Brahmin Blue and Bhang Lassi

      I only knew a few basic things about Indian culture before coming here and as I’m sure you can imagine it’s been an educational experience. One of the more interesting things I have learned is about the Hindu caste system engrained in the majority of Indian society. The general population here is born into a certain caste which dictates the person’s job, status and often whom they are allowed to marry. Changing castes is difficult if not impossible.

     Although the different levels of the Indian caste system surrounded me everyday while traveling here, my next stop was Jodhpur famous for its Brahmin caste blue buildings.

 

     Every inch of these concrete structures are covered in my favorite turquoise, sky and periwinkle blues. It’s a very prideful thing to be a part of the Brahmin caste and they paint their homes the remarkable blue to help gain the respect and recognition they were born into.

 

 

          There is also a giant fort in Jodhpur, sitting on a plateau, looking over the city. I wandered up there one day and was engulfed in throngs of women, dressed in red, singing and chanting outside the fort’s walls. I found out they were celebrating the approaching monsoon season. It always surprises me when I’m traveling the way a seemingly peaceful, quiet street can suddenly be mobbed with people, singing, celebrating, etc. And then just as quickly as they arrive they are gone again and the peacefulness returns.

     During this leg of my trip I was still traveling with the British couple I met back on the camel safari and we spent a day on a village tour watching the locals make crafts and smoke opium. I was psyched to try my hand at a homemade potters wheel- which despite my several years of experience throwing turned out to be a little more difficult. The old local men made it look so easy but trying to make a pot on a giant slab of wobbly concrete rather than the nice electric wheels I am accustom to was a bit more tricky.

     My favorite part about Jodhpur was watching the daily life on the rooftops. It’s like a whole other world that comes to life every evening. Kids fly homemade kites, adults sit on pillows on the floor and the smells of dinners cooking on open stoves waft through the air. The views are spectacular. In one direction is the fort- ever present, looming, protecting- the other direction is the town center marked by a beautiful clock town and a palace on the horizon.

     Continuing back east I hopped a bus to the little town of Pushkar where meat and eggs are forbidden but you can buy a bhang lassi (hash shake) at every corner shop. Wannabe hippies flock here for the cheap drugs and peaceful vibe. I was more enamored with the cheap silver jewelry at every corner shop! The town is nestled into a valley surrounded by green mountains that jut out of the flat land and is centered around a beautiful, holy, manmade lake where people come to bathe and be spiritually cleansed. Photography of people bathing is strictly  forbidden at the lake and even walking around that area with a camera warrants harsh words from the locals.

     One evening the British couple and I got stranded at a rooftop restaurant when a vicious storm swept through the city. We watched in awe, as the small city streets became raging rivers of water and locals scrambled to salvage their goods in the increasingly rising water. The thought of walking through thigh deep water full of things I’d rather not mention made us hunker down until the wee hours of the morning when the waters finally receded enough for us to tiptoe back to our hostel.

     Pushkar was the place where my British friends and I finally parted ways. We traveled together for nearly two weeks and had endless laughs. Meeting people along my travels is always a little bitter sweet. You tend to bond so close to others who share the same daily peril as you do. It’s an instant connection and sadly the fact of the matter is you probably will never see that person ever again. A meaningful friendship that fits into the blink of an eye may seem hard to believe but for those who have wandered the open road and met fellow scramblers the understanding, the common bond is definite.

 

   

 

Sand Castles and Camel Safari’s

     It took 20 hours by train to travel from Delhi to Jaisalmer the most western town in Rajasthan. Jaisalmer is less than 200 kilometers from Pakistan and it’s what I imagine the Middle East to be like. The arid land is flat and barren with brittle bushes, trees and lots of sand. The temperature got noticeably hotter and drier and it was remarkable seeing sporadic signs of human life appearing out of the desert in the form of a small hut or a man leading a herd of skinny sheep.

     Jaisalmer is a magnificent city and well worth the long journey. Men clad in bright turbans with fantastic moustaches that curl up on the ends lead camels pulling wagons down the tiny streets. The women’s saris look even more astonishing against the dull desert backdrop and watching over the city is a huge fort that looks like a giant sand castle. Everyday I would roam around the alleyways losing 

myself in the forts’ daily life and watch the sunset from a rooftop restaurant. It was wonderful seeing the muted colors of the sandstone fort and city come to life as all the buildings turn a brilliant gold color in the late day sun.

 

     My main purpose for being in Jaisalmer was to go on a camel safari. My 4-day tour started with a 60-kilometer jeep drive out into the desert where our camels were waiting. I was assigned to a large male camel named Cecilia. Cecilia and I had a very trying relationship at first. The problem was I was under the impression that because I was holding the reins it meant that I was in control but that thought process was all wrong so once I gave up and let him do what ever he wanted to we got along just fine.

           Our days were spent riding through the desert and stopping periodically at tiny villages made up of softly curved homes built of mud and sandstone. Here the local children would attack like a swarm of angry bees pulling, prodding and grabbing at us demanding rupees, pens and chocolate. After a few villages of the same aggressive attention my nerves were pretty frayed. Not only were the children overwhelming but instead of learning anything about the places we were visiting our “guides” would disappear to have chai and smoke cigarettes instead of helping us communicate or telling us something interesting about the village.

       By the third day I got fed up at the lack of interaction. A British couple and I were just sitting around at one of these tiny desert abodes exchanging awkward glances with the nice family – So I attempted to engage the family’s little boy by teaching him how to jump rope with a lead rope they use for their cows. He wasn’t too keen on  trying it for himself but seemed to enjoy the little show I put on and I even received applause from him and his grandmother. When that didn’t work I grabbed a small wheel and started rolling it back and forth to him, which made him laugh like it was the best thing he had ever done. I got him so wound up he was drunk with little kid laughter and could barely stand up let alone walk straight. This boy had the most amazing laugh and sweetest little smile with perfectly aligned corn kernel teeth… The 20 minutes I spent with him acting like a goof was probably my favorite part of the whole safari. 

     We cooked chapatti, rice and vegetables every day over and open fire and slept on the sand dunes underneath the stars. Sleeping out in the open was incredibly peaceful and serene except for the first night when it felt like I was sleeping in a sandstorm and woke up with a mouthful of sand. I saw 17 shooting stars and made wishes on them all.

 

      I’m not sure why I thought it would be fun straddling a big, cranky, farting animal for four days but I’m glad I got the experience. Who knows when I will get another opportunity to race a couple of British guys through the desert on the back of a camel? But I am also not sure why it seems like I always have to go overboard with my little excursions. At first I thought 4 days was a reasonable amount of time out in the desert only to find out later that most people usually only go for a one-night safari. I blame my parents for my inability to ever take the easy route. If they aren’t out pushing the envelope in some way shape or form they aren’t happy and it seems like this trait has rubbed off on me… maybe a little too much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Life of a Backpacker

Backpacking is full of highs and lows. So many people always tell me “I’m so jealous- you’re so lucky” and yes I’m fortunate but its not all exotic locations and interesting people. Lot’s of days are spent dirty, exhausted and frustrated. Here is glimpse into that side of my life in the tale of my journey from Dharamsala to Delhi.

After a few days soaking up the calm mountain settings mingling with peaceful Tibetan monks and refugees in the Dalai Lama’s home it was time to be moving on. I bought a ticket for the overnight bus back to Delhi and had been warned that the twelve-hour bus ride was pretty brutal. However, as I boarded the bus and saw it was only half full- leaving me with a seat all to myself- I thought this couldn’t be too bad.

A mere 15 minutes later we made an unexpected stop and the members of a very large, extended Indian family consisting of grandmothers, aunts, uncles and about 7 screaming children boarded, filling up the remaining seats and packing the rest of us in like sardines.

As we came down through the mountains the road resembled a rollercoaster with hairpins turns and steep inclines. It took about 2 hours before the first person got carsick and after he lost his lunch it was like a virus that quickly spread through the bus. Sounds of retching filled the air and one of the sick passengers happened to be the man sitting directly in front of me. Thankfully I was quick enough to close my window just in the nick of time as he bolted for the open air and splattered the side of the bus with vomit. I wasn’t feeling too great myself and the sounds of everybody puking was almost enough to make me join them. Especially the guy in front of me who after a few minutes was joined by his female companion who shoved him aside as they both fought for window space. Our bus driver continued to careen around the turns like a madman completely unfazed by the effect his driving was having on his helpless passengers.

Meanwhile the nice Chinese man sitting next to me has fallen into a coma and has lost all control of his head which keeps slamming into me like a runaway watermelon. No matter what position I wriggled myself into I couldn’t avoid his bobbing melon and even when I physically picked up his head and placed it leaning the other way the man didn’t budge. Eventually I had to give up and having a stranger lying on me all night made sleep impossible.

We crept into Delhi as the sun came up and I was immensely grateful to get off the bus. As I grabbed my pack I notice that one side of my shirt looked all wet and after some pondering it hit me- it was a grease stain from the China man’s excessive use of hair gel. Sleep deprived, hungry and now stained I decided I have two options- laugh or cry. I opt for laughing and fall into such a fit of delirious giggles my rickshaw driver kept giving me sideways glances all the way to my hotel- where if I’m lucky the fan will work, the toilet will have a seat and I won’t have to share my room with a family of cockroaches.

And this, my friends, is only 12 hours out of my 6-month journey.

This- is my life.

Golden Temples and a Lama named Dalai

One of the best things about traveling without a set agenda and on my own is that I can change my plans on a moments notice or at the suggestion of a fellow traveler. Over the last 5 months I’ve seen too many temples to count and wasn’t planning to go out of my way to see another one but it seemed like everybody I had met since arriving in India said that the Golden Temple was a must see- some said it was the best thing they saw in India. So I headed north to Amritsar to see what al the fuss was about.

The Golden Temple is the Sikh’s holiest shrine. Sikhism is a religion derived from Hindu and Muslim practices and around 30,000 people make daily pilgrimages to worship at this temple that is suppose to be made of 750kg of pure gold. It’s located in the center of an artificial lake and stands out like it’s on fire against the plain, white, marble buildings that make up the compound. Before entering the courtyard all visitors must take off their shoes, wash their feet and cover their heads with a scarf. Inside the temple four priests chant in Punjabi from the Sikh holy book and their singing is broadcasted through loudspeakers around the complex day and night.

The Sikh men adore their hair. They wear turbans and grow ZZ Top style beards to go along with their long, white, flowing outfits and often carry long spears or wear sharp knives strapped to their hips. The complex has a huge dormitory area and dining hall where the thousands of pilgrims (and tourists) can sleep and eat for free.

The temple definitely lived up to all the raving and I am really glad I made this detour. It was really interesting to see a place of such active worship but it was also very strange walking around because everybody wanted to take photos with me!?! I felt like a celebrity as whole families lined up beside me to take a “snap”…very strange and not exactly my favorite position on that side of the lens.

Amritsar is only 30km away from Pakistan and I headed up to the boarder one evening to watch the daily closing ceremony. Everyday at dusk hundreds of people gather at the boarder to support their country. The event has gotten so big that stadium seating had been built on both sides so spectators can have a better view. It was sort of a confusing ceremony- some of the highlights included the crowd chanting victory cheers, some random men from the audience twitching away in typical Hindi dancing fashion and the very serious Indian guards- straight-faced in highly starched uniforms- marching with their knees so high they almost hit their chins and then kicked their legs like Michael Jackson at each other. The finale is when each country lowers their flag just before the sun goes down. It’s amazing because the crowd gets even more rowdy at this point and all I kept wondering was how do they do this every single day of the year!!!

After Amritsar I headed to McLeod Ganj to check out the Dalai Lama’s home. McLeod Ganj reminded me a lot of Nepal and that included the weather. It rained nonstop, low clouds hid all the mountain views and Tibetan monks made up most of the population. Unfortunately the Dalai Lama was up north so I didn’t get to hear him speak but it was nice walking around his residence that is filled with temples and prayer flags.

The best and worst part of McLeod Ganj was all the tourists. Next to Tibetan refugees tourists make up the bulk of the population. It seems like westerners come here to “find themselves” and that means learning to meditate and taking up yoga. However, having so many tourists around also meant real Italian food!!! I can’t begin to explain the sheer pleasure of eating something that actually tastes like you expect it to and to top it off my favorite restaurant in town, Nick’s, served a proper warm chocolate brownie topped with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce! I thought I died and gone to heaven! It’s amazing how the simple things from back home can make me so happy after being on the road for so long.

Holy Cow!!!

I think the first thing I noticed about India was the smell. Varanasi was my port of entry after leaving Nepal and the stench of too many people living too close together was overwhelming. The mixture of rotting garbage, human waste and cow pies- suffocating. Men urinate where and whenever they have the urge and as I tried to navigate the small alleyways I had to tiptoe around mounds of steaming feces left by the city’s many roaming cows. And the holy cows are everywhere!! They are found anywhere a human is and it seems like their favorite place to nap is in the middle of a busy intersection completely oblivious to the parade of traffic struggling to carefully go around them.

When I managed to get “use to” the stench- and I use that term loosely because you never really get use to a smell like that- it just becomes a little less surprising- I was able to see why so many people are lured to this holy city.

The main attraction here is the Ganges River. Life revolves around this long, dirty, holy river and is worshiped by Hindus who believe in its healing powers. Everyday people come to bathe, wash clothes and bless themselves in the putrid water. Sadhus- holy men with long Medusa style dreadlocks and matching beards- walk in packs along the river holding long three pronged spears and stop at the many scattered temples to accept offerings and worship Shiva. Mamas in bright saris carry babies with kohl-lined eyes as little boys practice flips off the side of the concrete steps that form the river’s bank. It’s a place of nonstop commotion and nonstop devotion. Thousands of Indians come to Varanasi hoping the river will wash away their sins and send little paper boats- filled with a burning candle and flower petals- floating down the river with hopes of bringing their family good luck.

There are several “Burning Ghats” along the river where the dead are taken to be cremated. I happened to be staying at a hotel along the funeral route and on many occasions watched the funeral processions march by. They chant prayers while carrying the corpse- swathed in silk cloth and fake flowers- and each male family member carries a log to fuel the funeral pyre. I was expecting something more gruesome at the burning ghats. I had visions of a heap of dead bodies all thrown together but it was actually quite nice- as far as funerals go. Each deceased person is dipped in the river three times then the wood is used to build a small square hut around the body before it is set on fire. The ghat runs 24 hours a day and over 300 people are cremated here daily. The ashes are then thrown into the river securing the deceased person’s soul a path to heaven.

After a few days in Varanasi I boarded my first of many Indian trains headed to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. Being a novice to the train system I had been mislead and was waiting at the wrong platform. I realized my mistake just as the correct train started rolling away, made a mad dash for the right platform and tried to leap onto the moving train with all my luggage- which weights about 60 pounds. I got one foot on when the weight of my pack started to pull me back towards the platform. So now I’m hanging half on half off to the train while my Chilean traveling companion is running behind me trying to push me on and board himself. Thankfully 3 Indian men came to my rescue and dragged me on to the train. I dissolved into a heap of bags and fell into a fit of giggles that lasted the rest of the journey.

We rolled into Agra bright and early the following morning and just in time to see all the men come out to the tracks for their morning poo. There must have been around 50 men squatting next to the tracks in the not so high grass doing their business for all the world to see and sadly not one of them was carrying a roll of toilet paper…

Agra is a pretty nondescript town without much appeal or lure except of course to go see the Taj. Seeing the mausoleum was a very surreal experience. It seemed like a mirage, like a photo and even walking barefoot around the cool, white, marble courtyard and tracing my fingers along the many flowered carvings it was hard to believe I was actually there. I’ve never been so affected by a building before and I’m not sure if I ever will be again. Breathtaking is an understatement.

Next it was off to Delhi and I was greeted by the worst exhaust and pollution I have ever experienced. My body reacted promptly to the world’s most populated city by turning my throat into a sore, scratchy mess leaving me without any motivation to go and see any of the sights. Plus, my preferred mode of transportation in cities are my own two legs but the mob of vehicles, people and garbage make a leisurely stroll impossible. The one time I did take an auto rickshaw I was fearing for my life as my driver- a 16-year-old boy with three chin hairs- kept taking his eyes off the road to tell me he’s a good driver and I should pay him more as he drove like a madman narrowly missing people, cows and trucks that could have turned our little 3-wheeled vehicle into a tin can upon impact.

Before coming to India I was felling very apprehensive. I had heard so many horror stories from other travelers who all seem to think that a blonde woman traveling on her own in India was a very bad idea. Most of their concerns stemmed from the typical, sex-starved, aggressive Indian male. Their concerns turned out to be not too far fetched as I’ve found the men here to be the most disgusting creatures I have ever encountered. Every single time I leave the sanctuary of my hotel room and brave the busy streets I have to stare straight ahead and pretend not to notice all the leering, lustful glances pointed at me like I was Pamela Anderson in a thong while really wearing oversized pants and baggy tee-shirts. Staring back at the men only provokes them and encourages their rude comments. However, it could be worse because I haven’t been groped yet like many women I have talked to. But what’s really mind boggling is trying to figure out how a country where women are seen as second-class citizen and nothing but baby makers recently elected their first woman president!?!

Despite the unwelcome advances and pollution I’m finding India the most interesting country I have ever visited. The people, colors and just the manic speed of their lives is exhilarating. It’s been complete madness but I’ve got to be honest I kind of love it.