India: The love/hate relationship
Its impossible to write India, the variables are just too intricate to detail. I find it indescribable in every sense, but perhaps in a basic form, this blog would serve to help me make sense of it all. In Pakistan I had reached an emotional pitch that would not be reached again, and in a way I found my-self marginally deflated upon entering India. I hadn't seen Mayara during the few hardest weeks of the trip and I continued to dearly miss her. Coupled with the instability of my China tour group (to recap - my Tibet/China tour was in extreme jeopardy when the Chinese government, without warning, changed Tibet permit requirements. As a result the required tour group had cancelled our first group and were frantically trying to figure out a way around the permit issues) I found hard to get focused and decipher a clear vision beyond the immediate future.
Amritsar and the extended Jam session!
Within a few days I would meet May again and that was the extent of my thinking. So it was at this point that I embraced my greatest skill and that was the ability to improvise in a situation. In a way a level of ‘improv’ is the only way to truly immerse yourself in Indian lifestyle and culture. I always had a metaphor for this trip that like any great Jazz band, it would be extremely tight, organised and well-rehearsed but with the ability to solo and improvise.
I bowled into Amritsar (closest border town to Pakistan) with a destination in mind but absolutely no clue about how to get there. I managed to extract a general direction from a local cop and continued "to follow my bonnet" before stopping for directions at a Skoda car dealership. There was a group of Punjabi men and as I could tell, one of them was signing the paperwork for his new Skoda. I patiently waited for the men to finish their business before ineloquently blurting out in my clearest and most generic English accent "HORSE HOTEL, NEAR DELHI PUBLIC SCHOOL". I felt like the typical dumbass westerner when I received a reply in perfect English. As it turned out, one of the men named Sandhu, could decode the absolute nonsense coming out of my mouth, and ushered me outside, back to my car. Casually Sandhu and his friends all jumped in Dorothy and, along with their car, I was led to the Horse Hotel (actually this was a couch-surf that I had arranged, but the cop I first stopped and asked directions of, knew it as the Horse Hotel, so that was good enough for me).
We soon pulled off the Grand Trunk road, onto unsealed roads and through a small village. This was to be my oasis for the next week, like a hidden Shangri-la in the Punjabi desert. The property owner (and my couch-surfing host) was an older Sikh man named Mr Singh (this name is shared with just about every other Sikh I met), and he inherited his wealth from his father. Thus he felt compelled (as Sikh's often do) to share his good fortune, and therefore his hotel was open to couch-surfers, free of charge. The property consisted of many stables for all his majestic horses, swimming pool, hotel-style double rooms and a wonderful restaurant that served traditional Punjabi, Indian and Nepalese food. Every night I, along with the other restaurant guests, would be treated to an un-enthusiastic dancing performance from a male and female lead and a midget backing dancer. It was all absolutely perfect.
Still, this first night, after unloading my things I would share a drink with my new friends before bidding them farewell. However, as I would begin to learn, Indians don't tend to leave it at simple pleasantries. Their enthusiasm for interaction and story-telling is unprecedented and they take chance meetings, always to the next level of friendship. On any given day you can go from complete strangers to best friends instantly. Sandhu with his wife, family and friends had returned for dinner and invited me to join them. Indian hospitality can be second to none and this night I would be treated to a full meal and a healthy dose of whiskey. By nights end, both Sandhu and I had shared quite a lot of whiskey and he invited me back to his place, he said we would have another drink and I could spend the night there.
Mayara has a strange effect on me, I have always felt and considered myself an extremely independent person, and nearly always travelled alone. However there were many times during our few weeks apart, when I felt completely useless and hopelessly dependant on her. I couldn’t self-motivate and the only thing I could do was focus on meeting her in India. It was a bizarre feeling to need someone else so much, but I knew the only remedy was to be with her again, as soon as possible. So the day before her planned arrival, I was jittery with excitement, I couldn't sit still or hold a thought in my head. That was until a message came to me from her to say that she had partied too hard and would have to wait another day to catch a bus from Delhi to Amritsar. Despair!! Nevertheless the next day, I was waiting patiently at Amritsar train station for her coach to arrive. After a few minor communication delays I was reunited with her at the train station and it was straight out of Hollywood. We spotted each other on the platform and ran towards each other, after a long embrace, hand in hand we headed back to Mr Singh's farm.
After spending nearly a week out our little guesthouse above Bagsu, we came to the conclusion that it was time to move on. Dotted along the hippie tourist trial was the holy city of Rishikesh, but in order to get there we would need to head directly south rather than cutting through the mountains easterly.
The Cheeseburger Mirage
This meant that Mandi and Chandigarh were next on our list. We would spend only one night in each city, although we had an ulterior motive for Chandigarh. Chandigarh is considered one of the most westernised cities in India, priding itself on its well-developed road system and infrastructure, whilst also adopting many of the western cultures. This meant that all the regular fast food restaurants were on offer as well. Mayara and I were in agreement, after checking into our hotel we immediately set about hailing down a Tuk Tuk and instructing him to go directly to McDonalds (ohh how we were looking forward to succulent cheeseburgers!!).
Like a mirage in the desert we saw it in the distance, the great golden arches - the place of my fondest childhood memories. We burst through the doors and I gazed towards the menu, and to my disgust, I only saw chicken burgers on offer. May and I were completely devastated, and like a mirage in the desert, our hopes of juicy cheeseburgers vanished. We turned, hung our heads and walked out in a feeble display of defiance.
No meat? what do you mean no meat?
Rishikesh was a place made famous to the west by The Beatles, whom become regulars here trying to seek their spiritual enlightenment (eyes rolling). I had heard horror stories of Rishikesh..... All meat products and alcohol was banned in the holy city - this was an awful notion, but one that I knew I would have to put up with. We got in late in the afternoon and briefly cruised around looking for a hotel. The surroundings were all a bit dismal. However I was really too knackered to drive any further. We stopped at an overpriced hotel (as it turned out we were still 10 minutes from the main touristic hub) for the evening and settled in, both nervous that we had made a huge mistake in coming here at all. In the morning we quickly realised we were a little out of the main tourist point, so driving a little further we found a guesthouse with a much more centralised location.
Rishikesh was my first glimpse of a truly chaotic, filthy Indian city. I mean we had seen the mass of humanity that India could potentially be, but we were not prepared for the utter filth about the place. Like most travelling experiences though, you quickly adapt, and we didn't hesitate to get stuck into exploring the city. Rishikesh, which is set upon the mighty river Ganga, is a place of pilgrimage, where Hindu's bath and even drink from their most sacred river, believing that it will free them of their sins and ultimately to achieve their goal of Nirvana. Despite the pollution, Rishikesh was an unbelievably interesting place, but not necessarily beautiful. Another evening passed before we again changed locations, checking into a local Ashram. An Ashram, could be described as a yoga retreat, where you have a daily program that includes meal times, meditation and yoga sessions. It also meant that we would be rising for 6 AM yoga every morning. As I quietly eyeballed the program, I knew it was something that Mayara really wanted to do, so I didn't mention it, and in truth I was also intrigued. On the bright side, including meals and accommodation the price was actually very cost effective, so that was a big positive.
The Anand Prakash Yoga Ashram had a good mix of travellers and we immediately set about making friends. May and I soon attached to a girl named Sally who was a solo traveller from Brisbane, and I was pleased to find that she possessed that down to earth, tongue in cheek humour, that many Australians have. Another bonus was we checked in just before lunch, which usually comprises of Dal, Chapati, Rice and another vegetable based curry, which was actually very nice. Along with the two Yoga sessions per day, there was, twice per week, a chanting based meditation known as Kiirtan. This basically involves a person leading the Kiirtan by starting the chants, and the class repeating the phrase, a kind of call and response process. I went along with an open mind, and everything seemed to be pretty straight forward (although I wasn't too focused if I am honest. Rather I was trying to figure out what each individual was hoping to get out of this process.) Without warning the routine changed and as we sat in a circle the chant was to go around the circle one by one, individually. I felt like rising a screaming "I did not sign up for this" and pulling a storm-off, but I remained silent. The first person began, "Sita Ram Jay Sita Ram", in which we all repeated. It began to move around the circle, and although the phrase, simple enough, the tension grew inside me as my turn etched closer. "Shitajay Jay Sita ram".... Ohh Fuck it! This was awful, I wished the floor would open up and swallowed me whole to save myself further embarrassment. The group somewhat stammered in their return, but the chant continued around the circle, and I knew I would have my chance at redemption. Another circulation and my turn once again, "Shitaram Shitaram"..... Would someone please get me a steak and beer!The days rolled by and instead of achieving spiritual enlightenment, Mayara and I became lazier and lazier, and the 6:00AM yoga session fell by the wayside. In this time however, I did find my meditative path to enlightenment. There was a small gym right around the corner from the Ashram, which I began visiting most days. It felt good to get back to the gym for the first time since I left London, and although I couldn't have my usual post gym fix of steak. I managed to purchase a couple dozen eggs, which I fried off in Dorothy after every session.
May and I were somewhat hesitant to leave the Ashram each day, as it was all very easy. The extent of our responsibility was to make it on time for meals and yoga sessions, if we should so choose. In between sessions Sally, May and I would hang out, talking a lot of nonsense, generally having a good laugh. So day by day we extended our stay, however after a few extra days we were keen to move on, and next on our radar was Kausani.
Gandhi let me down!
Mahatma Gandhi was said to have used Kausani as his retreat for Yoga and writing, he found it a most inspirational place. So if was good enough for Gandhi, it was good enough for us. The road to Kausani was winding and hilly, so the relatively short distance took us the whole day and we arrived just after sundown. Tired and weary we settled in at a resort style guesthouse just on the outskirts of the village and by this time the spectacular views we were promised were not visible under the cover of darkness, we would have to wait until the morning. After a very long and pleasant breakfast we gathered the motivation to check out the village, which, to our slight disappointment, didn't resemble anything different to every other village we passed through to get here. However, not too much further along there was a town called Nainital, which promised bigger and better things, and so we opted to pursue this destination immediately.
Nainital was a fantastic recommendation made to us, and more than made up for the slight disappointment of Kausani. Situated on a man-made lake, it’s a spot used by regular backpackers and couples alike. In its centre was a huge football pitch which seemed to be constantly used by kids, and a little further on was a Tibetan market where we got served the best Momos thus far on the trip. May and I (well it was more my idea) felt that we needed to let off a little steam after Rishikesh and we decided to buy a few beers to drink in our hotel room. Like a covert operation, we cheekily smuggled a few beers into our room and tried to keep them cold in a bathtub full of water. As tends to happen, the beer soon ran out and but we managed to send a hotel staff member to buy more beer (with quite a big mark-up per bottle). Within a couple of hours Mayara was jumping up and down on the bed and I was belting out LA Woman by The Doors. It became a full blown London town party. The night ended abruptly with May throwing up in the toilet and me passed out on the bed. The following morning was one of my most wretched hangovers in recent memory, and I too found myself, head in the toilet bowl. There was no way we were leaving for Delhi that day, and all I could manage to do was stagger to reception and book in another night at the hotel.
To be continued.....
Its impossible to write India, the variables are just too intricate to detail. I find it indescribable in every sense, but perhaps in a basic form, this blog would serve to help me make sense of it all. In Pakistan I had reached an emotional pitch that would not be reached again, and in a way I found my-self marginally deflated upon entering India. I hadn't seen Mayara during the few hardest weeks of the trip and I continued to dearly miss her. Coupled with the instability of my China tour group (to recap - my Tibet/China tour was in extreme jeopardy when the Chinese government, without warning, changed Tibet permit requirements. As a result the required tour group had cancelled our first group and were frantically trying to figure out a way around the permit issues) I found hard to get focused and decipher a clear vision beyond the immediate future.
Amritsar and the extended Jam session!
Within a few days I would meet May again and that was the extent of my thinking. So it was at this point that I embraced my greatest skill and that was the ability to improvise in a situation. In a way a level of ‘improv’ is the only way to truly immerse yourself in Indian lifestyle and culture. I always had a metaphor for this trip that like any great Jazz band, it would be extremely tight, organised and well-rehearsed but with the ability to solo and improvise.
I bowled into Amritsar (closest border town to Pakistan) with a destination in mind but absolutely no clue about how to get there. I managed to extract a general direction from a local cop and continued "to follow my bonnet" before stopping for directions at a Skoda car dealership. There was a group of Punjabi men and as I could tell, one of them was signing the paperwork for his new Skoda. I patiently waited for the men to finish their business before ineloquently blurting out in my clearest and most generic English accent "HORSE HOTEL, NEAR DELHI PUBLIC SCHOOL". I felt like the typical dumbass westerner when I received a reply in perfect English. As it turned out, one of the men named Sandhu, could decode the absolute nonsense coming out of my mouth, and ushered me outside, back to my car. Casually Sandhu and his friends all jumped in Dorothy and, along with their car, I was led to the Horse Hotel (actually this was a couch-surf that I had arranged, but the cop I first stopped and asked directions of, knew it as the Horse Hotel, so that was good enough for me).
We soon pulled off the Grand Trunk road, onto unsealed roads and through a small village. This was to be my oasis for the next week, like a hidden Shangri-la in the Punjabi desert. The property owner (and my couch-surfing host) was an older Sikh man named Mr Singh (this name is shared with just about every other Sikh I met), and he inherited his wealth from his father. Thus he felt compelled (as Sikh's often do) to share his good fortune, and therefore his hotel was open to couch-surfers, free of charge. The property consisted of many stables for all his majestic horses, swimming pool, hotel-style double rooms and a wonderful restaurant that served traditional Punjabi, Indian and Nepalese food. Every night I, along with the other restaurant guests, would be treated to an un-enthusiastic dancing performance from a male and female lead and a midget backing dancer. It was all absolutely perfect.
Still, this first night, after unloading my things I would share a drink with my new friends before bidding them farewell. However, as I would begin to learn, Indians don't tend to leave it at simple pleasantries. Their enthusiasm for interaction and story-telling is unprecedented and they take chance meetings, always to the next level of friendship. On any given day you can go from complete strangers to best friends instantly. Sandhu with his wife, family and friends had returned for dinner and invited me to join them. Indian hospitality can be second to none and this night I would be treated to a full meal and a healthy dose of whiskey. By nights end, both Sandhu and I had shared quite a lot of whiskey and he invited me back to his place, he said we would have another drink and I could spend the night there.
Sandhu is a difficult man to say no to, so I jumped in their car and was on my way to their place, and after our little night cap we were off to bed... the same bed. Sandhu's wife was to stay on the couch, while two grown men prepared themselves for bedtime in the master bedroom. The absurdity of the situation had me drunkenly giggling to myself, but by morning when we were both sitting up in bed with a slightly sore head, and I began to feel the awkwardness. I needed to generate some small talk, lift the tension if you will..... "Wow, I slept really well, it’s a really comfortable bed"..... inspired stuff Whitey! After a bit of back and forth chatter, breakfast was prepared for us by Sandhu's wife, and I attempted to make my exit. It would be like the walk of shame, hailing a tuk tuk, still in last night's clothes. Sandhu would have none of it and like a good gentleman drove me back to Mr Singh's place :)
In truth Sandhu and I would spend most days together (as this was still before May arrived). Mostly, I tagged along while he conducted business and went about his day (I wanted to wait for May to see the sights anyway). One particular day I was in his office while a group of Sikh locals and he were in a business conversation. Although the language barrier was evident for me I could still gather the basics and it wasn't a completely pleasant discussion. Sandhu stopped mid-way through the conversation and turned to me "They don't want to give me their next payment, so I am going to take their bike" (Sandhu, amongst other things, seems to be some sort of loan shark) all I could respond with was "Fair enough". After a little more negotiation, the Sikhs coughed up the dough and were on their way.... Mr Sandhu is a hard man to say no to.
Reunited... For now!
In truth Sandhu and I would spend most days together (as this was still before May arrived). Mostly, I tagged along while he conducted business and went about his day (I wanted to wait for May to see the sights anyway). One particular day I was in his office while a group of Sikh locals and he were in a business conversation. Although the language barrier was evident for me I could still gather the basics and it wasn't a completely pleasant discussion. Sandhu stopped mid-way through the conversation and turned to me "They don't want to give me their next payment, so I am going to take their bike" (Sandhu, amongst other things, seems to be some sort of loan shark) all I could respond with was "Fair enough". After a little more negotiation, the Sikhs coughed up the dough and were on their way.... Mr Sandhu is a hard man to say no to.
Reunited... For now!
Mayara has a strange effect on me, I have always felt and considered myself an extremely independent person, and nearly always travelled alone. However there were many times during our few weeks apart, when I felt completely useless and hopelessly dependant on her. I couldn’t self-motivate and the only thing I could do was focus on meeting her in India. It was a bizarre feeling to need someone else so much, but I knew the only remedy was to be with her again, as soon as possible. So the day before her planned arrival, I was jittery with excitement, I couldn't sit still or hold a thought in my head. That was until a message came to me from her to say that she had partied too hard and would have to wait another day to catch a bus from Delhi to Amritsar. Despair!! Nevertheless the next day, I was waiting patiently at Amritsar train station for her coach to arrive. After a few minor communication delays I was reunited with her at the train station and it was straight out of Hollywood. We spotted each other on the platform and ran towards each other, after a long embrace, hand in hand we headed back to Mr Singh's farm.
Over our next few days we would finally see the sights of Amritsar together. We would wander the streets and embrace the marginal mayhem (believe me I hadn't seen ‘Mayhem’ yet) that was Punjabi life. Perhaps second only to the Taj Mahal in Agra, the Golden Temple in Amritsar is an icon for India and an absolute gem. Constructed by Sikhs, it was intended to be a place of worship for all religions and walks of life, and today it is estimated to see 200,000 worshippers per day. As is Sikh tradition food and accommodation is provided to those who seek it and this is all done free of charge. May and I joined the other worshippers and lined up for an hour to gain access to the temple itself. Once inside we spent time upstairs listening to the constant rhythmic drones inside the temple and watching the pilgrims worshipping their various Gods - it was a magical experience.
I suppose the next major extravaganza that brings people to Amritsar is the traditional Wagah border ceremony. This is the daily border closing ceremony between India and Pakistan, and what a spectacle it is. Crowds flock to cheer on their team and the genuine rivalry and bitterness towards opposing nations is truly felt. By this point we had met a Spanish couple also couch-surfing with Mr Singh and we attended the ceremony together.
Foreigners are thoroughly welcomed and are treated to VIP seating for the show. Mayara was dragged down to the festivities below by a group of enthusiastic school girls, were the mandatory Indian dancing and hysteria takes place. The ceremonial peacocking that goes on is somewhat silly but at the same time wildly entertaining. Both sides of the border have opposing MC's trying to ‘gee up’ the crowd while, one by one, Indian and Pakistani Peacocks (actually real men but this gives a better picture) march full steam ahead straight for each other before peeling off and standing guard. This is concluded when each side aggressively slams the gate shut on each other. It's an amazing spectacle and one that puts everyone in a good mood.
On one of our remaining days we were treated to a personal tour by Mr Singh. He is a softly spoken man and has an extremely kind nature. He treated us to traditional Indian lassi, and other local treats, whilst we did a quick pass by of his many properties in the city. The tour was capped off with a visit to his private home and to meet his wife. After being introduced to his wife, we were also introduced to his adopted daughter. She was a Bangladeshi girl, whom many many years earlier was saved by friends of Mr Singh from a life of prostitution (at the hands of gangs in Delhi) and sent to Amritsar for protection. After explaining the situation, Mr Singh looked at me and smiled "Here, I am the Mafia!".
May and I had finally confirmed our leaving date after more than a week at Mr Singh's farm. We were promptly invited to a farewell dinner with Sandhu and his wife. It was a wonderful night whereby he and I drank copious amounts of whiskey, however the night was only marred by an attempted groping action of May by Mr Sandhu (May only revealed this to me the following day). The love/hate relationship personified.
The great phony hippie trail.
I suppose the next major extravaganza that brings people to Amritsar is the traditional Wagah border ceremony. This is the daily border closing ceremony between India and Pakistan, and what a spectacle it is. Crowds flock to cheer on their team and the genuine rivalry and bitterness towards opposing nations is truly felt. By this point we had met a Spanish couple also couch-surfing with Mr Singh and we attended the ceremony together.
Foreigners are thoroughly welcomed and are treated to VIP seating for the show. Mayara was dragged down to the festivities below by a group of enthusiastic school girls, were the mandatory Indian dancing and hysteria takes place. The ceremonial peacocking that goes on is somewhat silly but at the same time wildly entertaining. Both sides of the border have opposing MC's trying to ‘gee up’ the crowd while, one by one, Indian and Pakistani Peacocks (actually real men but this gives a better picture) march full steam ahead straight for each other before peeling off and standing guard. This is concluded when each side aggressively slams the gate shut on each other. It's an amazing spectacle and one that puts everyone in a good mood.
On one of our remaining days we were treated to a personal tour by Mr Singh. He is a softly spoken man and has an extremely kind nature. He treated us to traditional Indian lassi, and other local treats, whilst we did a quick pass by of his many properties in the city. The tour was capped off with a visit to his private home and to meet his wife. After being introduced to his wife, we were also introduced to his adopted daughter. She was a Bangladeshi girl, whom many many years earlier was saved by friends of Mr Singh from a life of prostitution (at the hands of gangs in Delhi) and sent to Amritsar for protection. After explaining the situation, Mr Singh looked at me and smiled "Here, I am the Mafia!".
May and I had finally confirmed our leaving date after more than a week at Mr Singh's farm. We were promptly invited to a farewell dinner with Sandhu and his wife. It was a wonderful night whereby he and I drank copious amounts of whiskey, however the night was only marred by an attempted groping action of May by Mr Sandhu (May only revealed this to me the following day). The love/hate relationship personified.
The great phony hippie trail.
Perhaps my expectations were wrong for Dharamsala and Mcleod Ganj. It was the home of the Tibetan government in exile, and a place that ranked near the top of my most highly anticipated places. Perhaps it was here, that like the scarecrow, I would re-discover my brain? May and I arrived into Mcleod Ganj on a Saturday afternoon in what was one of my most challenging drives thus far in the trip. As we began winding our way up the mountain it began to dawn on me what I was getting myself into. Fucking mayhem... Dogs, Goats, Cows, Monkeys, aggressive Punjabi drivers, Tuk Tuks, Tibetan ladies selling Momo's, hippies and just about everything in between is all jockeying for right of way on this single lane road. This culminates when four roads, leading from different directions, all collide in the most ridiculous "intersection" I have ever come across.
By this point a colourful array of curse words were flying out of my mouth and I was soaked through with sweat... This wasn't the spiritual retreat that I had in mind. Slowly but surely we made our way out of the hysteria and into the marginal seclusion up the mountain above Bagsu (the other side of Mcleod Ganj). We decided we couldn't go any further with Dorothy as the roads were too thin, and with the torrential rain, made the unpaved roads unusable. We left Dorothy on the side of the mountain and were guided, in the rain, by a small boy to our guesthouse. Exhausted we regained our composure and settled into the guesthouse where we would spend just under a week.
Although the guesthouse was a mission in itself to get to, the payoff came the following morning when we awoke and were treated to a view of Mcleod Ganj and the rest of the Himalayas. Down in nearby Bagsu, the whole aura of the place was great, although not as I imagined and still being the weekend, all the Punjabis were here with their families for the weekend. Although the locals must be well used to the tourist scene in Mcleod, visiting Punjabi's are at times in awe of foreigners. More like presidential candidates than rock stars, May and I were meeting and greeting approaching families, having their kids thrust onto us for photos, and everybody generally wanting a piece of the action. Queues began to form as we posed for pictures. It was all good natured, apart from the groups of pimply faced teenagers wanting photos just with May (I wonder how many Facebook display pics changed after that, and how many photos I was cropped out of? Mmmm!).
Both Mcleod Ganj and Bagsu have a plethora of restaurants, guest houses and tourist stalls, but that doesn't diminish too much from the feel of it. Indeed, I’m sure the tourist boom has changed the scene dramatically from sleepy Tibetan village to hippie mecca, but it still remains an interesting place to wander, if not a little tiresome at times.
Now I'm not sure if I am angered or amused by the hippie scene in Mcleod, but avoiding all the phony hippies is impossible. By this I mean, the middle class American college dudes with dreadlocked hair and hemp pants, having deep philosophical conversations. The existential and spiritual themes they routinely hit are, in essence, absolute bollocks and the pretentious palaver they spin all day long, simultaneously amuses me and activates my gag reflexes. Now that’s not to say that there are not genuine exceptions in this left-of-centre counter culture. There are those who are legitimately insightful and who do generate original conversations that are food for thought, but ultimately most of them seem to be using this whole image as an excuse to get high. Getting high is fine with me, but I feel at least they should have the courage to be honest and not hide behind their phony flower-power ideals.
This was in full display when May and I sat on the floor in a cafe for dinner. Amongst the smoky haze, that shitty, acoustic, beachy music wafted through the restaurant. We ordered our lentils from the completely vegetarian menu and patiently waited. It became apparent that the waiter was too high to remember the order when she came back and asked us to repeat everything again. I must admit however that this whole hippie ambience did give me a craving to listen to 'The Grateful Dead', but I resisted in making my musical request. I began to eavesdrop on a nearby conversation, after some back and forth music chit chat from the group, one of the lads was describing a DJ he liked and said "Just put these headphones in your ear, it will take you on a musical journey that defies the realms of your wildest imagination". I nearly threw up all over my lentils. (Ok diatribe over).
The next venture whilst in the hippie mecca of the world, was a day trek to a waterfall (great description ay?). This was quite an arduous task and took us over the estimated two hours that was considered the norm. On a few occasions it become a little sketchy as the usual safety precautions that we were accustomed to in the west were completely non-existent, but although it was a very pleasant and if not difficult trek, it didn't give us the final pay off we expected.
Both Mcleod Ganj and Bagsu have a plethora of restaurants, guest houses and tourist stalls, but that doesn't diminish too much from the feel of it. Indeed, I’m sure the tourist boom has changed the scene dramatically from sleepy Tibetan village to hippie mecca, but it still remains an interesting place to wander, if not a little tiresome at times.
Now I'm not sure if I am angered or amused by the hippie scene in Mcleod, but avoiding all the phony hippies is impossible. By this I mean, the middle class American college dudes with dreadlocked hair and hemp pants, having deep philosophical conversations. The existential and spiritual themes they routinely hit are, in essence, absolute bollocks and the pretentious palaver they spin all day long, simultaneously amuses me and activates my gag reflexes. Now that’s not to say that there are not genuine exceptions in this left-of-centre counter culture. There are those who are legitimately insightful and who do generate original conversations that are food for thought, but ultimately most of them seem to be using this whole image as an excuse to get high. Getting high is fine with me, but I feel at least they should have the courage to be honest and not hide behind their phony flower-power ideals.
This was in full display when May and I sat on the floor in a cafe for dinner. Amongst the smoky haze, that shitty, acoustic, beachy music wafted through the restaurant. We ordered our lentils from the completely vegetarian menu and patiently waited. It became apparent that the waiter was too high to remember the order when she came back and asked us to repeat everything again. I must admit however that this whole hippie ambience did give me a craving to listen to 'The Grateful Dead', but I resisted in making my musical request. I began to eavesdrop on a nearby conversation, after some back and forth music chit chat from the group, one of the lads was describing a DJ he liked and said "Just put these headphones in your ear, it will take you on a musical journey that defies the realms of your wildest imagination". I nearly threw up all over my lentils. (Ok diatribe over).
The next venture whilst in the hippie mecca of the world, was a day trek to a waterfall (great description ay?). This was quite an arduous task and took us over the estimated two hours that was considered the norm. On a few occasions it become a little sketchy as the usual safety precautions that we were accustomed to in the west were completely non-existent, but although it was a very pleasant and if not difficult trek, it didn't give us the final pay off we expected.
After spending nearly a week out our little guesthouse above Bagsu, we came to the conclusion that it was time to move on. Dotted along the hippie tourist trial was the holy city of Rishikesh, but in order to get there we would need to head directly south rather than cutting through the mountains easterly.
The Cheeseburger Mirage
This meant that Mandi and Chandigarh were next on our list. We would spend only one night in each city, although we had an ulterior motive for Chandigarh. Chandigarh is considered one of the most westernised cities in India, priding itself on its well-developed road system and infrastructure, whilst also adopting many of the western cultures. This meant that all the regular fast food restaurants were on offer as well. Mayara and I were in agreement, after checking into our hotel we immediately set about hailing down a Tuk Tuk and instructing him to go directly to McDonalds (ohh how we were looking forward to succulent cheeseburgers!!).
Like a mirage in the desert we saw it in the distance, the great golden arches - the place of my fondest childhood memories. We burst through the doors and I gazed towards the menu, and to my disgust, I only saw chicken burgers on offer. May and I were completely devastated, and like a mirage in the desert, our hopes of juicy cheeseburgers vanished. We turned, hung our heads and walked out in a feeble display of defiance.
No meat? what do you mean no meat?
Rishikesh was a place made famous to the west by The Beatles, whom become regulars here trying to seek their spiritual enlightenment (eyes rolling). I had heard horror stories of Rishikesh..... All meat products and alcohol was banned in the holy city - this was an awful notion, but one that I knew I would have to put up with. We got in late in the afternoon and briefly cruised around looking for a hotel. The surroundings were all a bit dismal. However I was really too knackered to drive any further. We stopped at an overpriced hotel (as it turned out we were still 10 minutes from the main touristic hub) for the evening and settled in, both nervous that we had made a huge mistake in coming here at all. In the morning we quickly realised we were a little out of the main tourist point, so driving a little further we found a guesthouse with a much more centralised location.
Rishikesh was my first glimpse of a truly chaotic, filthy Indian city. I mean we had seen the mass of humanity that India could potentially be, but we were not prepared for the utter filth about the place. Like most travelling experiences though, you quickly adapt, and we didn't hesitate to get stuck into exploring the city. Rishikesh, which is set upon the mighty river Ganga, is a place of pilgrimage, where Hindu's bath and even drink from their most sacred river, believing that it will free them of their sins and ultimately to achieve their goal of Nirvana. Despite the pollution, Rishikesh was an unbelievably interesting place, but not necessarily beautiful. Another evening passed before we again changed locations, checking into a local Ashram. An Ashram, could be described as a yoga retreat, where you have a daily program that includes meal times, meditation and yoga sessions. It also meant that we would be rising for 6 AM yoga every morning. As I quietly eyeballed the program, I knew it was something that Mayara really wanted to do, so I didn't mention it, and in truth I was also intrigued. On the bright side, including meals and accommodation the price was actually very cost effective, so that was a big positive.
The Anand Prakash Yoga Ashram had a good mix of travellers and we immediately set about making friends. May and I soon attached to a girl named Sally who was a solo traveller from Brisbane, and I was pleased to find that she possessed that down to earth, tongue in cheek humour, that many Australians have. Another bonus was we checked in just before lunch, which usually comprises of Dal, Chapati, Rice and another vegetable based curry, which was actually very nice. Along with the two Yoga sessions per day, there was, twice per week, a chanting based meditation known as Kiirtan. This basically involves a person leading the Kiirtan by starting the chants, and the class repeating the phrase, a kind of call and response process. I went along with an open mind, and everything seemed to be pretty straight forward (although I wasn't too focused if I am honest. Rather I was trying to figure out what each individual was hoping to get out of this process.) Without warning the routine changed and as we sat in a circle the chant was to go around the circle one by one, individually. I felt like rising a screaming "I did not sign up for this" and pulling a storm-off, but I remained silent. The first person began, "Sita Ram Jay Sita Ram", in which we all repeated. It began to move around the circle, and although the phrase, simple enough, the tension grew inside me as my turn etched closer. "Shitajay Jay Sita ram".... Ohh Fuck it! This was awful, I wished the floor would open up and swallowed me whole to save myself further embarrassment. The group somewhat stammered in their return, but the chant continued around the circle, and I knew I would have my chance at redemption. Another circulation and my turn once again, "Shitaram Shitaram"..... Would someone please get me a steak and beer!The days rolled by and instead of achieving spiritual enlightenment, Mayara and I became lazier and lazier, and the 6:00AM yoga session fell by the wayside. In this time however, I did find my meditative path to enlightenment. There was a small gym right around the corner from the Ashram, which I began visiting most days. It felt good to get back to the gym for the first time since I left London, and although I couldn't have my usual post gym fix of steak. I managed to purchase a couple dozen eggs, which I fried off in Dorothy after every session.
May and I were somewhat hesitant to leave the Ashram each day, as it was all very easy. The extent of our responsibility was to make it on time for meals and yoga sessions, if we should so choose. In between sessions Sally, May and I would hang out, talking a lot of nonsense, generally having a good laugh. So day by day we extended our stay, however after a few extra days we were keen to move on, and next on our radar was Kausani.
Gandhi let me down!
Mahatma Gandhi was said to have used Kausani as his retreat for Yoga and writing, he found it a most inspirational place. So if was good enough for Gandhi, it was good enough for us. The road to Kausani was winding and hilly, so the relatively short distance took us the whole day and we arrived just after sundown. Tired and weary we settled in at a resort style guesthouse just on the outskirts of the village and by this time the spectacular views we were promised were not visible under the cover of darkness, we would have to wait until the morning. After a very long and pleasant breakfast we gathered the motivation to check out the village, which, to our slight disappointment, didn't resemble anything different to every other village we passed through to get here. However, not too much further along there was a town called Nainital, which promised bigger and better things, and so we opted to pursue this destination immediately.
Nainital was a fantastic recommendation made to us, and more than made up for the slight disappointment of Kausani. Situated on a man-made lake, it’s a spot used by regular backpackers and couples alike. In its centre was a huge football pitch which seemed to be constantly used by kids, and a little further on was a Tibetan market where we got served the best Momos thus far on the trip. May and I (well it was more my idea) felt that we needed to let off a little steam after Rishikesh and we decided to buy a few beers to drink in our hotel room. Like a covert operation, we cheekily smuggled a few beers into our room and tried to keep them cold in a bathtub full of water. As tends to happen, the beer soon ran out and but we managed to send a hotel staff member to buy more beer (with quite a big mark-up per bottle). Within a couple of hours Mayara was jumping up and down on the bed and I was belting out LA Woman by The Doors. It became a full blown London town party. The night ended abruptly with May throwing up in the toilet and me passed out on the bed. The following morning was one of my most wretched hangovers in recent memory, and I too found myself, head in the toilet bowl. There was no way we were leaving for Delhi that day, and all I could manage to do was stagger to reception and book in another night at the hotel.
