The early praying of the monks
The morning braying of the pigeons
One hard step on cobblestone
One long exhale
One word
Truth.
The mangy flea-ridden dogs
The dirty lice ridden kids
The beggars with open sores
and hands
One hard step on cobblestone
One short inhale
One word
Truth.
The scent of spiced chai
The stench of fresh shit
The feel of another bead
Shifted with my thumb
One hard step on cobblestone
One long exhale
One word
Truth.
The sobriety of twilight
The artistry in the sunrise
The colors of filtered rays
Through smog
One hard step on cobblestone
One short inhale
One city
Delhi
Monday, November 30, 2009
Transportation and back to Delhi
For a city called Delhi you'd think they would make a good pastrami on rye.
Ok before you immediately close the page just let me justify this. As a Lawrence I am obliged, by laws far beyond my control, to tell the most terrible, nay horrendous, nay abysmal jokes known to mankind. The only problem is that age not only diminishes the filter for such jokes, but one starts believing they are actually clever and humorous. God help my loved ones in 40 years.
So, where was I? I believe the last time I left off I was still at the Ashram. Shortly after that, I went back to Kasar Devi and resumed my post at Kalmatia Sangam. Initially it was very slow, but I continued to learn some. In fact my role in the kitchen started to shift towards cooking the staff meals. It is funny because that was my job at the first restaurant I worked at. Of course in that restaurant I had a little more freedom in my choice of genre. This was strictly Indian. For breakfast I rolled out parathas, Lunch was dal (lentils) and rice, and dinner was curried vegetables with chapatti (bread). The other cooks and employees where very good to me, and loved to joke around with me. There was one guy named Balwan who didn't speak a lick of English, but we had an ongoing joke. He would say 1-2-3 and thrust his hips with each number. They got a kick out of it when I appeased him and moved my hips also. One of the chefs said Balwan's only problem is that he can never get to 4-5-6. I spent more time at the Kasar Devi temple and made friends with the Swami that lived there. He is very smart guy, with a gentle soul. He preaches the virtue of moderation (which I find funny for someone that abstains from so many things). Either way it is a great teaching and important to remember that too much pleasure is just as unhealthy as too much pain. A good way to train your spirit and will is to abstain from pleasurable things every once in a while. It makes the good that much better and teaches you to have a strong mind. I actually fasted to try this out. As anyone that knows me can tell you I have a very big problem with being irritable and mean when I am hungry. After 36 hours with only some mango juice and a banana I can tell you I am on the road to recovery. It is amazing that when the mind WANTS to not eat it feels empowered and not cranky. I am learning a lot about myself and the connection between my mind and body. It is also very healthy to fast every few weeks because it gives your digestive system time to clean out extra build up in the system. Just make sure that you drink plenty of water, and if it's longer than 24 hours, drink fruit juice that has vitamin C and chlorophyll. Of course I am not a doctor and I feel obligated to inform all readers that they should consult a physician before doing anything. Before I left Kalmatia I had a meeting with the manager and we discussed improvements that I felt could help the restaurant. From his point of view that was my primary purpose for my presence. The meeting went very well and I felt that the manager was very receptive to my advice. I doubt I will go back, but at least I know I can.
I left to go back to the ashram for a few days because I could not get a train to Delhi from Almora but I could from Dehra Dun. The rest of this entry will break away from the narrative format and be more of a compilation of tales that further illuminates the transportation system, culture, and people. Many entries ago I was getting extremely feed-up with the people. I felt like everyone simply wanted to screw you for every paisa (that is a rupee cent haha) you are worth. Or course the businessmen and taxi drivers are like this but that is their nature you can't blame them. Only laugh. For the most part Indians are friendly, inquisitive, and helpful. I have not been to a single rail station or airport where someone did not spark up a conversation with me. Their level of English was the biggest factor for how personal and in-depth the conversation went. Sometimes it stopped at "What country are you?”America, New Jersey." Period. Other times questions about my occupation, salary, religion, or marital status came into play. In America asking someone their salary is generally considered rude. In India it's common-place. Of course when I convert 9 dollars an hour to rupees they think I am raking it in. It's hard to explain that currency is relative, and I make relatively little. I had one such conversation with a very friendly group of 20-something traveling from Lucknow. They where all going to university together and where traveling with their English Lit. Professor. They where quite enamored with me. Earlier I said that Indians have contempt for people with white skin. In reality it draws jealousy. The Indian cosmetic world is full of skin whitening creams. One of the college kids (male) was quick to tell me I'm 'beautiful' and asked why I didn't work in Hollywood. He asked as if such a proposition was simple and obvious. They urged me to play guitar and I of course obliged. Looking up from the strings, I saw a large gathering. I very much regret not knowing some Michael Jackson songs or better yet some Backstreet Boys. They love that shit. I don't think my blues and rock really did it for them. Of course the crowd was gathered to see the strange skeptical more than hear the music. The professor came over and started to discuss English Literature. We started to talk about poetry. I brought up Ginsberg and Kerouac; he brought up Frost and Dickenson. I quoted some Shakespeare and he let me off the hook for not knowing all the classics. He took every chance he could to admonish me for my ignorance of English Lit., Indian geography, or even Indian classical music. He started to write down sitar and tabla musicians that "I simply must hear". The boys started to ask me about dating in America and particularly how to pick up girls. I told them I wasn't the one to ask. When they asked how I picked up my last girlfriend I told them it was a long story and involved whisky. I departed the train station with them jogging along side yelling "I love you David". Now I have boy friends all over the world.
Now, for a brief foray into the scary word of Delhi's metro system. It has the pure quantity of people that you would find in a Tokyo rail station but absolutely none of the orderliness. Instead of polite ushers with white gloves you have a few guys with whistles trying desperately to keep the crowds under control. As the train rolls in the people on board try desperately to push their way out as the throngs of people start flooding on board. The poor fools that are inside hardly have a chance unless they’re close to the front. It's absolutely mayhem. Surprisingly the underground is very modern and clean, plus there are no beggars.
Dehra-Dun to Delhi. 6 am departure. I spent the large majority of the ride reading until I heard loud yelling a few seats in front of me. Two young lovers where laying on the sleeper in front of me, and wrapped in their blanket it was very cute. I saw the young man get in a quarrel with an official. He was mighty pissed. It started to escalate to the point where everyone in our section of the train took notice and men started to rush forward to get involved. I was not sure who was at fault until the gentleman next to me translated. Apparently the young kids are only students and did not have the appropriate I.D.'s for the online tickets they purchased. Mind you, I have never once been asked for I.D. on the many train rides I have taken. They paid for their tickets. No other passenger claimed the seats they where in. Why, you ask, was there such a hassle? Simply because they are two kids lying next to each other and not married. The initial fine was 250 rupees and after this asshole official dragged the kid off the train and tried to get him arrested (the cops told the official NO) he upped the fine to 750 rupees (a very large fine for two kids). The kids finally gave in and where fumbling for the money when the official escorted them to another part of the train. An hour later the young kid came back to get his stuff and informed us that since he is 18 and she is 17 (a minor) the official is making the ludicrous claim that he kidnapped the girl. Yes you read properly. There is no law against them traveling together and any judge in India would acquit them without a second thought. All the adults where outraged at the official and said that any other official would have accepted the college I.D. and make nothing of it. That my first real glance at corruption and the evil streak of conservatism that is suppressing the youth of India.
Ok before you immediately close the page just let me justify this. As a Lawrence I am obliged, by laws far beyond my control, to tell the most terrible, nay horrendous, nay abysmal jokes known to mankind. The only problem is that age not only diminishes the filter for such jokes, but one starts believing they are actually clever and humorous. God help my loved ones in 40 years.
So, where was I? I believe the last time I left off I was still at the Ashram. Shortly after that, I went back to Kasar Devi and resumed my post at Kalmatia Sangam. Initially it was very slow, but I continued to learn some. In fact my role in the kitchen started to shift towards cooking the staff meals. It is funny because that was my job at the first restaurant I worked at. Of course in that restaurant I had a little more freedom in my choice of genre. This was strictly Indian. For breakfast I rolled out parathas, Lunch was dal (lentils) and rice, and dinner was curried vegetables with chapatti (bread). The other cooks and employees where very good to me, and loved to joke around with me. There was one guy named Balwan who didn't speak a lick of English, but we had an ongoing joke. He would say 1-2-3 and thrust his hips with each number. They got a kick out of it when I appeased him and moved my hips also. One of the chefs said Balwan's only problem is that he can never get to 4-5-6. I spent more time at the Kasar Devi temple and made friends with the Swami that lived there. He is very smart guy, with a gentle soul. He preaches the virtue of moderation (which I find funny for someone that abstains from so many things). Either way it is a great teaching and important to remember that too much pleasure is just as unhealthy as too much pain. A good way to train your spirit and will is to abstain from pleasurable things every once in a while. It makes the good that much better and teaches you to have a strong mind. I actually fasted to try this out. As anyone that knows me can tell you I have a very big problem with being irritable and mean when I am hungry. After 36 hours with only some mango juice and a banana I can tell you I am on the road to recovery. It is amazing that when the mind WANTS to not eat it feels empowered and not cranky. I am learning a lot about myself and the connection between my mind and body. It is also very healthy to fast every few weeks because it gives your digestive system time to clean out extra build up in the system. Just make sure that you drink plenty of water, and if it's longer than 24 hours, drink fruit juice that has vitamin C and chlorophyll. Of course I am not a doctor and I feel obligated to inform all readers that they should consult a physician before doing anything. Before I left Kalmatia I had a meeting with the manager and we discussed improvements that I felt could help the restaurant. From his point of view that was my primary purpose for my presence. The meeting went very well and I felt that the manager was very receptive to my advice. I doubt I will go back, but at least I know I can.
I left to go back to the ashram for a few days because I could not get a train to Delhi from Almora but I could from Dehra Dun. The rest of this entry will break away from the narrative format and be more of a compilation of tales that further illuminates the transportation system, culture, and people. Many entries ago I was getting extremely feed-up with the people. I felt like everyone simply wanted to screw you for every paisa (that is a rupee cent haha) you are worth. Or course the businessmen and taxi drivers are like this but that is their nature you can't blame them. Only laugh. For the most part Indians are friendly, inquisitive, and helpful. I have not been to a single rail station or airport where someone did not spark up a conversation with me. Their level of English was the biggest factor for how personal and in-depth the conversation went. Sometimes it stopped at "What country are you?”America, New Jersey." Period. Other times questions about my occupation, salary, religion, or marital status came into play. In America asking someone their salary is generally considered rude. In India it's common-place. Of course when I convert 9 dollars an hour to rupees they think I am raking it in. It's hard to explain that currency is relative, and I make relatively little. I had one such conversation with a very friendly group of 20-something traveling from Lucknow. They where all going to university together and where traveling with their English Lit. Professor. They where quite enamored with me. Earlier I said that Indians have contempt for people with white skin. In reality it draws jealousy. The Indian cosmetic world is full of skin whitening creams. One of the college kids (male) was quick to tell me I'm 'beautiful' and asked why I didn't work in Hollywood. He asked as if such a proposition was simple and obvious. They urged me to play guitar and I of course obliged. Looking up from the strings, I saw a large gathering. I very much regret not knowing some Michael Jackson songs or better yet some Backstreet Boys. They love that shit. I don't think my blues and rock really did it for them. Of course the crowd was gathered to see the strange skeptical more than hear the music. The professor came over and started to discuss English Literature. We started to talk about poetry. I brought up Ginsberg and Kerouac; he brought up Frost and Dickenson. I quoted some Shakespeare and he let me off the hook for not knowing all the classics. He took every chance he could to admonish me for my ignorance of English Lit., Indian geography, or even Indian classical music. He started to write down sitar and tabla musicians that "I simply must hear". The boys started to ask me about dating in America and particularly how to pick up girls. I told them I wasn't the one to ask. When they asked how I picked up my last girlfriend I told them it was a long story and involved whisky. I departed the train station with them jogging along side yelling "I love you David". Now I have boy friends all over the world.
Now, for a brief foray into the scary word of Delhi's metro system. It has the pure quantity of people that you would find in a Tokyo rail station but absolutely none of the orderliness. Instead of polite ushers with white gloves you have a few guys with whistles trying desperately to keep the crowds under control. As the train rolls in the people on board try desperately to push their way out as the throngs of people start flooding on board. The poor fools that are inside hardly have a chance unless they’re close to the front. It's absolutely mayhem. Surprisingly the underground is very modern and clean, plus there are no beggars.
Dehra-Dun to Delhi. 6 am departure. I spent the large majority of the ride reading until I heard loud yelling a few seats in front of me. Two young lovers where laying on the sleeper in front of me, and wrapped in their blanket it was very cute. I saw the young man get in a quarrel with an official. He was mighty pissed. It started to escalate to the point where everyone in our section of the train took notice and men started to rush forward to get involved. I was not sure who was at fault until the gentleman next to me translated. Apparently the young kids are only students and did not have the appropriate I.D.'s for the online tickets they purchased. Mind you, I have never once been asked for I.D. on the many train rides I have taken. They paid for their tickets. No other passenger claimed the seats they where in. Why, you ask, was there such a hassle? Simply because they are two kids lying next to each other and not married. The initial fine was 250 rupees and after this asshole official dragged the kid off the train and tried to get him arrested (the cops told the official NO) he upped the fine to 750 rupees (a very large fine for two kids). The kids finally gave in and where fumbling for the money when the official escorted them to another part of the train. An hour later the young kid came back to get his stuff and informed us that since he is 18 and she is 17 (a minor) the official is making the ludicrous claim that he kidnapped the girl. Yes you read properly. There is no law against them traveling together and any judge in India would acquit them without a second thought. All the adults where outraged at the official and said that any other official would have accepted the college I.D. and make nothing of it. That my first real glance at corruption and the evil streak of conservatism that is suppressing the youth of India.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Part 2 continued
The ceremony came to a close shortly after he left. Now it's time to walk over to another building. The prime minister of this state (i guess something like our Governors) is here and the adults are waiting around to meet and greet him (or just see him). I could care less. I see a playground, "Yo, Ankit wanna play on those swings". "Sure." He replies.
We run around for a while and I am confident in my decision to be a kid. As the two German's join us I go to a park bench and do some reading and my daily meditation.
"You read more than anyone I know" interrupts Ankit.
"Thank you" I smile
"Hey kids come over here" Aman yells. He introduces us to the 'Lord of Lords' (a former doctor, turned wealthy business, in order to give money to charity), and Dr. Ganesha (sorry most certainly spelled wrong) a leading holistic doctor. These men where crucial in the founding of the great hospital. The Himalayan Institute is unique in many ways. Not only is it a fusion of Eastern and Western medicine, it is a full-fledged medical school, and it's all targeted towards the poor of India.
"This is David, He is a chef and is learning how to cook Indian food" Aman proclaims.
"Come to my house I'll teach you to cook" The 'Lord of Lords' says (still not smiling). I half chuckle not sure if its a joke and pose for some snap-shots.
We still have time to kill before lunch and I can feel my stomach churning. We decide to wait at the bookstore. After browsing for a while I turn around and see the kind face of Dr. Ganesha. I shake his hand and start to tell him about my plan for spreading learning's to my family and friends in America. I tell him I want to help heal body and mind by focusing on the question of life and God. I say that the plan would be to start with breathing exercises, meditation, do some physical exercise, talk about philosophy, and then nutrition. He was eager to help and gave me some great suggestions. He said the most crucial thing is to START with nutrition. "Everything starts with nutrition." He suggested a book for me to buy and we departed with a big smile on my face.
Ok lunch time. We make our way to a huge tent and I marvel at the operation. Hundreds if not thousands of people are seated. As flocks of volunteers, carrying buckets of delicious vegetables, curries, rice and bread feed the hungry masses, 25-30 men are preparing jumbo sized portions of excellent vegetarian Indian fare. It's all served on leaf plates, and its all free. As a chef this is magic.
With lunch time done we decide to make the short drive to Riskikesh. More singing ensues. As we are crossing a bridge one of the Germans points out a tree that George Harrison apparently wrote a song "OH shit, watch out!!" A huge truck nearly runs us off the bridge. In India lanes are merely a suggestion. After that I was in the mood for Beatles so I decided to kill everyone with my singing. Lucky for them I fell asleep soon after and didn't awake till we where right next the Ganaga. We reached the holiest river in the world and started to make the steep downward climb to the shore. My head is spinning from the car ride and the narrow suspension bridge makes me feel dizzy and just plain awful. I stumble to the River Ganaga and instead of the euphoric feeling of Hindu pilgrimage I fell like I need to lay in the sand. Thankfully it works and my head feels a whole lot better. A mother and her son come over to talk. I figured they where either beggars or friendly. Turns out both.
As the rest of the group joins me, after their dip in the river, we make our way to a cafe for a late afternoon snack. I thoroughly enjoy the leisurely stroll, nutella and banana toast, plus silly pictures overlooking the river. We look at the clock and decide to trek back towards the car. Rishikesh is a pretty cool town but its nation-wide fame makes it a mecca for Hindu pilgrims and foreign hippies. This strange brew attracts long-haired sadus (holy men) and long-haired guys trying to sell you chalis (hash). Only the orange robe distinguishes them.
The care ride back is dark and much more dangerous. My decision to take the front seat is proving to not be very wise. Luckily Felix is a great driver and got us back unscathed. It's time for the nights closing ceremony. I take a seat in the VIP area (yea I know big shot) and watch the classical Indian musicians warm-up/ tune-up. There is a violinist, tabla player, a percussionist playing a gourd type thing, and a the center of the Quartet, a female vocalist. The deep rhythm, and piercing melody touches the part of my soul that music is supposed to touch. I am moved so greatly that devotion, in the form of words, came streaming to my head. I try to suppress them so I can concentrate on the music, but as my eyes are on the brink of tears my hand scrawls a poem in this notebook. As the performance closes, I have a strong desire to read her the lines. I find Aman and ask his advice. He leads me to her husband who with a smile, tells me she would be flattered. I wait on line as the rows of Indian fans wait for pictures and autographs. With my hands trembling and voice shakey I say "Hello, your voice is so beautiful, That I was compelled to write some words down, I would be honored to read them to you"
"Of course" she replies with a kind smile.
"Perhaps the only thing that could match,
Your voices Power and Finesse,
Is Water.
What else could crash
Like a wave over my emotions,
Or sooth my never-ending thirst.
It's as if I was blind,
And the first color I saw was the vibrancy of a red rose.
Maybe that could match it's subtlety,
Or grace,
Or the delicate taste,
Of Honey.
If the nimble dancer could soar,
Or the artist, turn clay to life,
Then maybe they, could turn the night,
Into Day
Or candles into Stars
Or words into far-
Reaching strokes.
That turn my heart, body, and mind into strings,
And my soul into beautiful music."
As her two hands out-stretch for mine she says "That was very beautiful can you please write me a copy in your own hand writing."
"Thank you you have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard." I say redundantly.
She signs the poem and I scurry off to write her a copy in the shakiest hand-writing ever. The rest of the night is a blurr, but I know I got home.
We run around for a while and I am confident in my decision to be a kid. As the two German's join us I go to a park bench and do some reading and my daily meditation.
"You read more than anyone I know" interrupts Ankit.
"Thank you" I smile
"Hey kids come over here" Aman yells. He introduces us to the 'Lord of Lords' (a former doctor, turned wealthy business, in order to give money to charity), and Dr. Ganesha (sorry most certainly spelled wrong) a leading holistic doctor. These men where crucial in the founding of the great hospital. The Himalayan Institute is unique in many ways. Not only is it a fusion of Eastern and Western medicine, it is a full-fledged medical school, and it's all targeted towards the poor of India.
"This is David, He is a chef and is learning how to cook Indian food" Aman proclaims.
"Come to my house I'll teach you to cook" The 'Lord of Lords' says (still not smiling). I half chuckle not sure if its a joke and pose for some snap-shots.
We still have time to kill before lunch and I can feel my stomach churning. We decide to wait at the bookstore. After browsing for a while I turn around and see the kind face of Dr. Ganesha. I shake his hand and start to tell him about my plan for spreading learning's to my family and friends in America. I tell him I want to help heal body and mind by focusing on the question of life and God. I say that the plan would be to start with breathing exercises, meditation, do some physical exercise, talk about philosophy, and then nutrition. He was eager to help and gave me some great suggestions. He said the most crucial thing is to START with nutrition. "Everything starts with nutrition." He suggested a book for me to buy and we departed with a big smile on my face.
Ok lunch time. We make our way to a huge tent and I marvel at the operation. Hundreds if not thousands of people are seated. As flocks of volunteers, carrying buckets of delicious vegetables, curries, rice and bread feed the hungry masses, 25-30 men are preparing jumbo sized portions of excellent vegetarian Indian fare. It's all served on leaf plates, and its all free. As a chef this is magic.
With lunch time done we decide to make the short drive to Riskikesh. More singing ensues. As we are crossing a bridge one of the Germans points out a tree that George Harrison apparently wrote a song "OH shit, watch out!!" A huge truck nearly runs us off the bridge. In India lanes are merely a suggestion. After that I was in the mood for Beatles so I decided to kill everyone with my singing. Lucky for them I fell asleep soon after and didn't awake till we where right next the Ganaga. We reached the holiest river in the world and started to make the steep downward climb to the shore. My head is spinning from the car ride and the narrow suspension bridge makes me feel dizzy and just plain awful. I stumble to the River Ganaga and instead of the euphoric feeling of Hindu pilgrimage I fell like I need to lay in the sand. Thankfully it works and my head feels a whole lot better. A mother and her son come over to talk. I figured they where either beggars or friendly. Turns out both.
As the rest of the group joins me, after their dip in the river, we make our way to a cafe for a late afternoon snack. I thoroughly enjoy the leisurely stroll, nutella and banana toast, plus silly pictures overlooking the river. We look at the clock and decide to trek back towards the car. Rishikesh is a pretty cool town but its nation-wide fame makes it a mecca for Hindu pilgrims and foreign hippies. This strange brew attracts long-haired sadus (holy men) and long-haired guys trying to sell you chalis (hash). Only the orange robe distinguishes them.
The care ride back is dark and much more dangerous. My decision to take the front seat is proving to not be very wise. Luckily Felix is a great driver and got us back unscathed. It's time for the nights closing ceremony. I take a seat in the VIP area (yea I know big shot) and watch the classical Indian musicians warm-up/ tune-up. There is a violinist, tabla player, a percussionist playing a gourd type thing, and a the center of the Quartet, a female vocalist. The deep rhythm, and piercing melody touches the part of my soul that music is supposed to touch. I am moved so greatly that devotion, in the form of words, came streaming to my head. I try to suppress them so I can concentrate on the music, but as my eyes are on the brink of tears my hand scrawls a poem in this notebook. As the performance closes, I have a strong desire to read her the lines. I find Aman and ask his advice. He leads me to her husband who with a smile, tells me she would be flattered. I wait on line as the rows of Indian fans wait for pictures and autographs. With my hands trembling and voice shakey I say "Hello, your voice is so beautiful, That I was compelled to write some words down, I would be honored to read them to you"
"Of course" she replies with a kind smile.
"Perhaps the only thing that could match,
Your voices Power and Finesse,
Is Water.
What else could crash
Like a wave over my emotions,
Or sooth my never-ending thirst.
It's as if I was blind,
And the first color I saw was the vibrancy of a red rose.
Maybe that could match it's subtlety,
Or grace,
Or the delicate taste,
Of Honey.
If the nimble dancer could soar,
Or the artist, turn clay to life,
Then maybe they, could turn the night,
Into Day
Or candles into Stars
Or words into far-
Reaching strokes.
That turn my heart, body, and mind into strings,
And my soul into beautiful music."
As her two hands out-stretch for mine she says "That was very beautiful can you please write me a copy in your own hand writing."
"Thank you you have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard." I say redundantly.
She signs the poem and I scurry off to write her a copy in the shakiest hand-writing ever. The rest of the night is a blurr, but I know I got home.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Ashram Part 2
God-Damn mosquitoes. If I stay in this ashram one more day I am gonna need a net. What time is it. Shit 5 in the morning. Ok 3 hours till parathas. Life here is simple and great, its easy to study and meditate, but strange beds make strange dreams, especially in the grey space of twilight.
Yawn, today is a big day. Aman is having us (the two Germans, Anket, and myself) go to the Himalayan Institute. Apparently it's a huge hospital and it's of great importance that we attend some ceremony. I have no idea what is happening but I think it's an opening of some nature. Onion parthatas again, quick check of the e-mail, beep beep.
"Ok, Ok, I'm coming."
"Let me sit in the back seat, I wanna sit next toDavid." young Anket flatters me. I climb into the rusy 1960/70's era sedan. It's Indian made (i believe) and looks straight out of Octo-pussy (thats a reference for the old folk). It takes forver to warm up, the clutch sticks like all hell, and it handles like a drunk elephant. Not that I would know, Iwouldn't even drive on these roads with a proper vehicle. Luckily the German fellow, Felix, is good at handeling wild beasts.
"Who let the dogs out!"-Anket
"Woof Woof Woof Woof!'-Rest of car One hour of similar terrible American songs intermixed with MichaelJackson classics.
"Wow Anket you talk and sing more than anyone I know." I say indiffrently.
"Thank you." he replies. We pull up to the hospital and my first guess at the ceremony was quickly dismissed as the aging buildings come into view. We set out on foot and start walking to the Ayurvedic building in order to meetAman.
"Hello" A statley Indian gentleman greets us. By Ankets reaction they have meet "Come with me." We are lead to the second floor of the holisitc health buidling and take our shoes off. I hear chanting from one of the small rooms and the now five of us file in. Aman greets us with his ubiqiutous smile,and I sit cross-legged behind the others. It feels like a very intimate cermenoy and judging by a large picture it's a remebrance for the deceased. Flowers, fruit, and even money is made as offerings to God and the departed. Long Chants and prayers are repeated. My legs hurt. I ned to get more flexible. It's not fair. These Indians have sat like this their whole lives. If I do it for more than 10 min. my feet fall asleep and my hips ache like a 70-year olds. I have to remind myself not to touch my forehead. One of the swami's placed some colored ink and rice their (I am sure there is a special name for it and I feel bad not knowing). Everyone else has it so Iwould feel disrespectful and wierd without one. The ceremony is beautiful. Flowers are passed around and held with hands folded. You then pass it back to the front and it is placed as offerings. After a half hour or so it ends, and we make our way downstairs for some chai.
"Sorry for my ignorance Aman, but who exactly is that a picture of." I say slighlty embarassed.
"That is Swami Rama, he started this hospital many years ago and today is the 19th anniversay of the day he left his body. And that is his wife." He responds as she walks over.
"Hello, would you like some biscuits with your tea."
"Sure." I say with a smile. They are too good to refuse. As she pulls out a camera she says,"Anket, please take this camera and snap some shots of the outdoorceremnoy." He obeys's as any good boy would, and accompanies her outside. We all follow suit and the outdoor ceremony starts. More chanting in a language I do not undertand. It still has it's beuaty and the reverence everyone possesses for Swami Rama is contagious. I stand silently and repectfully. Two SUV's pull up and the crowd turns around. A throng of orange-robed holy people make their way towards the outdoor altar. At the center is clearly the man of the highest order. At his right is a young man that seems like a close disciple or body guard. A black man with a big turban and orange robe follows. He has a large orange posse and their gait and demeanor reminded me of Guru super heros. I am waiting for one of them to start floating or shoot rays of light from their eyes. I am very close to the path leading to the altar and as the holy man is walking people came forward to kneel and kiss the ground infront of him.
"Shit what do I do." I think to myself. "Make a Decision!" I half kneel and bow my head, hoping that one of the orange robed superheros doesn't reprimand me. I open my eyes and stand-up. "Ok I'm alive."
to be continued...
Yawn, today is a big day. Aman is having us (the two Germans, Anket, and myself) go to the Himalayan Institute. Apparently it's a huge hospital and it's of great importance that we attend some ceremony. I have no idea what is happening but I think it's an opening of some nature. Onion parthatas again, quick check of the e-mail, beep beep.
"Ok, Ok, I'm coming."
"Let me sit in the back seat, I wanna sit next toDavid." young Anket flatters me. I climb into the rusy 1960/70's era sedan. It's Indian made (i believe) and looks straight out of Octo-pussy (thats a reference for the old folk). It takes forver to warm up, the clutch sticks like all hell, and it handles like a drunk elephant. Not that I would know, Iwouldn't even drive on these roads with a proper vehicle. Luckily the German fellow, Felix, is good at handeling wild beasts.
"Who let the dogs out!"-Anket
"Woof Woof Woof Woof!'-Rest of car One hour of similar terrible American songs intermixed with MichaelJackson classics.
"Wow Anket you talk and sing more than anyone I know." I say indiffrently.
"Thank you." he replies. We pull up to the hospital and my first guess at the ceremony was quickly dismissed as the aging buildings come into view. We set out on foot and start walking to the Ayurvedic building in order to meetAman.
"Hello" A statley Indian gentleman greets us. By Ankets reaction they have meet "Come with me." We are lead to the second floor of the holisitc health buidling and take our shoes off. I hear chanting from one of the small rooms and the now five of us file in. Aman greets us with his ubiqiutous smile,and I sit cross-legged behind the others. It feels like a very intimate cermenoy and judging by a large picture it's a remebrance for the deceased. Flowers, fruit, and even money is made as offerings to God and the departed. Long Chants and prayers are repeated. My legs hurt. I ned to get more flexible. It's not fair. These Indians have sat like this their whole lives. If I do it for more than 10 min. my feet fall asleep and my hips ache like a 70-year olds. I have to remind myself not to touch my forehead. One of the swami's placed some colored ink and rice their (I am sure there is a special name for it and I feel bad not knowing). Everyone else has it so Iwould feel disrespectful and wierd without one. The ceremony is beautiful. Flowers are passed around and held with hands folded. You then pass it back to the front and it is placed as offerings. After a half hour or so it ends, and we make our way downstairs for some chai.
"Sorry for my ignorance Aman, but who exactly is that a picture of." I say slighlty embarassed.
"That is Swami Rama, he started this hospital many years ago and today is the 19th anniversay of the day he left his body. And that is his wife." He responds as she walks over.
"Hello, would you like some biscuits with your tea."
"Sure." I say with a smile. They are too good to refuse. As she pulls out a camera she says,"Anket, please take this camera and snap some shots of the outdoorceremnoy." He obeys's as any good boy would, and accompanies her outside. We all follow suit and the outdoor ceremony starts. More chanting in a language I do not undertand. It still has it's beuaty and the reverence everyone possesses for Swami Rama is contagious. I stand silently and repectfully. Two SUV's pull up and the crowd turns around. A throng of orange-robed holy people make their way towards the outdoor altar. At the center is clearly the man of the highest order. At his right is a young man that seems like a close disciple or body guard. A black man with a big turban and orange robe follows. He has a large orange posse and their gait and demeanor reminded me of Guru super heros. I am waiting for one of them to start floating or shoot rays of light from their eyes. I am very close to the path leading to the altar and as the holy man is walking people came forward to kneel and kiss the ground infront of him.
"Shit what do I do." I think to myself. "Make a Decision!" I half kneel and bow my head, hoping that one of the orange robed superheros doesn't reprimand me. I open my eyes and stand-up. "Ok I'm alive."
to be continued...
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Another
How many fleeting sands and dreams,
Are sieved through a made-up screen,
Which leans against your mind and screams,
Every time one gets too big.
Or tell me where the treasure lies,
If not the Oft-passed time,
Between yesterday and tomorrow.
For you can learn many things,
By walking barefoot down a stream,
Like which rocks are good to lean
Upon, and which ones you should avoid.
They say you can't walk across the same stream twice,
But I'm stuck walking up this same stream,
Does that mean that time is more like a dream,
Than something real?
For each step IS this moment,
And even though the water is always moving,
It's the same everywhere.
And now I feel my hair raising,
And my feet blazing,
From the tingling pain of these river rocks.
You can learn many things,
By walking barefoot down a stream,
Like how these rocks are dreams,
And the tiny ones like sand don't hurt.
But slowly as their size increases,
Each step makes sharp tiny creases,
And your once playful gait now reaches,
A crawl.
These rocks are dreams,
And the big ones don't hurt.
So leap and leap
Till' boulders are just stepping stones,
And streams are just a distant groan,
Of how time once trapped you.
Are sieved through a made-up screen,
Which leans against your mind and screams,
Every time one gets too big.
Or tell me where the treasure lies,
If not the Oft-passed time,
Between yesterday and tomorrow.
For you can learn many things,
By walking barefoot down a stream,
Like which rocks are good to lean
Upon, and which ones you should avoid.
They say you can't walk across the same stream twice,
But I'm stuck walking up this same stream,
Does that mean that time is more like a dream,
Than something real?
For each step IS this moment,
And even though the water is always moving,
It's the same everywhere.
And now I feel my hair raising,
And my feet blazing,
From the tingling pain of these river rocks.
You can learn many things,
By walking barefoot down a stream,
Like how these rocks are dreams,
And the tiny ones like sand don't hurt.
But slowly as their size increases,
Each step makes sharp tiny creases,
And your once playful gait now reaches,
A crawl.
These rocks are dreams,
And the big ones don't hurt.
So leap and leap
Till' boulders are just stepping stones,
And streams are just a distant groan,
Of how time once trapped you.
Ashram Part 1
So while I was slaving away in a Indian kitchen I was still in contact with my new friend Aman. He is the kind man that introduced me to the king and queen. He was spending his evening meditating on top of hill next to the Kasar Devi temple. I ran into Aman going to the internet cafe and was invited for dinner at the temple. In a small hut no bigger than 10 by 10 feet, lives the swami that takes care of the temple. A man whose age is probably older than his appearance, sat with a big grin on his face. He had a small beanie and long beard. We chatted for a while and waited for the pressure cooker to do its work. After a simple meal of rice and vegetables I began to realized that I must join Aman and check out his ashram. An ashram is basically a communal living space that is conducive to spiritual growth. Some are yoga ashrams, some are meditation ashrams, some are a variety of different things. This place, called Vipassana House, is a simple establishment that Aman made for young seekers my age to learn and grow in an environment that doesn't focus on money. You pay 2 dollars a day for food, 2 a day for maintenance, and 5 a day for charity. For that you get 3 delicious square meals, prepared by his maid, a clean bed, shower, washing machine, and plenty of free time to relax and meditate. Vipassana house is also a Pranic Healing Center. This type of healing deals with chakras, breath, and all that energy stuff. My biggest hope in going to Vipassana house was to learn some of these new techniques in order to help others.
After a 4 hour jeep ride and 8 hour train ride I ended up at the locked gates of Vipassana House. At 5 in the morning the sky was still dark, and my body racked from many hours of travel. I slept for a few hours and woke up to onion parathas and chai. The days at the ashram are peaceful. The first day of my arrival I didn't waste anytime and I started receiving training from the Pranic Master immediately. After an intense 4 hour class I paused, and did some breathing exercises, the rest of the day was filled with reading and relaxing. The next day I woke up at 5 in the morning and accompanied the two other kids here to yoga. It was taught by an aging guru, who after being healed with yoga many years ago, devoted his life to helping others. The class consisted of breathing exercises, stretching, and light exercises. It hurt a lot more than it sounds. I can't even sit cross-legged for any amount of time without it hurting. I have a lot to learn. The two other kids are both 19 and from Germany. They are dating and are spending time in India before going university. (pictures on facebook).
Another person I met was their friend Lovee. He is a great guy, and learned pranic healing many years ago. He is 25 and wears the turban of a Sikh. I have never really heard that much about his religion, so on a ride back from a trip to the mountains he told me some great stories and beliefs. They are Hindu's that follow the teachings of a lineage of 10 guru's. One of them, wrote an important scripture that remains crucial to their learning. They read pieces of it everyday. The religion is only 400-500 years old, and the devotees are known as warriors, and fighters. In fact all Sikhs are allowed, by the government, to be armed at all times. You will see Sikh men wearing huge turbans, carrying anything from cross-bows, to swords. Lovee says he keeps his at home. Sikh's believe that all religions are paths up the same mountain and do not discriminate. They also are very devoted to God, and the teachings.
Yet another person I met, was the young Anket. He lives at the ashram with his family (in a separate house). His mother is the maid/ cook for the ashram and Anket is "in charge" of the ashram. He actually is, in a large sense. Aman set up a bank account for him, and gives him money when things need to be done. He is only 11 but extremely smart and has better English than almost all the Indians I have met. We hung out a good amount and I had a great time playing cricket with him, or afternoon walks to get sweets.
One of the days, the two Germans, Lovee, and I went to a place called robber cave. (pictures online) This cave is magical. It is basically a stream that has eroded the landscape for hundred of thousands of years. When you look up you can see the small spot of sky that was once the original stream. The rock walls, shooting straight up on both sides, are clearly made of a softer rock, but the water makes beautiful and intricate carvings everywhere. At some points the light from above would get very small, and at other times a beautiful oasis would spring up in the middle of the 'cave'. Vines, and beautiful flowers crawled across the soft stone. Walking through the water was a great experience and we all had a blast navigating the rocks, and waterfalls. Eventually we got to an ancient wall. This was apparently one side of a room that housed old Indian robbers. The stone was beautiful and I felt like Indiana Jones. Except instead of a big stone waiting to crush me, I felt that a huge tide of water was gonna rush down the small stream and wash us all away. Thankfully no such monsoon came, and we made it back to our shoes right after dusk.
After a 4 hour jeep ride and 8 hour train ride I ended up at the locked gates of Vipassana House. At 5 in the morning the sky was still dark, and my body racked from many hours of travel. I slept for a few hours and woke up to onion parathas and chai. The days at the ashram are peaceful. The first day of my arrival I didn't waste anytime and I started receiving training from the Pranic Master immediately. After an intense 4 hour class I paused, and did some breathing exercises, the rest of the day was filled with reading and relaxing. The next day I woke up at 5 in the morning and accompanied the two other kids here to yoga. It was taught by an aging guru, who after being healed with yoga many years ago, devoted his life to helping others. The class consisted of breathing exercises, stretching, and light exercises. It hurt a lot more than it sounds. I can't even sit cross-legged for any amount of time without it hurting. I have a lot to learn. The two other kids are both 19 and from Germany. They are dating and are spending time in India before going university. (pictures on facebook).
Another person I met was their friend Lovee. He is a great guy, and learned pranic healing many years ago. He is 25 and wears the turban of a Sikh. I have never really heard that much about his religion, so on a ride back from a trip to the mountains he told me some great stories and beliefs. They are Hindu's that follow the teachings of a lineage of 10 guru's. One of them, wrote an important scripture that remains crucial to their learning. They read pieces of it everyday. The religion is only 400-500 years old, and the devotees are known as warriors, and fighters. In fact all Sikhs are allowed, by the government, to be armed at all times. You will see Sikh men wearing huge turbans, carrying anything from cross-bows, to swords. Lovee says he keeps his at home. Sikh's believe that all religions are paths up the same mountain and do not discriminate. They also are very devoted to God, and the teachings.
Yet another person I met, was the young Anket. He lives at the ashram with his family (in a separate house). His mother is the maid/ cook for the ashram and Anket is "in charge" of the ashram. He actually is, in a large sense. Aman set up a bank account for him, and gives him money when things need to be done. He is only 11 but extremely smart and has better English than almost all the Indians I have met. We hung out a good amount and I had a great time playing cricket with him, or afternoon walks to get sweets.
One of the days, the two Germans, Lovee, and I went to a place called robber cave. (pictures online) This cave is magical. It is basically a stream that has eroded the landscape for hundred of thousands of years. When you look up you can see the small spot of sky that was once the original stream. The rock walls, shooting straight up on both sides, are clearly made of a softer rock, but the water makes beautiful and intricate carvings everywhere. At some points the light from above would get very small, and at other times a beautiful oasis would spring up in the middle of the 'cave'. Vines, and beautiful flowers crawled across the soft stone. Walking through the water was a great experience and we all had a blast navigating the rocks, and waterfalls. Eventually we got to an ancient wall. This was apparently one side of a room that housed old Indian robbers. The stone was beautiful and I felt like Indiana Jones. Except instead of a big stone waiting to crush me, I felt that a huge tide of water was gonna rush down the small stream and wash us all away. Thankfully no such monsoon came, and we made it back to our shoes right after dusk.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Poems, get used to it.
"Morning"
The night time creates morning dew,
Just as darkness creates in you,
That special secret rendezvous,
Between your heart and head.
Contently shed away each grief,
Like that small inconsequential leaf,
I can still feel twilight's teeth,
Sink In.
And if each path seems to lead astray,
Just remember with the ferocity of each day,
That every time you see some grey,
Just wait a little more.
Because I can't promise that perfect sunrise,
But I have looked into divinities eyes,
And blissfully realized,
You can always watch it turn light.
"Flight"
Convince me, that you want to be,
Anything but a mute.
But do it in Pantomime,
So I can see whats between the lines,
Of your tattered book.
Believe me there are things better left unsaid,
Or rather things you can't say,
That have fallen between the frays,
Of your ruffled feathers.
I think you've left them dormant for so long,
That you forgot how to fly,
Or never knew.
But they're a gift that God gave you,
And I will teach you to soar.
The view from the clouds is divine,
But its hard to believe,
You can actually leave,
Your feet,
Or your fears,
Or those neat little tears,
You've held for so long, you think they are you.
Now I am asking you to do, what the say you can't do,
Just Let Go,
Breath In,
and Take Off.
The night time creates morning dew,
Just as darkness creates in you,
That special secret rendezvous,
Between your heart and head.
Contently shed away each grief,
Like that small inconsequential leaf,
I can still feel twilight's teeth,
Sink In.
And if each path seems to lead astray,
Just remember with the ferocity of each day,
That every time you see some grey,
Just wait a little more.
Because I can't promise that perfect sunrise,
But I have looked into divinities eyes,
And blissfully realized,
You can always watch it turn light.
"Flight"
Convince me, that you want to be,
Anything but a mute.
But do it in Pantomime,
So I can see whats between the lines,
Of your tattered book.
Believe me there are things better left unsaid,
Or rather things you can't say,
That have fallen between the frays,
Of your ruffled feathers.
I think you've left them dormant for so long,
That you forgot how to fly,
Or never knew.
But they're a gift that God gave you,
And I will teach you to soar.
The view from the clouds is divine,
But its hard to believe,
You can actually leave,
Your feet,
Or your fears,
Or those neat little tears,
You've held for so long, you think they are you.
Now I am asking you to do, what the say you can't do,
Just Let Go,
Breath In,
and Take Off.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Another dead goat, but this time we eat it.
So the job at Kalmatia is fun and packed with learning experiences. The first day was hard. I am trying to find my role in a kitchen where everyone is unsure of how to treat me. I simply want to be an equal, or rather a student to the head chefs. At first they where trying to give me special treatment. The food we made the first day was actually pretty bad and I was very scared that more terrible tasting slosh was on the menu ever night. Ok maybe I am over-stating it but there was one dish called Paprika chicken that was simply unacceptable. Bread and Saute chicken. Remove from pan. De-glaze with White-wine Vingear!? Add very heavy cream, salt, and paprika (which is more of a coloring than a flavoring). Add chicken to sauce, move to casserole dish, top with bread crumbs and terrible tasting processed cheese. End up with vinegary cream sauce. Not good. I luckily found this to be the exception not the rule.
That night I saw Her Highness Mukti before she stepped in for dinner. She pulled me aside and told me she spoke to Dieter, the owner. She told him he has 'gem' on his hands and he told her that if I come back for a few months he will give me accommodations and possibly salary. We will see how it all plays out. She then asked me to help her clean out this old cottage that she has has since 1972. She stays in Kasar Devi for a few months every few years. Of course you can't say no to her (nor would I want to) and I promised I would meet at 10:30 the next day.
On another own of those breath-less, beautiful, sunshine filled days, in the foot hills of the Himalayas, we strolled down a old dirt path that winded along the hillside. We got to the cottage and started to remove everything. She is good at making orders, especially to her husband, who appeased her with unbelievable patience. I have a lot to learn from him. I did heavy lifting and cleaned things as I packed them into huge trunks. She is going to buy a new cottage and doesn't want to have to buy all new stuff. I was amazed as King Leopold bent down and stated to hand dry plates, he has got to be the most down to earth royalty ever (not that I have meet any others haha). After finally finishing the days labor, we went back to the hotel for late afternoon tea. I went into town and bought her a new trunk, then we returned and went to dinner. After helping her so much she started to call me her Hainuman (a hindu god). Dinner was nice and before we parted she gave me her e-mail and hug and told me to keep in touch.
Back to work cooking. I feel most comfortable in a kitchen. Especially when it is busy and I am working 10 hour+ days. They must think I am crazy cause all the workers know I am not getting paid. The Head chef is amazing and speaks very good English. In between me chopping vegetables, peeling shit, and cleaning he pulls me over to the pots and shows me what he is making. He even has me run and get my notebook so I can take recipes down. He has a encyclopedic knowledge and at the end of the shit, if I missed anything, he will rattle off Indian and European recipes while I act as a scribe. These guys work their ass off. On their over-time days they wake up at 6am start cooking breakfast and work until 11 at night, only taking an hour or two nap after lunch. One day I joined them and slept in the employee quarters. The young workers barely 19 where ecstatic when I told them I was spending the night. Their English is terrible but they know enough to convince me not to make the walk home. It is a small drafty room with cots lined up on the wall. The cigarette butts, and old decks of cards showed me a glimpse of late nights bullshitting with co-workers. Cooks are the same everywhere. Just in India, replace coffee with chai and broken kitchen spanish with Hindi. These guys are are like energizer bunnies, but their batteries are copious amounts of strong chai and endless streams of strong little cigarettes call beerlie (I have no idea how to spell that). I of course forgo the smoke, even though they ask me everyday, but I have been drinking the chai to no end. I have been drinking 10-15 cups a day, which doesn't even touch the 30 or so that the head chef drinks. After taking a day off my head rang from lack of caffeine.
On the day I slept over and started work at 6, there was a happy buzz in the air. Today they would butcher a goat. It is a pretty big deal because all the innards are very valuable pieces of meat that make them strong. They took the goat to a special temple where sacrifices are given, and left the head as a offering. After skinning the animal they separate the meat, which is for the guests, and the innards which are for the workers. They prefer this trade off and think that the inside is the best part. As one guy got to work, diligently cleaning the intestines and stomach, another started cooking the spices and vegetable is a big pot. Lying in the sink was a pot full of blood. They where letting it sit so it would coagulate and turn into a gelatinous sheet that could be sliced into small bit size cubes. Right as the smell was starting to make me a gag, a plate of cubed raw heart was passed to me. I couldn't say no. It tasted luke-warm and gamey. After the cleaning, they chopped up the innards and threw the cubes of blood into the pot of spices and veggies. This was too much, I went down the hilll and took a nap in the employee quarters as the Indians savored their rare delicacies.
That night I saw Her Highness Mukti before she stepped in for dinner. She pulled me aside and told me she spoke to Dieter, the owner. She told him he has 'gem' on his hands and he told her that if I come back for a few months he will give me accommodations and possibly salary. We will see how it all plays out. She then asked me to help her clean out this old cottage that she has has since 1972. She stays in Kasar Devi for a few months every few years. Of course you can't say no to her (nor would I want to) and I promised I would meet at 10:30 the next day.
On another own of those breath-less, beautiful, sunshine filled days, in the foot hills of the Himalayas, we strolled down a old dirt path that winded along the hillside. We got to the cottage and started to remove everything. She is good at making orders, especially to her husband, who appeased her with unbelievable patience. I have a lot to learn from him. I did heavy lifting and cleaned things as I packed them into huge trunks. She is going to buy a new cottage and doesn't want to have to buy all new stuff. I was amazed as King Leopold bent down and stated to hand dry plates, he has got to be the most down to earth royalty ever (not that I have meet any others haha). After finally finishing the days labor, we went back to the hotel for late afternoon tea. I went into town and bought her a new trunk, then we returned and went to dinner. After helping her so much she started to call me her Hainuman (a hindu god). Dinner was nice and before we parted she gave me her e-mail and hug and told me to keep in touch.
Back to work cooking. I feel most comfortable in a kitchen. Especially when it is busy and I am working 10 hour+ days. They must think I am crazy cause all the workers know I am not getting paid. The Head chef is amazing and speaks very good English. In between me chopping vegetables, peeling shit, and cleaning he pulls me over to the pots and shows me what he is making. He even has me run and get my notebook so I can take recipes down. He has a encyclopedic knowledge and at the end of the shit, if I missed anything, he will rattle off Indian and European recipes while I act as a scribe. These guys work their ass off. On their over-time days they wake up at 6am start cooking breakfast and work until 11 at night, only taking an hour or two nap after lunch. One day I joined them and slept in the employee quarters. The young workers barely 19 where ecstatic when I told them I was spending the night. Their English is terrible but they know enough to convince me not to make the walk home. It is a small drafty room with cots lined up on the wall. The cigarette butts, and old decks of cards showed me a glimpse of late nights bullshitting with co-workers. Cooks are the same everywhere. Just in India, replace coffee with chai and broken kitchen spanish with Hindi. These guys are are like energizer bunnies, but their batteries are copious amounts of strong chai and endless streams of strong little cigarettes call beerlie (I have no idea how to spell that). I of course forgo the smoke, even though they ask me everyday, but I have been drinking the chai to no end. I have been drinking 10-15 cups a day, which doesn't even touch the 30 or so that the head chef drinks. After taking a day off my head rang from lack of caffeine.
On the day I slept over and started work at 6, there was a happy buzz in the air. Today they would butcher a goat. It is a pretty big deal because all the innards are very valuable pieces of meat that make them strong. They took the goat to a special temple where sacrifices are given, and left the head as a offering. After skinning the animal they separate the meat, which is for the guests, and the innards which are for the workers. They prefer this trade off and think that the inside is the best part. As one guy got to work, diligently cleaning the intestines and stomach, another started cooking the spices and vegetable is a big pot. Lying in the sink was a pot full of blood. They where letting it sit so it would coagulate and turn into a gelatinous sheet that could be sliced into small bit size cubes. Right as the smell was starting to make me a gag, a plate of cubed raw heart was passed to me. I couldn't say no. It tasted luke-warm and gamey. After the cleaning, they chopped up the innards and threw the cubes of blood into the pot of spices and veggies. This was too much, I went down the hilll and took a nap in the employee quarters as the Indians savored their rare delicacies.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Poems
I
It's more than a thought,
or prayer, or an emotion.
Its more than a look,
or a touch, or taste.
Its like a ray,
or a stream, or a soft pillow dream.
That I see you in,
Every night.
So close your eyes,
Because distance and time
Are never as real as melody and Rhymn.
And nothing is as real as my love for you.
II
It's easy to remember truth,
When it stares at you everyday.
Like a small infinite ray,
Of amber light.
Or rather amber eyes,
That pierce through my night.
And magical lines that confuse my sight.
And everytime I think I might
cry.
I think of you and smile.
III
Remember every moment
As if time was balanced on a precipice.
Right below heaven's bliss,
And next to yesteryears kiss.
I see you in the sometimes space,
between today and tomorrow.
Or rather the always space,
between right now and the next moment.
But believe me tomorrow is too long,
And right now seems like forever,
Before I get to see you again.
IV
Is anything really fair,
When beauty can not be shared
With everyone you love.
Is life a simple game,
or complex stroke of chance,
or masterful game of romance,
that you play with God.
I think its all of the above
But I'm still sad that none of this love
Can be said through words.
But atleast I know I can talk to the moon
And he will converse in rythmic tunes,
Which every night you're listening to,
For how else is it possible that you,
Could always know how I feel.
V
How can you measure up,
When you are the stick,
That every girl has to stand next to.
You are like the sun,
That is asking for a flashlight.
Or a star that forgot how to shoot.
And I am a small speck
On a small rock.
That gets to watch a blaze of beautiful light.
It's more than a thought,
or prayer, or an emotion.
Its more than a look,
or a touch, or taste.
Its like a ray,
or a stream, or a soft pillow dream.
That I see you in,
Every night.
So close your eyes,
Because distance and time
Are never as real as melody and Rhymn.
And nothing is as real as my love for you.
II
It's easy to remember truth,
When it stares at you everyday.
Like a small infinite ray,
Of amber light.
Or rather amber eyes,
That pierce through my night.
And magical lines that confuse my sight.
And everytime I think I might
cry.
I think of you and smile.
III
Remember every moment
As if time was balanced on a precipice.
Right below heaven's bliss,
And next to yesteryears kiss.
I see you in the sometimes space,
between today and tomorrow.
Or rather the always space,
between right now and the next moment.
But believe me tomorrow is too long,
And right now seems like forever,
Before I get to see you again.
IV
Is anything really fair,
When beauty can not be shared
With everyone you love.
Is life a simple game,
or complex stroke of chance,
or masterful game of romance,
that you play with God.
I think its all of the above
But I'm still sad that none of this love
Can be said through words.
But atleast I know I can talk to the moon
And he will converse in rythmic tunes,
Which every night you're listening to,
For how else is it possible that you,
Could always know how I feel.
V
How can you measure up,
When you are the stick,
That every girl has to stand next to.
You are like the sun,
That is asking for a flashlight.
Or a star that forgot how to shoot.
And I am a small speck
On a small rock.
That gets to watch a blaze of beautiful light.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Joe Baba
Before I continue forward let me Tarantino it and fill-in some dead space between me hating Almora and me deciding to work here. My days where filled with long treks back and forth from town trying to get Internet or helping Uncle Alan with his abysmal cafe. His Sketchy landlord decided to help, which basically involved him making miserable samosas and repeating 'no problem' every three seconds. He also convinced Uncle Alan to buy Rum and sell it at the cafe (add one more thing to the list of illegal activities i.e. business w.o. appropriate visa). Govinda was basically trying to make a hang out for his friends. This was a very bad idea and Uncle Alan realized this very fast. Me, not wanting to be involved with bad food and shady landlords, spent a good amount of time with the interesting character Joe Baba, while I contemplated my escape. Even though trust was a bit of an issue, he told me he would teach me how to make some Indian food and I figured I couldn't get myself into too much trouble. The few days I spent with him turned out to be really fun. We made aloo paratha (potato stuffed flat bread) and deep fried eggs in curry (more Delicious than its sounds). He also brewed super strong chai with copious amounts of ginger, green cardamom, and black pepper. He tought me a great Indian game called Karim. A game of finesse, Karim can best be equated with Billiards. The table is much smaller and a rectangle, measuring around 3 feet by 3 feet. Instead of balls you use small wooden pieces that look like checkers. Instead of a cue ball and stick you have a plastic disc that is slightly bigger than the checkers and the flick of your finger. You have one player on each side of the table and there are two teams. The goal is pretty much to hit your color checker pieces into the holes in each corner before the other team does. It is fun, difficult, and addicting, especially since I didn't have much else to do.
One afternoon we rambled on up the hill and I watched Joe Baba play a few heated games. Chai was sipped and billows of hash smoke puffed. With old Indian men laughing it re mined me of a scene in a movie. Half way through the game Joe Baba's English girlfriend, Beth, (very lovely lady) stormed up to the Karim room with a dead baby goat in her arms. She was pissed. To paraphrase: "What the Hell Joe, you said you would be down in 10 minutes that was 20 minutes ago. Our dog killed this thing and you're sitting playing Karim. That's all you guys do. The women are working in the fields, while the men smoke and play games. For christ sake it reeks of rum in here." Her assessment was spot on.
Unaffected, Joe Baba borrowed a motorbike and we went into town for lunch. On the menu, chicken and egg curry w. roti, and for drinks a few super strong piss-flavored Indian beers. A little but tipsy, Joe started to talk about his troubles with Beth and his reformed life. His father was abusive so he left home when he was 6 and took Bombay by storm. He showed me his multiple gun and knife wounds, including a rather burly one running across his throat. Every single one of those injuries was paid back in death. But according to Joe "I can't live like that no more." He is an interesting man. And for some reason these stories weirdly make me trust him more. At least he is being honest and sharing about his women troubles.
As a side note I got a shave in town. I heard that they where rather elaborate rituals and I had to experience the hype. They start by spraying your face with water, than massaging oil into your face for a good 2-3 minutes. Then you get ritualistically lathered up until a super thick foam forms. He shaves the entire face with precision than re-applies the lather and does it all again. He cleans the face and applies a moisturizer which he massages in for another few minutes. He then applies another oil and takes out this big machine which vibrates the face. After that he takes floss and runs it across all the parts of the face. Dirt comes off. He then squeezes any imperfections with a special tool. It finishes with another moisturizer. Price 3 dollars.
I heard that this hotel called Kalmatia Sangam has great food and is really close so I decided to check it out and see if I could work in the kitcken in exchange for some food or accomodations. The next day was my dinner with the King and Queen.
One afternoon we rambled on up the hill and I watched Joe Baba play a few heated games. Chai was sipped and billows of hash smoke puffed. With old Indian men laughing it re mined me of a scene in a movie. Half way through the game Joe Baba's English girlfriend, Beth, (very lovely lady) stormed up to the Karim room with a dead baby goat in her arms. She was pissed. To paraphrase: "What the Hell Joe, you said you would be down in 10 minutes that was 20 minutes ago. Our dog killed this thing and you're sitting playing Karim. That's all you guys do. The women are working in the fields, while the men smoke and play games. For christ sake it reeks of rum in here." Her assessment was spot on.
Unaffected, Joe Baba borrowed a motorbike and we went into town for lunch. On the menu, chicken and egg curry w. roti, and for drinks a few super strong piss-flavored Indian beers. A little but tipsy, Joe started to talk about his troubles with Beth and his reformed life. His father was abusive so he left home when he was 6 and took Bombay by storm. He showed me his multiple gun and knife wounds, including a rather burly one running across his throat. Every single one of those injuries was paid back in death. But according to Joe "I can't live like that no more." He is an interesting man. And for some reason these stories weirdly make me trust him more. At least he is being honest and sharing about his women troubles.
As a side note I got a shave in town. I heard that they where rather elaborate rituals and I had to experience the hype. They start by spraying your face with water, than massaging oil into your face for a good 2-3 minutes. Then you get ritualistically lathered up until a super thick foam forms. He shaves the entire face with precision than re-applies the lather and does it all again. He cleans the face and applies a moisturizer which he massages in for another few minutes. He then applies another oil and takes out this big machine which vibrates the face. After that he takes floss and runs it across all the parts of the face. Dirt comes off. He then squeezes any imperfections with a special tool. It finishes with another moisturizer. Price 3 dollars.
I heard that this hotel called Kalmatia Sangam has great food and is really close so I decided to check it out and see if I could work in the kitcken in exchange for some food or accomodations. The next day was my dinner with the King and Queen.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Dinner with the King and Queen of Austria
This is all true.
I was walking back from one of the Internet cafes yesterday and a very friendly Indian man commented on my lock and backpack. He immediately decided our meeting was cosmic and started telling me about his early retirement from international corporate law and his new life of spirituality and philanthropy. He owns a ashram called Vipassana house that specializes in Pranic Healing. A type of physical and spiritual healing that can be done over thousands of miles. When I told him about my hopes of helping people back home, his belief in our cosmic interaction deepened. At first I was skeptical of him but his overwhelming kindness and exuberance intrigued me, at the very least. He was going to meditate tonight at the Kasar Devi Temple. It was a full moon and by coincidence (I guess he doesn't believe in coincidence) his guru master happened to have meditated in the same spot. He was so happy that he called his guru and had me speak to him. He gave me a invitation to move to Vipassana House and learn Pranic Healing from a master, as well as possibly open a restaurant. He says he owns the property and would be happy to let me open up a restaurant or learn from his many well connected chef friends. I know this is ridiculous and sounds way to good to be true. It probably is but I am going along with it anyway as he writes down his contact information.
Soon after, as I mention I am going to Kalmatia Sangam to enquire about my new job, he mentions that he is meeting the King and Queen of Austria for Dinner. He invited me to join them. He gave me his phone number and told me to meet them around 5ish. This was just way too much. My meeting with this guy it absolutely unreal. I stumbled from shock all the way to Kalmatia Sangam Himalaya Resort in the hopes of getting a job. This is a 5 star resort with supposedly some of the best food in the area. They charge nearly 8,000 rupees a night (I have paid no more than 400) and 1,500 for diner (a samosa costs no more than 10 and a full dinner 100). I was happy just to be able to work in the Kitchen but I was gonna play some hard-ball and try to get accommodations. The meeting went well and even though they are not willing to give me accommodations I will get 3 meals a day, use of the showers (big deal for me), and the experience. The manager is very excited for my knowledge of appropriate restaurant cleanliness, and the fact that I have actually tasted proper Western food. He is even going to give me free reign to make menu suggestions and changes. If this works out the are probably going to add me on as a employee.
I walk out of the office and introduce myself to the Chefs then go back to Uncle Alan's to wash the dishes (no sink just a cup and a bucket) plus carry the 80 pound jug of water down the hill. After working like a peasant and sweating like a pig, I climbed back up the hill and meet my new friend Aman. He showed me pictures of Vipassana house and his many adopted children. The more I talk to this guy the more I realize he is a genuine and generous man, who simply wants to make people happy and put love into the world.
Her Highness of Austria calls and we strolled down the street to Mohan's Cafe. I cay hello to Her Highness and did not shake her hand, completely dumb-founded as how to address her. She looked rather inconspicuous with her long warm jacket, bright orange scarf, and beanie OM symbol embroidered. I could see her royalty coming through as she barked orders to the server and made him use a special flour that she just bought. Also her beautiful jewelry gave her away. His Highness Leopold introduced himself with a firm handshake and genuine smile. He was wearing the kind of outfit you would expect a upper-class golfer from New Jersey to wear. I was a little intimidated (to say the least) but after ordering I started delving into my life here in India and my new job at Kalmatia. They seemed genuinely interested and started to tell me innumerable things that the restaurant could improve upon. Her highness, Muhkti, was shocked and disappointed that they are not going to give me accommodations. She said she would talk to the owner, her good friend, and she what she could do about it.
My anxieties continued to ease as the conversation become more relaxed. They treated me like an equal and we swapped stories about life. I told them that I was going to Rajasthan next month and asked if they have ever been. They started to laugh hysterically and informed me that Her Highness is also the princess of Rajasthan. Me face got red. She is a hell of a women. Under her beanie was a shaved head and very fragile bony face. She was very beautiful for a women in her 50's at least. She told me about her 43 day fast, where she drank nothing but rain water and lived on "light". We all complained about how dirty India is, and how the people have no respect for the land, as they litter everywhere. We started to talk about money at one point, and how privileged they are to have it. Aman the Indian told us a great story about his childhood. Many years ago when India was at war with China his elementary school asked for donations to help the soldiers. The next day his father (a man who beat the odds and pulled himself out of a lower caste) gave him a newspaper stuffed with rupees. The young Aman gave it to the teacher who looked up dumb-founded. She shuffled him to the principal who had the same look of astonishment and proceeded to call his father. He was in shock that they gave so much, apparently enough to buy the school. His fathers only response was "I wanted to teach my son when to stand up for your friends, when to stand up for your country, and when to stand up for your family." He then went on to talk about his hard life after his father died and how it cost the family all the money. He had to struggle through school and lived on his own since he was 18. He feels that it taught him how to relate to both the poor and rich.
King Leopold then started to talk about his life as a young boy. He grew up on a countryside just like a normal person until his was 6. Then as the war began he was moved into the castle where he lived like a prisoner. He was only allowed to leave on Sundays for church, where he would sneak out the back door and attempt to have some sort of rebellious freedom. The King and Queen spoke of a life of servants and wealth I can only imagine in fairy-tales. Although they both spoke of feeling stifled and imprisoned. Her highness mentioned her father's plans for her to marry the prince of another state in order to form a alliance. Instead she fled to California with not 1 but 2 servants, and studied child psychology. She has always been a bit of a rebel and spoke about her high stakes life in Las Vegas. She won at blackjack but lost every dime when she had some scam artists swindle her money away in a real estate proposal. She shaved her head and lived without heat. A princess with no hair and no heater, go figure.
I tried to relate with stories of my own but mostly marveled that I was eating dinner with royalty and not coming across as a complete idiot. They paid for the meal against my wishes (but who can argue with royalty) and we walked back to the resort, conveniently located right near my uncles place. We talked about some trouble that Her hHighness was having in regards to a close friend and I gave my advice. I talked about my views of forgiveness and love and she seemed to appreciate my thoughtful response. I thanked them again for dinner and told them I would stick my head out of the kitchen and say Hello. Then it hit me. I will be cooking for Royalty!! This night is just too much I better get to sleep before I realize its a dream.
I was walking back from one of the Internet cafes yesterday and a very friendly Indian man commented on my lock and backpack. He immediately decided our meeting was cosmic and started telling me about his early retirement from international corporate law and his new life of spirituality and philanthropy. He owns a ashram called Vipassana house that specializes in Pranic Healing. A type of physical and spiritual healing that can be done over thousands of miles. When I told him about my hopes of helping people back home, his belief in our cosmic interaction deepened. At first I was skeptical of him but his overwhelming kindness and exuberance intrigued me, at the very least. He was going to meditate tonight at the Kasar Devi Temple. It was a full moon and by coincidence (I guess he doesn't believe in coincidence) his guru master happened to have meditated in the same spot. He was so happy that he called his guru and had me speak to him. He gave me a invitation to move to Vipassana House and learn Pranic Healing from a master, as well as possibly open a restaurant. He says he owns the property and would be happy to let me open up a restaurant or learn from his many well connected chef friends. I know this is ridiculous and sounds way to good to be true. It probably is but I am going along with it anyway as he writes down his contact information.
Soon after, as I mention I am going to Kalmatia Sangam to enquire about my new job, he mentions that he is meeting the King and Queen of Austria for Dinner. He invited me to join them. He gave me his phone number and told me to meet them around 5ish. This was just way too much. My meeting with this guy it absolutely unreal. I stumbled from shock all the way to Kalmatia Sangam Himalaya Resort in the hopes of getting a job. This is a 5 star resort with supposedly some of the best food in the area. They charge nearly 8,000 rupees a night (I have paid no more than 400) and 1,500 for diner (a samosa costs no more than 10 and a full dinner 100). I was happy just to be able to work in the Kitchen but I was gonna play some hard-ball and try to get accommodations. The meeting went well and even though they are not willing to give me accommodations I will get 3 meals a day, use of the showers (big deal for me), and the experience. The manager is very excited for my knowledge of appropriate restaurant cleanliness, and the fact that I have actually tasted proper Western food. He is even going to give me free reign to make menu suggestions and changes. If this works out the are probably going to add me on as a employee.
I walk out of the office and introduce myself to the Chefs then go back to Uncle Alan's to wash the dishes (no sink just a cup and a bucket) plus carry the 80 pound jug of water down the hill. After working like a peasant and sweating like a pig, I climbed back up the hill and meet my new friend Aman. He showed me pictures of Vipassana house and his many adopted children. The more I talk to this guy the more I realize he is a genuine and generous man, who simply wants to make people happy and put love into the world.
Her Highness of Austria calls and we strolled down the street to Mohan's Cafe. I cay hello to Her Highness and did not shake her hand, completely dumb-founded as how to address her. She looked rather inconspicuous with her long warm jacket, bright orange scarf, and beanie OM symbol embroidered. I could see her royalty coming through as she barked orders to the server and made him use a special flour that she just bought. Also her beautiful jewelry gave her away. His Highness Leopold introduced himself with a firm handshake and genuine smile. He was wearing the kind of outfit you would expect a upper-class golfer from New Jersey to wear. I was a little intimidated (to say the least) but after ordering I started delving into my life here in India and my new job at Kalmatia. They seemed genuinely interested and started to tell me innumerable things that the restaurant could improve upon. Her highness, Muhkti, was shocked and disappointed that they are not going to give me accommodations. She said she would talk to the owner, her good friend, and she what she could do about it.
My anxieties continued to ease as the conversation become more relaxed. They treated me like an equal and we swapped stories about life. I told them that I was going to Rajasthan next month and asked if they have ever been. They started to laugh hysterically and informed me that Her Highness is also the princess of Rajasthan. Me face got red. She is a hell of a women. Under her beanie was a shaved head and very fragile bony face. She was very beautiful for a women in her 50's at least. She told me about her 43 day fast, where she drank nothing but rain water and lived on "light". We all complained about how dirty India is, and how the people have no respect for the land, as they litter everywhere. We started to talk about money at one point, and how privileged they are to have it. Aman the Indian told us a great story about his childhood. Many years ago when India was at war with China his elementary school asked for donations to help the soldiers. The next day his father (a man who beat the odds and pulled himself out of a lower caste) gave him a newspaper stuffed with rupees. The young Aman gave it to the teacher who looked up dumb-founded. She shuffled him to the principal who had the same look of astonishment and proceeded to call his father. He was in shock that they gave so much, apparently enough to buy the school. His fathers only response was "I wanted to teach my son when to stand up for your friends, when to stand up for your country, and when to stand up for your family." He then went on to talk about his hard life after his father died and how it cost the family all the money. He had to struggle through school and lived on his own since he was 18. He feels that it taught him how to relate to both the poor and rich.
King Leopold then started to talk about his life as a young boy. He grew up on a countryside just like a normal person until his was 6. Then as the war began he was moved into the castle where he lived like a prisoner. He was only allowed to leave on Sundays for church, where he would sneak out the back door and attempt to have some sort of rebellious freedom. The King and Queen spoke of a life of servants and wealth I can only imagine in fairy-tales. Although they both spoke of feeling stifled and imprisoned. Her highness mentioned her father's plans for her to marry the prince of another state in order to form a alliance. Instead she fled to California with not 1 but 2 servants, and studied child psychology. She has always been a bit of a rebel and spoke about her high stakes life in Las Vegas. She won at blackjack but lost every dime when she had some scam artists swindle her money away in a real estate proposal. She shaved her head and lived without heat. A princess with no hair and no heater, go figure.
I tried to relate with stories of my own but mostly marveled that I was eating dinner with royalty and not coming across as a complete idiot. They paid for the meal against my wishes (but who can argue with royalty) and we walked back to the resort, conveniently located right near my uncles place. We talked about some trouble that Her hHighness was having in regards to a close friend and I gave my advice. I talked about my views of forgiveness and love and she seemed to appreciate my thoughtful response. I thanked them again for dinner and told them I would stick my head out of the kitchen and say Hello. Then it hit me. I will be cooking for Royalty!! This night is just too much I better get to sleep before I realize its a dream.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Back to Hell again, then on to Almora
After Dharamsala and our trip to see the Dali Lama, we returned to Delhi (on another 13 hour bus ride) and stayed at the same hotel in the Tibetan refugee colony. We saw the red fort (huge and red) and bought our ticket to Almora. The overnight sleeper train only had one ticket in 2nd class AC (the prefered mode), which I let Uncle Alan have. The train terminal is torturous especially with a duffel bag as heavy and cumbersome as mine. It proved even more difficult when I got onto the train and had to carry it on my head in order to squeeze through the aisle. It didn't help that all these Indian men either stared at me or gave me a look of utter disdain. I am trying to get used to it but it's hard when they are staring at me like I have tits the size of Pamela Anderson (God help Jess).
Despite all this I was lucky enough to find a nice Indian gentleman that spoke English. He had a doctorate and is the director of the Central Himalya Environmental Association. He told me about his vacation to the States and I told him about my hopes of working in a Indian Restaurant. He started writing down a contact for the secretary of the Nainital Hotel and Restaurant Association. After our chat I squeezed into the top bunk of the sleeper and nuzzled up tightly next to my guitar. If the uncomfortable bed wasn't bad enough, there was the loud screaming and laughing from half the cabin, if that wasn't bad enough there was the obnoxious snoring from the guy right next to me, if that wasn't bad enough I kept having to shit and the consistency and color hasn't been anything but the soupy mixture of dal and curry I keep eating. My neck is killing me from holding this duffel bag on my head and my back from the awful nights sleep.
After the desperatly long train ride, I have to sit in this shit train station for two hours repeatedly telling the same cab driver we're not interested in their over-priced fares, while we wait for Uncle Alan's contact who wants to sell him a jeep. Two shady looking guys show up with a car the size of a playschool toy. We squeezed the duffel bag in the trunk in such a way that my head couldn't go back. We then proceeded to drive around in circles looking for some Joe Baba character who is supposed to be the missing link for this car deal. I guess we need him cause their English is about as good as my Hindi.
We finally find Joe Baba and a place for chai. Joe is Uncle Alan's neighbor who is doing Uncle Alan "a favor" by pawning off this shitty 1972 Indian made jeep for a ridiculously inflated price-tag. The fumes from the kitchen of the restaurant smelled like burning rubber and the egg sandwich they brought out (after 30 minutes mind you) tasted bout as good as my train shit. I was starving and completely fed-up with this back and forth bullshit. This Joe Baba guy has long slicked back hair, sleek glasses, motorcycle gloves and teeth-stained from years of Indian chewing tobacco and hand rolled hash cigarettes. He has the overly friendly vibe of someone trying to screw you or Fuck you. I was not in the mood for either.
Of course the negotiations aren't over and we had to squeeze back into the clown car for a trip to the mechanic. Stepping over dead rats, we have some mechanic tell us this 40 year old piece of junk is decent. He has about as much smoke coming out of his ass as there was smoke coming form the exhaust. Uncle Alan is finally satisfied and actually considering buying the car (to my astonishment) and we are ready to make the trip to his house in Almora (Kasar Devi to be exact).
The wild driving taxi is taking the narrow turns with no regard for whats around each bend. Instead he just lays on the horn and hopes for the best. The mixture of my already aching body, the billows of exhaust fumes, and this wanna-be rally car driver, makes my head spin. Since Joe Baba lives near Uncle Alan he is leading the way in his little bike. My head hurt so bad that when we stopped for some food and he offered me a ride on the back of his bike, I accepted without a thought. Anything would be better than that cab. It turned out to be a great decision. If I wasn't feeling so miserable I might have enjoyed the beautiful ride along this winding shallow river. Or maybe the breath-taking panoramic view of the Himalayas would have inspired more than a wow. Actually, that first glimpse of the snow-peaked mountain, the quaint hill-side town, and terraced mountain fields was pretty awesome.
Unfortunately the streets and people are exactly the opposite of the beautiful view. I'm not sure why but my white skin inspires contempt from almost everyone except some women and children. I almost got killed for using a bathroom after I apologized profusely and offered money. Then as I desperately searched for a place to wash my hands I got nothing but blank stares and wide smirks. Thankfully a hotel let me use their sink before I killed one of these Indians.
The town of Almora is just as dirty and almost as noisy as Delhi but a hour and half walk outside, in Kasar Devi, you can find some peace of mind. Unfortunatley life without modern amenities is more annoying than I would have thought. Bucket showers suck, especially when the electricity goes out half-way through heating it up. Washing clothes in buckets also are not fun, especially when my new scarf bled and ruined my whites. It seems like all my clothes where just as dirty except now they are stiff from the detergent that I was unable to ring out. There is something to be said about the simple life but modern convienence is definitely nice. The beauty of these hills and view of the Himalayas are definitely everything and more, but my troubles with Uncle Alan and my unhappiness with the people are telling me that my time here might not last long. O yea, the tiny room that I share with Uncle Alan is poorly insulated and has mice, plus spiders that are literally the size of my hand. I am not kidding, the size of my FUCKING HAND!!!
Despite all this I was lucky enough to find a nice Indian gentleman that spoke English. He had a doctorate and is the director of the Central Himalya Environmental Association. He told me about his vacation to the States and I told him about my hopes of working in a Indian Restaurant. He started writing down a contact for the secretary of the Nainital Hotel and Restaurant Association. After our chat I squeezed into the top bunk of the sleeper and nuzzled up tightly next to my guitar. If the uncomfortable bed wasn't bad enough, there was the loud screaming and laughing from half the cabin, if that wasn't bad enough there was the obnoxious snoring from the guy right next to me, if that wasn't bad enough I kept having to shit and the consistency and color hasn't been anything but the soupy mixture of dal and curry I keep eating. My neck is killing me from holding this duffel bag on my head and my back from the awful nights sleep.
After the desperatly long train ride, I have to sit in this shit train station for two hours repeatedly telling the same cab driver we're not interested in their over-priced fares, while we wait for Uncle Alan's contact who wants to sell him a jeep. Two shady looking guys show up with a car the size of a playschool toy. We squeezed the duffel bag in the trunk in such a way that my head couldn't go back. We then proceeded to drive around in circles looking for some Joe Baba character who is supposed to be the missing link for this car deal. I guess we need him cause their English is about as good as my Hindi.
We finally find Joe Baba and a place for chai. Joe is Uncle Alan's neighbor who is doing Uncle Alan "a favor" by pawning off this shitty 1972 Indian made jeep for a ridiculously inflated price-tag. The fumes from the kitchen of the restaurant smelled like burning rubber and the egg sandwich they brought out (after 30 minutes mind you) tasted bout as good as my train shit. I was starving and completely fed-up with this back and forth bullshit. This Joe Baba guy has long slicked back hair, sleek glasses, motorcycle gloves and teeth-stained from years of Indian chewing tobacco and hand rolled hash cigarettes. He has the overly friendly vibe of someone trying to screw you or Fuck you. I was not in the mood for either.
Of course the negotiations aren't over and we had to squeeze back into the clown car for a trip to the mechanic. Stepping over dead rats, we have some mechanic tell us this 40 year old piece of junk is decent. He has about as much smoke coming out of his ass as there was smoke coming form the exhaust. Uncle Alan is finally satisfied and actually considering buying the car (to my astonishment) and we are ready to make the trip to his house in Almora (Kasar Devi to be exact).
The wild driving taxi is taking the narrow turns with no regard for whats around each bend. Instead he just lays on the horn and hopes for the best. The mixture of my already aching body, the billows of exhaust fumes, and this wanna-be rally car driver, makes my head spin. Since Joe Baba lives near Uncle Alan he is leading the way in his little bike. My head hurt so bad that when we stopped for some food and he offered me a ride on the back of his bike, I accepted without a thought. Anything would be better than that cab. It turned out to be a great decision. If I wasn't feeling so miserable I might have enjoyed the beautiful ride along this winding shallow river. Or maybe the breath-taking panoramic view of the Himalayas would have inspired more than a wow. Actually, that first glimpse of the snow-peaked mountain, the quaint hill-side town, and terraced mountain fields was pretty awesome.
Unfortunately the streets and people are exactly the opposite of the beautiful view. I'm not sure why but my white skin inspires contempt from almost everyone except some women and children. I almost got killed for using a bathroom after I apologized profusely and offered money. Then as I desperately searched for a place to wash my hands I got nothing but blank stares and wide smirks. Thankfully a hotel let me use their sink before I killed one of these Indians.
The town of Almora is just as dirty and almost as noisy as Delhi but a hour and half walk outside, in Kasar Devi, you can find some peace of mind. Unfortunatley life without modern amenities is more annoying than I would have thought. Bucket showers suck, especially when the electricity goes out half-way through heating it up. Washing clothes in buckets also are not fun, especially when my new scarf bled and ruined my whites. It seems like all my clothes where just as dirty except now they are stiff from the detergent that I was unable to ring out. There is something to be said about the simple life but modern convienence is definitely nice. The beauty of these hills and view of the Himalayas are definitely everything and more, but my troubles with Uncle Alan and my unhappiness with the people are telling me that my time here might not last long. O yea, the tiny room that I share with Uncle Alan is poorly insulated and has mice, plus spiders that are literally the size of my hand. I am not kidding, the size of my FUCKING HAND!!!
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