locals kept calling out to him, but other
porters who passed kept assuring us that he was fine.
so we went on and on, resting often. at one poitn we
tried to get him to stop and give us the bags and we'd
do the rest on our own, but he insisted on going on.
well, what can you do? he knew we would give him a ton
of money at the end... and of course we did, since we
felt so guilty. at the hotel, the manager also
insisted that the old man was "hardy and strong"...
but we still gave him first double the usual amount...
he played a little game and stood there looking sad
and tired, so then we gave him half more... and he
gave us a big smile, saluted us, and skipped off!

we climbed up to the monkey temple this morning... a
temple high on a hill dedicated to the god hanuman. it
is quite a hike but was good prepartation for the next
part of our trip. there are monkeys all around and
they can be quite dangerous (or at least
frighteneing)... one jumped on the the back of jo's
legs... she started to run, screaming, and the monkey
clung on the back as she went... finally jumping off
when some nearby people also started shouting. after
that we got big rocks and carried them around with us,
ready to throw at the slightest bit of monkey
aggression. (chaitimers... apparently my alter-ego
babu kept me safe from harm!)

now we are going to go poke around the bazaar. i am
particularly interested in an antiquarian bookstore
called the maria bookstore! tonight, we might take in
an amatuer production of a hindi version of the
threepenny opera at the gaity theatre (i was in there
on the last trip and it was great... 1920's era).
tommorrow we head out to sarahan, where there is a
beautiful old temple, and then begin our journey
towards the buddhist monastery of tabo.

this next part of the journey will be sans email, so i
won't be sending anything out for 2 weeks or so.

time to go bazaar...

Thu, 29 Aug 2002 00:25:21 -0700 (PDT)
the long road

here we are, back in civilization and back in india.
the past two and a half weeks certainly didn't feel
like either... though i guess in some ways it was more
civilized than where i am now...

i'm writing from an internet cafe in vaishist, a
village outside of the holiday town of manali.
vaishist has been taken over by backpackers, even more
so than when i stayed here six years ago, and has a
very wierd feeling to it. we are just here for a
visit... we are staying in a swish hotel in manali,
getting a great off-season discount. we needed a bit
of swish after spiti and kinnaur! almost everywhere we
stayed was fine, but not exactly luxurious.

after leaving shimla we stayed for two nights in
sarahan, in a guesthouse in the courtyard of the
village's huge and famous temple. except for the rain,
it was gorgeous. then we had the first of our truly
harrowing bus rides (shimla to sarahan was just mildly
disconcerting) to kalpa, a charming, charming village
in kinnaur. filled with apple orchards and pine trees
and carved wood houses and lovely people... truly a
place that hasn't been touched yet by western
tourists, a place where the people are interested in
you and proud to show you where and how they live.

it did rain for the first day and a half, and we
couldn't see the main reason why kalpa is on the map
--- a stunning view of the kinner kailash range of
mountains, holy to hindus. (the town does get quite a
few indian tourists for that reason.) but on
independence day, the sky cleared! beautiful...

moving on, we had another harrowing bus journey...
this one was the worst... teensy-tiny road blasted out
of the rock, high above the gorge of the sutlej river.
seven hours of it! as we moved towards spiti the
landscape got less green, more stony. eventually,
after darkness had fallen, we climbed up our last
harrowing hill to nako, a tiny, tiny village where we
spent two lovely days. nako was much more tibetan than
kalpa, a definate difference in the people, the
lifestyle and the religion. it clings to the side of a
stony hill, eking a living out of the carefully
irrigated soil. only one guesthouse, restaurant and
store --- all owned by the same guy on the edge of
town. i've never been in a place so small and so
completely uncommercial before. except for the
satelite dishes on the roof and the sporadic
electricty, life seemed much the same as it must have
been for centuries.

moving on, we headed into spiti proper. to do this,
however, we had to cross a road washed out by a
landslide! though other sections of road were bad, and
ocasionally destroyed by avalanches, this section was
permenantly gone. so this is what you do: after taking
the bus to the ladnslide from nako, your luggage is
put into a pulley system and is swung across the river
gorge to the other side of the road. you decline the
army officer's offer to put you in the pulley as well.
you then are told that you must walk down a barely
visible, rock-strewn path to the river bed, and then
up the other side. you are told this will take you an
hour. you know it will really take you 2 hours and
begin to reconsider the pulley offer.

but you plunge downwards instead. given the altitude
(nako, for example, was a bit higher at 3600 m.) and
your lack of athletic ability it takes quite a while.
helpful old local men and helpful army men (there are
army everywhere in this area, since it is so close to
the border with tibet, and also since they have to fix
the roads so often) guide you along. you ford a stream
at the bottom of the climb and then begin the ascent.
slowly, slowly.

you get to the top after 2 hours exactly, just in time
for the supposed 10:00 bus. but 10:00 comes and goes
and you are still sitting on the side of the landslide
with dust in your eyes, the sun on your back, and the
truckers being amused by you. you wait and wait. you
are told to take cover behind a truck as they set off
dynamite on the road. you have tea in a little hut.
you meet more army men. an army engineer proudly tells
you, "we are fighting natural calamity, madam!"

at 1:00 the bus finally comes. you get on. you are the
only people on the bus. the army men keep you company.
but why isn't the bus going?

because the driver and the conductor, as well as all
the passengers, are walking across the landslide from
the other side. it takes them two hours as well, so
you don't feel so bad about your time. at 3 you leave.

the drive is stupendous, as you see the landscape of
spiti emerge... brown and green and bare, huge
mountains, tibetan houses, the bluest sky. even
covered in dust and grit, you are happy...

after two hours you are in the monastery town of tabo.
the journey has taken 10 and a half hours. if the road
wasn't gone, it would have taken four at the most!

well, that's my kinnaur story. i'll continue on into
spiti later...

Fri, 30 Aug 2002 00:45:46 -0700 (PDT)
spiti next part

well, after two days solid of rain, the sun is finally
out in manali... and of course today is the day we are
leaving. at three o'clock we head to the bus stand to
begin the 16 hour journey down to delhi... yikes!

where did i leave off on the story of the expedition
to kinnaur and spiti? oh yes, we had just tumbled into
tabo, all covered in landslide dust. the monastery
town of tabo is the reason i made this trip: six years
ago, on my first trip to india, my friend carolyn had
blithely suggested we go to tabo while we were huddled
under blankets in our hotel in shimla. we soon
realized that if we were cold in shimla in october, we
would be freezing in tabo... if we had even managed to
get there at that time of year! now that i've done the
journey, i think it is a good thing we didn't make an
attempt at that time...

but i've always wanted to go to tabo since then, home
of some of the best buddhist art in the world... only
alchi in ladakh rivals it. the murals are 1,000 years
old and are incredibly well-preserved. the temple they
are in is all adobe and southwestern looking on the
outside... very unlike your typical tibetan temple. so
anyway...

we checked into a room at the monastery guesthouse and
proceeded to spend a nice two days eating good tibetan
food, looking at the murals, getting up in the morning
to hear the monks chant at 6 AM, hanging out with
other travellers we had met along the way... oh, and
fighting off the large black beetles that infested our
monastery guesthouse bedroom. we didn't feel we could
kill them since we were supposed to observe buddhist
precepts while staying in the guesthouse so we kept
gathering them up in a glass and throwing them out of
the window. however, the one that crawled into my bed
(i discovered it when i put my head on my pillow) got
flushed down the toilet.... that was going too far,
mr. beetle.

tabo was much more of a tourist place than anywhere
else we had been, even if there were still very few
tourists. you could feel it though - the people there
and the monks were sort of guarded against outsiders.
of course, once the dalai lama retires there, as he
says he will, i'm sure they will be completely
invaded... visits from richard gere and everything.

we did score major points, however, when jo asked the
monk in charge of the guesthouse if she could take a
look at the primary school run by the monastery. (she
is going to begin training to be a primary school
teacher when she gets back from the trip.) we were
taken upstairs to meet geshe-la, the abbot of the
monastery, and he escorted us there himself.

a lovely little school - well, quite large, actually,
with most of the students boarding there since they
are from small and isolated villages, or are orphans.
then jo was invited to come and teach there once she
finished her training --- something she is seriously
considering. they are quite eager to have
english-speakers come and teach - most of the
instuction is actually done in english, but the
teachers themselves aren't quite fluent and they don't
have enough teachers to begin with. anyone out there
interested? you would earn good karma and have an
amazing time...

after two days i was ready to move on. we hired a jeep
to take us to our next destination --- both so that we
could have a really good view of the amazing scenary
and so that we could visit dhankar gompa on the way --
another ancient monastary, this one perched up on a
hill. after a final visit to the temple (a truly
magical place, all natural light with the ancient
murals covering all the walls... butter lamps
flickering on the ancient statues that hover
around...) we were off --- this time in style.

Wed, 4 Sep 2002 23:05:23 -0700 (PDT)
jolly monks

i should be on the train to mussoorie right now, on my
way to begin hindi school, but i missed it this
morning, thanks to a misfunctioning alarm clock... ah,
well. another day in delhi. another day in delhi?
yikes! head for the extremely expensive
air-conditioned barista coffee bar!!! (expensive, that
is, for india. a latte is still a third of the price
of one at home.)

jo left late tuesday night. boo-hoo. now i have to
fight off the kasmiri rug merchants all on my own! we
had a fun time in delhi, despite the heat. we tried to
sightsee: went to the red fort but by the time we got
there it was so hot we just stood in the shade,
physically unable to go into the sun to take a closer
look at anything. so we left history behind and went
shopping instead! only at stores with AC, of course...
it was like being a lady who lunches; boutiques and
little cafes (and barista coffee bars) and a pedicure
to top it all off.

okay, so: the story of the kinnaur-spiti expedition.
it seems a very, very long time ago that we were
there. we got our photos developed in delhi and it was
like looking at pictures from another world. and as we
drove from tabo towards kibber in our very comfy
rented jeep, it certainly was like entering another
world...

the landscape was spectacular, far surpassing the
drive from the landslide to tabo. we drove along the
spiti river, the riverbed itself huge, but the river
at this time quite small, multiple seperate strands of
silver water running swiftly. all along the river
giant towers of earth stood, like dust-coloured
stalatites (or stalagmites?). the mountains were
striped different colours, at times looking as if a
huge hand had come and crumpled them up. and still,
every so often, in the beautiful but bleak landscape,
we passed fields of barley and peas, and little mud
brick houses, all painted white and black, prayer
flags flying. (i just paraphrased my performance piece
"the tourist police" there --- which described my trip
to tibet --- because at this point spiti truly looked
and felt like what i saw in tibet.)

at one point we passed a field and saw an old man
sitting in it, slowly twirling a prayer wheel, as his
children harvested the peas... it was like a moment
from a movie.

one of the many nice things about the jeep was that we
could stop for photos when we wanted. of course,
everything was photo-worthy, but i tried to restrain
myself. we also stopped at dhankhar gompa (monastery),
which was a highlight of the whole trip.

there is an old monastary and a new monastary. they
are both perched on top of a hill, along with a small
village, and then the old gompa is perched yet again
on top of a cliff. the jeep dropped us off by the old
gompa... a ramshackle ancient building, clinging to
the rock, a sheer drop down on one side. a very
friendly and jolly monk invited us in, up a dark
staircase, and showed us the temple and a room where
they store masks and costumes for ritual dances. two
other monks joined us, chuckling at our picture taking
and then obligingly posing for a few. the monks were
different than those in tabo --- in tabo, they are
constantly dealing with streams of rude tourists (we
saw quite a few in action while we were there... many
of them trekkers who didn't seem to really be
interested in the gompa anyway) and so the monks there
aren't as eager to interact with you. but in dhankhar
they see far fewer tourists, and like the landscape,
reminded me much more of the monks in tibet.

we then walked down to the new monastery, where the
monks were in the prayer hall, sewing furiously with
handcranked machines... piles of orange and maroon
cloth everywhere... we think they were sewing shirts.
or the cloth bindings for prayer books. or both. they
spoke no english, but welcomed us to sit down, look
around, take some pictures and have some tea. i said
yes to the tea and then discovered to my dismay that
this really WAS like being in tibet... the tea was
salt-butter tea! i felt like i had had my mouth washed
out with the atlantic! i drank half a cup and
vigourously refused refills...

eventually we hit the road again. the scenary
continued in its incredible... incredible... well, its
incredibleness. after another two hours we reached
kaza --- the largest town around... way too many
people --- stopped for lunch and to fill up the tank
at the only petrol pump in the area... and then
continued along the river, and then up a hill. passed
the magnificent ki gompa, which is also perched on top
of a cliff, and reached kibber, a very, very high
village... supposedly the highest village in the world
(or in asia or in india, depending on who is boasting)
with electricity and a motorable road.

a sweet place, with a very comfortable guesthouse and
a wonderful tibetan couple making great food... and...
well, i have to go buy a train ticket for tommorrow...
i'll continue later...

Tue, 10 Sep 2002 06:46:57 -0700 (PDT)
in a not-so-indian place

Here I am in mussoorie. Well, not in mussoorie,
actually. I'm up on the hill overlooking mussoorie, in
a place whose exact name I haven't quite figured
out... perhaps is it the northern bit of landour? The
little square where I sit and write this is called
chardukan: "four shops" and that's about all there is.
and they are really not shops. There are two tea
places, two telepone places, a post office and a bank.
I knew I’d be outside of mussoorie proper, but I
thought I’d be around a little bit more of a town than
this...

And what there is of it is very odd, since it is
extremely clean and filled with big english style
houses that are remmnants of the raj, now occcupied by
american and korean christian missionaries. I am
staying in one, complete with my own american
missionaries. the guesthouse is called rokeby and is
very cozy (lots of devotional posters on the wall),
and the food is very good (the missionaries eat a lot,
though they are always complaining about the food, and
how they wish the local organic peanut butter was
skippy or peter pan)... I keep to myself, study hindi,
study the missionaries (recent bible college graduates
from places like texas, sent off to the subcontinent
to convert the hindu! I find them even more exotic
than I find the hindus!), and chuckle internally at
the posters on the walls exhorting us to pray for the
conversion of the tibetan buddhist people (as I plan
my pilgrimage in november to bodh gaya).

What I’m doing here is beginning my hindi study...
just finished my second day and it is going well.
Well, that is, I like two of my teachers and the third
is awful, but next week they will change, so... the
way the school is set up is a bit strange, but there
is nothing to do up here but study so I hope to make
progress. And take lots of long walks through the
piney hills... as long as it isn’t raining, which is
does on and off everyday, it being the monsoon season.
But it is cool, at least --- even cold --- and, for me
that is so much better than the heat.

This weekend I think I’ll go to rishikesh, which is
just a few hours away. There I might take a yoga class
or two, and soak up some of that there hinduism while
sitting by the ganges.

Wed, 25 Sep 2002 03:18:25 -0700 (PDT)
haridwar part one

A lightbulb just exploded above my head in the
internet place I am in, and a bit of it burnt my
finger --- but never fear, I will continue on in my
email writing…

I’m still in Mussoorie at Hindi school, still living
with the missionaries. But the weather has turned just
about gorgeous --- cool and sunny and blue-skyed ---
and the Hindi is going well and I’ve made some
non-missionary friends, including a British guy who
actually used to be a missionary; his point of view is
quite interesting.

Last weekend I went to the pilgramage city of Haridwar
with two Italian girls, Monica and Maya. We had a
kind of crazy, wonderful, exhausting time, beginning
with a beautiful evening bus ride there. The bus was
packed so we had to sit up front in the driver’s cab,
squeezed in with about eight other people on little
seat running along the side of the bus. I was right up
front and had a wonderful view of the open road
through the bus’s front window --- well, almost open,
except for the odd truck careening towards us (us and
the truck both blowing our horns) or a man and his
child on a bicycle pedalling slowly ahead of us, or a
girl languidly herding her cows home. Bit by bit dusk
came, and began to soften the road. By this time we
had made our way out of the city and were passing
swaths of forest, green and lush, broken by little
clusters of fields and modest houses, the odd chai
shop, a country liquor store, the men sneaking
furtively up to it and then sneaking away again. The
sun also snuck furtively away, casting a golden glow
on the almost-full moon. It hung directly in front of
us, a beacon in the middle of the road.

After about an hour we started to approach Haridwar
--- it’s a completely vegetarian town (no meat, no
chicken, no eggs) and so right before you get there,
there is a village devoted to selling meat. All
restaurants and butchers, one after the other ---
Chicken Palace, Mutton Corner, Omelette Heaven.

Then, on our right, we finally saw Haridwar, its
temples all lit up with fairy lights, lining the
Ganges, looking --- from a distance ---
disconcertingly like something in Vegas. After a slow
progression through what seemed like every inch of
Hardiwar’s subusbs, we made it to the main bus stand,
and got ourselves a bicycle rickshaw to our hotel.
Three of us couldn’t sit up front, so I sat backwards
on the back of the seat --- i.e. sat precariously,
facing away from the direction we were going. It was
wonderful --- especially since we soon were in the
middle of a religious procession to celebrate the last
day of the festival honouring Genesh, the
elephant-headed god. Lots of brass bands in marching
uniforms, singers belting it out into highly amplified
mikes, boys dancing that crazy, completely uninhibited
yet jerky male Indian style of dancing (must be seen
to be believed), floats with various gods on them, a
giant papier-mache rat (Ganesh’s vehicle… each of the
gods had an animal on which he or she travels). I, of
course, had my camera out. Which, of course, got
people waving and smiling as we slowly, slowly passed
by.

Eventually we made it to our hotel. The room seemed
nice enough at first, though the bathroom was dirty
with something that looked like it had perhaps been
left behind by Ganesh’s vehicle. But the one-eyed,
sort of strange man who showed us the room did a
(basic) clean-up job, and we decided it would do.
Monica did see a cockroach… but then there is always
one or two cockroaches around in any hot place. And
off we went to dinner.

On our way back, we encountered the procession again,
which had been slowly making its way over the course
of an hour. We took more photos, and the dancing boys
got a kick out of posing for us. Then, exhausted, we
went back to the hotel.

The minute we turned on our lights, the cockroaches
were running everywhere. Thousands of them! Okay, I
exagerate. Not thousands. But a lot. Enough to make me
freak. And I don’t freak too easily about bugs. So.
What to do? Maya and I went and spoke to the one-eyed
man. He came up, along with a fat scuzzy man and a
young creepy man, and stood in our room trying to
convince us that there were no bugs. Well, of course,
there were no bugs --- the light had them all hiding!
The men spoke no English, and our Hindi lessons had
not yet gotten to the "Please spray our room with bug
spray" chapter. Finally, I started saying, "Manager!
Manager!" quite loudly. And a young man passing by
poked his head in and said, in a disinterested way,
"Actually, I’m acting as manager." He told the men to
spray insecticide.

Then followed a hunourous incident where the one-eyed
man deluged our room in bug spray, and when he finally
encountered an actual cockroach, followed it around
the room spraying it, as if he was shooting a gun and,
if he hit it just right, it would die on the spot. We
finally shouted at him to stop, and he left us in our
poison filled room, where we hoped that the spay
wouldn’t kill us as well as the bugs. We went to sleep
to the sound of the Ganesh procession still passing
by.

The next morning, as we left our hotel, we noticed
that streamers were being put up in the courtyard.
Hmmm... wonder why... perhaps for the Ganesh festival?
We didn’t pay it much mind and went out to face
Haridwar. After the calmness of Mussoorie, it was
quite a shock. Full-on India. But good to be back in
it! Oddly, the first place we went to for breakfast
seemed to be out of both tea and coffee. We went to
another. They were out of tea, but had coffee. We
tried to get the waiter to tell us why, but he didn’t
seem to know, or couldn’t feel he could explain.
Amazing... a place in India with no chai! But the
coffee was good... even almost getting Monica and
Maya’s Italian approval.

A note about my companions: neither of them speaks
fluent English, so we ended up communicating in an odd
and confusing mix of English, Italian (I speak a
little) and Hindi. Maya is adopted and is ethnically
Indian, so people often didn’t know what to make of
her --- was she an Indian or a foreigner? Monica had
been in a serious car accident seven years previously
and has quite a bad scar on her face, so people also
found that to be something to look at. And then I
always get stares just for being so fair and freckled.
Monica was the one to point out what an odd and
interesting trio we must be to the people around us.
She is really such a strong woman and I feel so lucky
to have met someone who has moved on with her life
after experiencing (and, indeed, continually
experiencing) such a trauma.

But anyway... we wandered through the bazaar, full of
things for pilgrims --- kitschy souvenirs and
religious items --- and made our way down to the
ghats… the steps that line the riverbank, where people
come to immerse themselves in the holy Ganges. It was
sort of a madhouse. Many, many beggers, often badly
handicapped. Many, many sadhus (holy men), often more
than a little stoned. Many, many pilgrims, ranging
from well-dressed and well-fed middle class city
dwellers, to rail thin villagers, walking barefoot
through the holy city. The most colourful of these
villagers were often the ones from Rajasthan and
Gujarat --- the men all in white with brightly
coloured red and pink turbans, the women with their
arms lined with thick white bangles and wearing full
skirts and backless sari blouses... some of the older
women tattooed on their arms and legs and faces.

We stood on the bridge overlooking the main temple,
and watched people being blessed before immersing
themselves... or having a photographer take their
souvenir photo before immersing themselves! It was
wonderful. The Ganges flows quite swiftly, so people
(the vast majority of whom couldn’t swim) held onto
chain link fences put up for their protection, while
the young boys --- of course --- really couldn’t care
less about the danger of drowning and jumped right in
to splash around and swim and go with the flow all the
way down the length of the main ghat.

We then turned back into the bazaar to do a little
shopping... a few purchases were made, but it was
getting hotter and hotter. We sat in a chai shop for
awhile and had a Pepsi. A Sikh gentleman who was also
visiting Haridwar gave me his full address and phone
number in case I ever visit Amritsar. Hmmmm...

Then we had lunch in one of the many Chotiwallah
restaurants. Chotiwallah is the name of two famous
restaurants in the nearby town of Rishikesh. I had
gone there the previous weekend. The 2 restaurants are
right next to each other, supposedly divided by
fueding brothers decades ago. They are both very good
and very popular. So, in Haridwar, we saw about six
fake Chotiwallahs --- none looking quite as nice as
the ones in Rishikesh. But we had to try at least one,
nonetheless. Then, back to the hotel for a nap. The
man at the desk told us that the decorations were for
a child’s birthday party. Up in our room, we realized
that the outdoor kitchen was just below us, and we
listened to clanking of pots and smelled the food as
we had our siesta.

And then... well, gotta go study. I’ll continue
tommorrow...

Fri, 27 Sep 2002 04:37:39 -0700 (PDT)
haridwar part two

Haridwar Part Two

First off, sorry about not blind cc-ing the last
email. A million apologies for my lapse in internet
mass mailing etiquette! Don’t know what got into me.

Today was a beautiful day here in
Chardukan/Landour/Sister’s Bazaar (I really don’t know
exactly what to call this place…). After class I took
a walk along a wooded road that winds behind the
hilltop here, and stopped into the old Christian
cemetray to take some photos. Beautiful old place,
with graves dating back to the 1830’s… a sad place,
too, with many graves of young mothers and little
babies… casualties of the Raj…

Then, after lunch, took another walk along little
lanes leading down the hill… and then had to climb all
the way back up again. Followed that walk with an
apple soda at one of the Chardukan cafes, in the
company of Monica and Maya.

Today there was a “bandh” --- a closure of all the
markets and schools in India, due to the killings in
the temple in Gujarat on Tuesday. Spent quite a bit of
time in Hindi class talking about what had happened,
and how it is always the people with the least who
suffer the most.

So, where did I leave off? With us taking a nap in a
bug free but food odour-filled room…

Got up around 4, after the day had begun to cool down
just a little bit, and went for a walk back to the
ghats. This time, we crossed over the Ganges to the
far back, and strolled along there. It seeemed to be
the place where people who couldn’t even manage to
stay in an ashram stayed… very poor pilgrims, setting
up camp under any tree that could be found. Lots of
sadhus there, too. Very peaceful, as well…

After a bit we headed back to the main ghat, to make
sure and get a good spot for the evenings big aarti
(prayer ceremony). We did indeed manage to get a good
spot --- opposite the main temple, facing the priests
across a canal of the Ganges which runs in front of
the temple. We settled down on the ground, squeezed in
with all the other pilgrims. I was sitting next to an
old woman and eventually we got to talking… or almost
talking, since my Hindi is still rudimentary, to say
the least. Her name was something along the lines of
Dakkadevi, she was from Rajasthan, and she seemed very
disapointed that we did not have a diya to offer to
the Ganges. A diya is a little lamp made of leaves,
filled with flowers, which is lit and put in the
water. They are very beautiful, but for whatever
reason we hadn’t gotten one. She put hers in and said
her prayers. She gave us cardomon pods to chew on,
which were surprisingly yummy and left my breath
fresher than any Scope would.

Men in blue uniforms, rather disconcertingly wearing
swastika pins (the swastika being an ancient symbol in
Asia… nothing to do with Nazis, but still…), began
revving up the crowd, rather like Bible Belt
preachers. Holding little notebooks in their hands,
they exhorted the crowd to donate money and to join
them in shouting “Jai Ram!” Once you did donate some
money, they recorded it in their notebooks, and gave
you a receipt. Very organized. We didn’t donate money,
but we did shout “Jai Ram!”

Dakkadevi and I continued to sit together and smile at
one another. She reached out and pointed to the
freckles on my arms --- Indians are often fascinated
by my freckles and I have a very hard time convincing
people that they are not a disease and that I don’t
want to get rid of them. (One man in Kinnaur told me
that if I drank all my water from a copper pot for two
years they would go away.) Dakkadevi, however, then
pointed to her own arm, which had some very light
white patches on it, and we laughed and laughed
together.

The wind was whipping up, as the sun began to set, and
we were afraid we would get rained on. But instead a
beautiful wind just blew, and eventually the aarti
began. Dakkadevi started to point to my camera and
encourage me to take photos of the ceremony, which was
spectactular. Three priests stood on the bank of the
river, with large hanging lamps blazing with fire,
which they swung around and around over the water.
Golden reflections lit up the Ganges, as music played
and chants were chanted.

As well as wanting me to take photos, Dakkadevi wanted
to look through my camera --- an SLR with a huge zoom
lens --- as well. She said, “Dekko!’ (“Look!”) And she
squinted up her eyes and peered through the viewfinder
and I zoomed the zoom in and out. Don’t know if she
actually saw anything, but she seemed impressed.

As the aarti drew to a close a pretty little girl came
up and put a red and yellow tikka mark on my forehead.
It was a beautiful moment --- but just a moment, for
as soon as she had finished she barked, “Money!” in a
bored voice. I dropped a five rupee coin in her dish
--- more than enough --- and then had a funny little
argument with her as she kept saying “Ten rupees! Ten
rupees!” and I kept pointing to all the one and two
rupee coins in her dish and saying “Not ten rupees!”
and the people around us chuckled.

And then it was over, and Dakkadevi and I said
goodbye. She disappeared into the throng of people,
and Monica and Maya and I strolled over to the ghat
where the main temple is, where the ceremony had just
been. On the way, my eye caught the full moon, huge
and hanging low in the sky and I couldn’t help but
exclaim out loud. A hefty matron heard me and joined
me in admiring the moon and making small talk, as her
husband stood patiently by. Then some young boys and
girls --- the ringleader spoke excellent English, was
about 14, and named Ruby --- came up and started
chatting to us. They were from the Punjab (like many
of the pilgrims in Haridwar) and were on a tour of all
the religious sites in this part of the Himalayas as
part of an organized tour given by their father’s
workplace. They were so very excited about their trip
and Ruby explained how important this was for them,
since they were Hindus.

Throughout my weekend in Haridwar, and especially that
night, I couldn’t help but be struck by the irony of
the missionaries back at the boarding house where I am
staying. Here is a vastly spiritual and religious
country, where people have great devotion to their
ancestral religion --- and these people I’m staying
with think that it is their job to bring God to these
people! I can’t help but think that that is one of
most prideful things I’ve ever encountered… and pride
is a sin, isn’t it? But anyway…

We went and sat on the steps of the main ghat for
awhile, watching people continung to throng the
temples dotted along the riverside. A young couple
with a baby and their parents walked up to us and ---
without a word --- the parents, wife and baby sat down
next to us while the husband took a photo of us all
together… a particularly ineresting souvenir photo ---
the family with the Westerners! We then decided to go
have dinner, and ended up at another of the
Chotiwallahs. Better than the lunch one, but still no
comparision to Rishikesh.

We then wandered back towards the hotel, stopping to
do a little bangle shopping. As we approached the
hotel, we noticed something a bit odd --- lights had
been strung all along its façade… and I mean all the
way up on the roof, and lots of lights to boot! This
party must be quite a shindig.

And, indeed, we could hear it as we got nearer. When
we reached the gate to our hotel, we saw the crowd
inside and decided to take a walk for a little longer.
It was about nine o’clock, anyhow. A child’s birthday
party couldn’t go on much longer, could it?

Of course, we hadn’t really stopped to realize that a
child’s birthday party in India is often a social
occasion for the adults in the family as well, and
that festivities in India often start rather late. But
even if we had thought of that, I doubt we would have
anticipated what happened…

We walked for a bit, but shops were beginning to close
up and we were tired. When we returned to the hotel a
half an hour later, the crowd in the courtyard had
only grown bigger. We pushed our way through, past
people thronging the buffet table, and the proud
parents showing off a one year old girl in a bright
yellow lace dress, and a giant automated Mickey Mouse
that moved slowly side to side as children ran around
him. We climbed the stairs up to our room and found
half the men of the party in the room next door and
congregating along the walkway running in front… this
was obviously where the whiskey was being drunk. We
asked them to please move away from our door; they did
for about five minutes, but soon we could hear that
they were standing right outside again.

It’s kind of amazing that we could hear them outside,
since the deejay was blaring Hindi pop music louder
than I had ever imagined music could be played. We got
ready for bed and lay down. It was about 10. Certainly
it would be over by 12, right? We lay in the hot room
(windows and curtains closed against the noise and the
men outside) and waited, our beds vibrating with the
noise.

We waited until after 2 AM. Finally, after listening
to every song Daler Mehendi has ever sung at least 3
times over, we heard the shouts of the last remaining
guests saying goodbye --- presumably the whiskey
drinkers from next door --- and then quiet blissfully
descended. But only about 3 minutes, since then the
hotel workers began the clean up. That lasted until 3
--- pots clanging and tables and chairs being packed
away. Uufff.

The next morning, we were mad. Maya informed me that
she had seen the creepy one-eyed man peeking into our
room that morning while we were still in bed. We
decided we were not going to pay the bill for the
previous night! (We had already paid for the first
night.) We packed and marched up to the desk,slammed
the key down and walked out. The desk clerk ran after
us --- we went back in and he gave us the bill.
Luckily, an older man who was also a hotel guest was
standing there, and his presence somehow made me feel
empowered. My rudimentray Hindi came in handy as I
asked the clerk if this was a discotheque or a hotel.
A hotel, he responded. Well, not last night, I said.
And then I pointed to his employees (who still had
smirks on their faces) and said how we had seen them
peeking in our window. And then I said we had come to
Haridwar because it was a holy city and that this was
not what we expected in a holy city. Well, I said that
last bit in English. And then we marched out.

I then explained to Maya and Monica the meaning of the
English phrase, “That got my Irish up.”

We had a lovely breakfast, took another walk along the
river, caught the bus, and with the money we had
saved, treated ourselves to a nice lunch in Dehra Dun
and a taxi back to Mussoorie. Quite the weekend…
though “Bolo Ta Ra Ra” will never be quite the same
for me…

Thu, 17 Oct 2002 03:40:42 -0700 (PDT)
palaces and anime

here i am in bombay.

let's see... it's been almost two weeks now since i
left mussoorie. before going, i spent a lovely night
camping out under the stars... i further pondered the
ways of the missionaries... i memorized more
vocabulary and went for more and more walks in the
woods.

then set off for delhi, where i was very hospitably
hosted by my friend emily's aunt. i did a ton of
shopping. and then more shopping. and then i went to
the beautiful ruined city of orrcha in madhya pradesh.

it was a lovely weekend. i managed to completely luck
out and get a room in a hotel which is housed in a
17th century palace. it sits up out of the village,
surrounded by the ruins of old orrcha... a palace on
either side of the hotel palace... the spires of
temples dotting the fields outside my window... flocks
of blue and green wild parakeets overhead...

and the neverending sound of loudspeakers playing
religious music... it was durga puja, a big festival,
and the village was humming with activity and
resounding with amplified music! in the evening, after
i sat on the palace roof and watched the sunset over
the palaces, i went down to the village with giorgina,
a swiss woman who was also staying in the hotel. we
wandered down the alleys to where the villagers had
set up their durga puja shrines --- statues of durga,
the mother goddess, brightly garlanded and
illuminated. the women and children were sitting
around her, singing songs and playing the drums. we
cause quite a stir when we arrived... the kids got out
their schoolbooks for us to look at, and the women
encouraged us to sing along, and of course, photos
were taken...

spent the next day wandering the ruins and sitting
around the palace (again, love saying that!). the
following day, woke at sunrise and went out for a
quiet, cool walk further into the countryside
surrounding the ruins. a brambley road led through
fields, each with their own ruined temple... and past
shrines and temples still in use, with people going
for a special early morning festival puja.

then, it was off to bhopal, to again see my friends
the tanvir family and the naya theatre troupe. and to
meet a new friend: wada, a hindi-speaking but
non-english-speaking japanese college student who was
like an anime character come to life. she is spending
the fall with the troupe. i now speak hindi with a
japanese accent...

Mon, 28 Oct 2002 02:07:19 -0800 (PST)
life is oh-so-hard

Here I am in paradise, otherwise known as palolem… at
least it’s paradise if you are here before the season
has started. I have a wood and palm hut, up on stilts,
right near the water, at the last hut complex on the
beach. So it’s extra quiet and extra lovely. The beach
is a cove of golden sand, with islands and rocks at
either end, and green hills jutting up behind. From my
bed I can look one way and see the ocean. Looking the
other way, the tops of coconut palm trees sway in the
breeze…

I got to goa a little over a week ago, after a
fantastic few days in bombay. I arrived in the capital
city of panjim… arguably the most laidback capital
city --- if not city in general --- in india. Well,
that is assuming that you consider goa to be part of
india. It only stopped being a portugese colony in
1961, and a lot of goans still consider themselves to
be more goan than indian. I spent 4 nights in panjim
and could have stayed more. There isn’t that much to
actually see… not a lot of sights listed in the
guidebook… but it is such a beautiful city with a
flavour all its own. I was staying in an old house in
the portugese quarter and would wander the streets in
the morning and evening, full of distinctive houses
and little whitewashed churches and shrines. (Goa is
about 30% catholic.) It often felt strangely familiar…
a little like sicily, a little like mexico, a little
like southen california!

It was very hot during the day, but I soldiered on…
first visiting one of the nearby beach resorts (mostly
for package tourists) to get a glimpse of the ocean,
then the next day to Old Goa (more in a minute), then
the next to the famous Anjuna flea market. It is on
the beach at another resort and has a ton of vendors
there. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately…) most of
their stuff is tourist junk. But it was fun to browse
and people watch.

Old Goa is a world heritage monument --- beautifully
maintained baroque churches, convents and monasteries
that were once part of the original Portugese capital
of Goa. At some point (forget exactly when, but quite
a while ago) the river there silted up and they moved
the capital to panjim. Old Goa was left a ghost town,
and eventually all the buildings were torn down or
crumbled, except for the religious ones. Like a good
little tourist, I saw each and every one of the
buildings. They were beautiful, but I was nearly
passing out from the sun and was forced to buy a silly
wide-brimmed straw hat to wear…

Well, continuing to sit in front of a computer is
tempting, but my presence is required back at the
beach…

Tue, 5 Nov 2002 23:00:13 -0800 (PST)
three festivals in one weekend

i'm here in gokarna, a beautiful pilgramage city on
the karnataka coast. it is, however, very hot, and the
power has just gone out in the interent place. the
computers are run on a generator, but the fans have
--- oh, hurray! the fans went on again!

gokarna is a trip back to the real india after the
holiday india of palolem. beautiful old red tiled
houses and ashrams lines the roads, which are filled
with cows and pilgrims and shops selling pilramage
apparatus --- brass lamps and devotional pictures and
coconuts for offerings. the town is on the beach, and
in the mornings and evenings it is filled with indians
have a dip --- both for religious and vacation
reasons.

the westerners tend to take a 20 minute hike over a
black rock and red clay headland to cudlee beach...
practically deserted except for a few fishermen's
huts, a few traveller tea shops, a few huts for the
travellers, and a few travellers. it is a stunning
beach, but an even more stunning one is om beach,
located a further 20 minute walk away, up another
headland path (the trees around you rustling with the
noises of shy grey monkeys stuffing their faces) and
over more barren black rock and red clay.

om beach has three little coves, and looks like an
"om" symbol when viewed from above. it also has a few
places to get some cold drinks and food, and some
basic places to stay. a dirt road has recently been
built, however (there is no road to cudlee beach), so
indian tourists have begun to come for day trips and
interfere with the travellers' fantasy of a castaway
paradise. oh, well... it is their country, after all.
if only all the men wouldn't stare at the women in
bathing suits so much!

i got here on saturday, and in the evening saw the
first signs of the upcoming festival of divali... in
the evening people were lighting little brass lamps
and setting them out in front of their houses. i spent
sunday at the beach, and didn't come back to my
guesthouse in town until the evening, thus completely
missing a huge festival on the beach celebrating the
marriage of the god shiva to his consort parvati. i
didn't even know it was going on... but then there is
often so much going on here that one always misses
something.

the next day was divali, one of the biggest festivals
of the year. it celebrates the victorious return of
the god ram to his kingdom after defeating the demon
ravana. lights are lit to guide his way home, and
firecrackers are set off everywhere, and people give
each other sweets and visit family.

it is also the financial new year, so businesses have
special pujas done to the goddess of wealth, lakshmi,
to bring them success in the new year. the main street
of gokarna, which is lined with shops, was positively
buzzing with pujas. i watched several... brahmin
priests lead the businessman and his family in
prayers, and they give out prasad --- food that has
been blessed, often sweets --- to people and sometimes
small amounts of money. gongs are banged, conch horns
are blown, chants are chanted... and a happy time is
had by all.

and i was lucky enough to get to participate in a puja
myself... i was walking around with my camera and took
some photos of a small child outside of a house,
surrounded by flickering lamps. an older girl ---
about 20 --- saw me and asked if her photo could be
taken as well. she actually lived in the house, which
has a tea stall in the front of it. so photos were
also taken of her, and then i was invited to sit down
as the puja was about to begin. midway through, the
girl, archana, handed me a gong. she had one as well
and we both banged away while her father blew a conch
and the very, very young priest said prayers in front
of an altar to lakshmi in the corner of the tea shop.
then the distribution of prasad and money began. her
old uncle filled my hands with puffed rice and sweets
--- and then she gave me a one rupee coin, as well. i
left with her address and a promise to send them the
photos, and enough puffed rice to make an evening
meal.

i gathered even more puffed rice, as well as a little
bag of sweets and two bananas, in my wander down the
bazaar... every so often dodging taxis and auto
rickshaws which had marigold garlands draped thickly
over their front windows. the driver's view was thus
obscured, but his business had been blessed, so no
worries...

the following day was a festival to honour the cow. at
cudlee beach the family who run a tea stall had all
the travellers come out back to their barn. their cows
had been decorated with garlands and painted with
colourful circles. they fed them lots of nice fresh
leaves and hunks of sugar, and then herded them out of
the barn and ran around after them banging gongs. thus
the cows were dressed up, given a good meal, and then
scared half to death.

this afternoon no festivals, just a wander around the
town. i leave in a few hours and go by train to
mangalore, a big city further south. and then tomorrow
on to the tibetan settlements inland in karnataka. i'm
interested to see this combination of tibet and
tropical south india...

Mon, 11 Nov 2002 07:14:15 -0800 (PST)
my heart's in the highlands

In august I was at the trip’s northernmost point,
surrounded by monks in the tibetan desert of tabo. Now
I’m as far south as I’ll go, surrounded by monks in
the semi-tropical farmland of sera.

I’m at sera monastery, a community of over 5,000 monks
in an area of karnataka where there is a large tibetan
refugee community… mostly farmers who have transformed
the jungle into prosperous farms. The monastery is a
town, really… houses, stores, hospitals, restaurants,
etc,. etc. even internet cafes! though I’ve been in
many monasteries, this is the first one that feels
like a truly vibrant community… the kind of monastery
that one reads about in pre-chinese accounts of tibet,
or one of those huge european monasteries of
medieval/renaissance times. Apart from the internet
cafes, of course. And the heated game of hacky-sack
being played by monks outside the internet café.

I came here from coorg, the neighbouring district,
also known as the scotland of india. It’s a beautiful
and unique area… up in the hills, cool and misty and
green. It’s India’s major coffee producing region, as
well as growing black and white pepper and cardomon
and lots of other things. It is dominated (culturally
and economically, if not number-wise) by a group
called the kodovas. Their origin is obscure, but they
seem to have migrated to coorg from somewhere north
ages ago --- some say they are descendants of the
soldiers of alexander the great. They do look very
much like kashmiris or afghans --- light skin and
green eyes --- and have their own distinctive
traditions, like ancestor worship, a special style of
dress, and a history as a martial people. Now they run
the coffee industry, which was introduced by the
british in the 19th century.

I arrived in the main city of coorg on Thursday night,
after a beautiful busride there.. slowly scaling the
hills, getting out of the heat and humidity of the
karnatakan coast. Madikeri, however, was not the most
appleaing of cities, and I tried to move on as quickly
as I could on Friday morning. Found a travel agency,
who suggested I go to honey valley estate, a coffee
plantation/ guesthouse… just what I was looking for.
Within three hours, after another busride, there I
was, in the remote southern corner of coorg, being
picked up by my host suresh with his jeep.

And you needed that jeep… it was another 7 km to the
estate, mostly uphill on a muddy dirt track weaving
through the fields of coffee. The estate is right on
the side of a range of mountains… comfortably-sized
mountains… not as impressive as the himalayas, but
definitely seeming more liveable --- the whole area
just seems like such a wonderful place to live, as
opposed to someplace like kinnaur, which is gorgeous,
but a hard place.

The house on the estate is modest, but delightful ---
carefully and tastefully decorated by the lady of the
house, sushila, and surrounded by flower gardens,
passionfruit vines, papaya trees, and coffee. Coffee
was spread out to dry on the patio next to the
verandah, where I sat and had my first cup of coorgi
coffee. The smell of the drying coffee drifted over
me, as I looked out on the hills and flowers. I had
thought I was in paradise when I was in palolem lying
in a hammock with a beer in my hand… but I think honey
valley definitely scores more garden of eden points.

Other good things about honey valley: tons of fresh,
organically grown produce and fruit (guava, papaya,
passionfuit, green oranges…). Homemade honey. (they
used to be the largest producer of honey in india,
until a disease wiped out the bees in the 80s.)
Hydroelectric power in the house. The water from the
tap came straight from a mountain stream and was
delicious and completely safe to drink. Sushila made
incredible meals, featuring traditional coorgi dishes
and curries made with interesting vegetables like
green banana and tapioca. There were very friendly
dogs to keep you company. Also sushila and suresh’s
friendly daughters, and friendly fellow guests. And
the friendly boys who worked in the house --- they are
members of the tribe indigenous to the area, who work
on the plantation, and had very sweet smiles and
gentle ways.

And they know the surrounding forest and mountains
like the back of their hands, of course. In the
morning on Saturday I went off for a hike to the
waterfall. One of the boys was sent to get me onto the
right path. I should have taken sushila’s advice and
kept him the whole way, since I never made it all the
way to the waterfall… almost but not quite. Saw the
waterfall from a distance, pouring down the side of a
mountain, and got to the stream it becomes, and then
to a little waterfall cascading into a pond… but then
the path seemed to disappear and I didn’t go any
father, though I was late told that I had gotten very
close and should have just gone a bit further. But in
what direction?!?!

In the afternoon I set out to climb one of the
mountains that looks down on the estate and I let the
boy (well, another boy) take me all the way this time.
Barefoot and armed with a machete, probably about
eleven years old, he hacked his way through the bush,
following a barely visible trail, singing under his
breath. He moved quite quickly and I tripped and
panted my way up the mountain behind him…

But at the top… wow! First time I have been on the top
of a mountain and been able to see 360 degrees around.
It was almost sunset and the light and clouds were
astounding, looking down on the hills and coffee and
rice paddies and farms and towns in the distance. Of
course, my camera had decided to suddenly run out of
batteries half way up the mountain… but I will always
have those pictures in my head.

Sat up there for awhile. (my companion seemed to want
to head down again as soon as we got there, but I got
him to wait…) and then came down to a lovely dinner
and a very sound sleep.

Took another walk in the morning. Had a glass of
freshly squeezed passionfruit juice upon my return.
And then, sadly, had to leave. Suresh and shusila and
their girls all bade me a very fond farewell… I do
hope to go back there one day. Not only was the place
beautiful, but the people were as well. If anyone’s
interested in paying them a visit, the website is:

Now I’m going to go wander around this monastary, and
the two others in the neighbourhood, and eat some
momos! Tommorrow I head to mysore, the nearest city,
for a day, and then it is 24 hours on the train up to
bhopal…

Wed, 27 Nov 2002 07:03:09 -0800 (PST)
living it up

well, my friend maryellen arrived from chicago last
wednesday. she is here just for two weeks, thus giving
me an excuse to make the last two weeks of my trip a
trifle more luxurious... after all, this is her
vacation! i can't make her put up with outside toilets
and lumpy matresses!

after a day in delhi, we moved on the rajasthan. first
stop was bundi, an old walled city with a beautiful
palace. a little bit off the tourist track, so the
atmosphere was wonderful. we stayed at a lovely old
haveli (aristocrat's traditional mansion). it has
always been in the hands of the same family, is over
200 years old, and was made into a small hotel 50
years ago. the two brothers of the family run it now,
and they are incredible nice and keep the place
beautifully. (it's web site is kiplingsbundi.com. and
our room is the top one on the left hand side of this
page: www.kiplingsbundi.com/main_haveli.htm)

the covered courtyard of the hotel had walls still
covered with the original murals, and our room as also
painted, and decorated with all sorts of knickknacks,
and had a wonderful window seat. (and a very, very
clean and modern bathroom!)

the outside courtyeard and garden of the haveli had a
great view of the palace, looming up in front of it.
our first day in bundi we visited the palace, which
has beautiful murals, walked around the bustling town,
and took an auto rickshaw to the outskirts of town to
see the old hunting palace, and some of the maharajas'
memorials, and the little haveli where kipling wrote
part of "kim."

the next day was the bundi festival! highlight of the
bundi social calendar, and the handful of tourists
attending were very special guests! we walked up to
the palace for the opening of the parade --- after a
puja, all the VIPs went for tea and snacks (a very
important part of any indian occasion) in the palace
restaurant. we were garlanded with marigold necklaces,
and lots of photos were taken of us for the
newspapers. but the real star of the show was an
australian guy. he was also staying at the haveli, and
one of the brothers had put a big orange rajasthani
turban on him. all the indians were taking pictures of
him, and he ended up leading the parade while riding a
camel!

we just marched in the parade. and we marched in the
whole parade! along with dancing women and musicians
and VIPs and the people of the town... very, very fun.
at one point we seemed to be leading the drum corps
and thought we should have batons to twirl!

finally the parade got to the other end of town. but
that was not the end of the festivities. we gathered
in the parade ground (and eventually got seats on the
stage with the VIPs) for: the bullock cart racing, the
camel racing, the horse racing, the turban tying
competition, and the moustache competition. the winner
of the moustache competition had quite a tache... very
long... and he also hung a small girl off its ends.
and then he skewered his tongue with a steel spike.

oh, and there was the tug of war --- the people of
bundi vs. the tourists. maryellen was a good sport and
participated. i took photos. the foreigners lost.

finally, the morning's festivities were over.it was
about 2 in the afternoon. we crawled back to the hotel
for a rest, and then went to the cultural show and
fireworks in the evening, up on the palace grounds.
again, we were ushered into the best seats. and the
show was great... singers and dancers and the awards
were given out to the winners of the day's
competitions. fireworks were set off over the fort on
the hilltop over the palace. after a bit we went back
to the hotel to watch them there. we had thought the
cultural show was over --- but the fireworks were just
the halftime show --- and we went to sleep listening
to the pounding of drums and the singing of songs.

oh, and before the cultural show the haveli had a
special dinner for its guests out on the terrace, with
lamps all about, looking up at the palace, illuminated
that night for the festival. wonderful meal, fantastic
atmosphere.

and the next morning we moved on, stopping for a look
at the huge and ancient fort at chittor, and then on
to udaipur, where we are now. an incredibly beautiful
and romantic city... and our hotel is amazing! thank
you for coming to india, maryellen!!!

tommorrow on to ujjain... thanksgiving spent on the
road. no turkey... but enjoy yours!

Sat, 30 Nov 2002 22:21:21 -0800 (PST)
Re: living it up

we were so turkeyless...

we were in a car for 10 and a half hours going over
something that was supposed to be a road, but was
really just a poor imitation. we arrived in ujjain and
stupidly booked into a broken down, overpriced hotel
right next to the railway station. after a comedy of
errors involving my attempt to get hot water out of
the tap, we tried to sleep, but unfortunately there
was a train running through our room every ten
minutes.

we checked out the next day, and spent a crazy
afternoon doing a whistlestop tour of ujjain. tour
included:

a stop at a crazy ancient astronomical complex, where
our guide spoke no english, but instead of speaking
hindi would just point to things and try to mime
explanations of the workings of the giant astronomical
instruments. needless to say, it made no sense but was
very amusing. but then he held my hand and got a
little too close when maryellen took a photo of the
two of us, and i left in a huff.

our rickshaw, spewing exhaust, then bumped along the
dust laden roads (or excuses for roads) of ujjain to
the ghat by the river where the hindu pilgrims come to
bathe and pray in this holy, but dirty and noisy and
really unpleasant, city. took a walk. attracted some
crowds of curious followers. went to a fair where
small children were being given rides in very
dangerous looking ferris wheels.

next stop, a temple with a giant, bright pink ganesh.
that's about it. oh, and a swing with a statue of the
god rama in it! pilgrims would give the swing a push,
giving rama a ride.

then, the big deal temple. outside very new and very
crazy. deposited our shoes with the shoe guard, then
went through metal detectors and armed guards, and
filed with tons of pilgrims past the courtyard where
the ancient temple is, and down, down, down into the
lower depths, where there is a very powerful shiva
lingam (basically, shiva's penis). we were herded into
the tiny room where it was, being pushed and shoved
by the crowds of people trying to pour milk and
flowers onto it, and saying prayers, and paying
priests to say special prayers for them, as all the
while women guards in khaki saris shoved us back into
the line and then foward, shouting "agge! agge! jaldi!
jaldi!" ("forward! forward! quickly! quickly!").
occaisionally they would smack a pilgrim who was
taking too long with the milk pouring.

we finally made it out, made it to the train station,
and had a dusty (again) ride to bhopal. it was
supposed to take 3 hours, but took five. checked into
a decent hotel, had a room service dinner, and watched
the "miss earth" pageant on the one english channel we
could get. (the only beauty pagent with an
environmental concious. no silicone allowed. only
water implants.)

hope your thanksgiving weekend was, at least, less
dusty than mine.

Mon, 9 Dec 2002 03:12:06 -0800 (PST)
chilly, sunny... just like delhi

here i am in london, listening to abba and typing on
jo's mac. got in on friday morning, after a torturous
nightime plane journey. i was sitting next to an old
woman who thought she was on a night bus through the
punjab, rather than a BA international flight. used me
as a pillow. talked with her son throughout the night.
shouted "tea! tea!" at the flight attendant everytime
she passed by. ah, well...

but now i am decidedly out of india, even though i did
end up on brick lane yesterday afternoon. (but i did
NOT go for a curry!) i'll be in london until wednesday
morning, and then fly home to... tons of snow? i don't
think i am ready for that. can someone please give me
a weather report? are there really tons of snow?