India: Love and hate combine in the land of polarity

November 3, 2007

India… never before has love and hate collided and coincided so. We arrived late Monday night, just after mid-night. We didn't have a guidebook, as we'd decided to hold out for a cheap on in Kolkata, so with nothing to go on but the name of a road, where a hostel was that we had found on the internet… We got a pre-paid taxi, and off we went. It was dark, misty, very misty. The taxi was like a car out of the 40's. We drove down windy roads and through the misty, under the sparse street lights, just garbage, rubble, broken down buildings, almost no people, but shadows of movement from the dark corners. The taxi driver got us to our hostel, then he told us (we later learned this is a very obvious and common commission scam) that the place as very bad, too expensive, and had no lights. He would take us to a better one; we both had a feeling this was a bad idea, but the recklessness of a combined lack of common sense and a sense of adventure took hold, we agreed. Buildings became fewer, shanties more. Hovels really. Dark, narrow lanes, and a metal fence with a man telling our driver he had no room for us. It's now past 1am. We stop again; at the end of a dark laneway, just a tiny broken lamp shining on the tired face of the man who let us in. 1,000 Rupee for the night ($25). We knew we'd been ripped off, and we knew we had no choice. Into the musty front room, Al signed us into the book and the men debated over whether to accept one of our 500R notes because of a very small tear in it- we'd gotten it from the bank in Australia. "It's from the damn bank", was all I could muster out my bewilderment, exhaustion and touch of fear. Up dark, dank stairs into a dim room and finally, sleep. We awoke to the sounds of a few squeaky rickshaw horns and a baby crying. From the front window view we could see- under the cover of fog and dark the driver had taken us right into the slums of Kolkata. The buildings weren't just broken down, they were broken. Narrow, garbage filled streets, the stifling smell of grime, mold, and feces permeated the air. Malnourished bony old men grumbled on the street corner. It was 6:30am, the baby was still crying.

On our way out, the keepers tried to make us change the ripped bill again and tip them. We just laughed, "you have ripped us off enough". Another taxi, another driver charging too much (but what is too much? It's India…) the craziest ride we've ever had. There are no traffic rules I can make out, and for the first half of the ride, I wasn't quite sure what side of the road you're meant to drive on in India. It's the left.

I started to cry, not because of the violent ride, or the fact that we were essentially lost without much of a plan; but because everything we passed was simply impoverished. Hovels built from cardboard, wood, mud, plastic tarp held down as roofing by bicycle tires. Bony, half naked children bare foot, ribs sticking out of the horses that freely walked across the 6-lane road. Garbage everywhere. This is the country the West fears, in conjunction with China, for economic dominance? Where has all that money gone? I'd never seen such disheveled, sad, chaotic poverty; my whole chest as tightened, my stomach knotted. We got to the train station, our only sensical location to ask for. Here we luckily ran into some other travelers who seemed like they'd been in India a while. They gave us some much needed advice on where to get tickets and a guidebook. Serendipitous.

A few hours later, much more at ease, we sat inside a tearoom, tickets for that night's train to Varanasi in our bags, guidebook open on the table.

India; Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims. Women come second-class. Women who reveal their shoulders, Western women are "loose". I covered with a shawl, it didn't stop the staring. The streets are filled with men. For every one woman out in public, there must be 30 men. In some areas, down some streets, I was the only one- for me this was very discomforting. To be leered at, watched, un-relentless glaring eyes. They would walk so close, crowd around you if you stop to look at something. We'd been heavily warned against pickpockets, held our bags close. Where are all the women? In the more up-market shopping district there are middle and upper class women everywhere. Many in saris or burkas, but some young women in jeans and long-sleeved tops. So I can't carry this bag anymore, I can't stand the staring. Children begging for money, women sitting on street corners with their babies, begging for money, disabled and disfigured people splayed into corners, sleeping, begging, rotting. Dogs, cows, goats roam freely; I see monkeys chained to an electric post. The train station- police carrying semi-automatics, herding people into line, so many people, women carrying suitcases on their heads, babies on hips. They wear the most beautiful saris. India.

A 14-hour over night train to Varanasi. We sat next to two French men and a lovely India man, Abherjit. The 5 of us had such a wonderful and lively conversation. And so I should point out here that we can never generalize for an entire group of people, and while my day's experience with Indian men had been quite negative, this man was extremely polite, helpful, charming, and a complete gentleman. Unfortunately, I haven't yet been able to speak to a woman. Into the night the 5 of us discussed a range of topics, language, culture, the meaning of life. Which, in the final consensus, it was agreed to be left without any attempt at verbalizing, because words are simply parameters. The walls of our carriage folded down into small beds, we all tried to sleep. Sleep- ha! At every stop beggars coming to the windows, boarding the train, a man walks down the aisles, yelling in a monotonous drone, " Chai, Chai!" as he clings his tin pot. 5am and awake. A beautiful, old Indian woman in a gorgeous blue sari sits across from me, so serene as the white misty morning light creates shadows on the wrinkles of her dress, her skin. We stop and she speaks to me. "Shabakrai", she says. That is where have just arrived, and with that she turns away again. By train, passing farms, fields, women in vibrant colored cloth carrying baskets of grain stalks on their heads, children barefoot, dirty, playing on the railroad tracks. Men cook food outside their small one-room earthen homes. Stones and tires keep tin and plastic roves in place. Laundry hangs everywhere, so colorful, so much garbage, so poor.

Varanasi, the city on the mother Ganga, the holy city of Shiva, the city of public cremation, yoga and bathing amongst the waters of dead bodies. Amazing old temples, narrow alleyways, the smells of spice and curry, chaotic traffic, scamming and cunning children and adults alike, who do you trust? How can you pity? But you must, because getting scammed out of 2 dollars just isn't worth it. But it's the principle! What's the principle of scorning poverty?

Love, hate. The senses are confused by constant contradiction. The noisy horns, the silence from a riverside temple; the aromatic smell of fresh curries, incense, the putrid stench of garbage, feces and rot. Intricate architecture, silks, colors everywhere, broken down shanties, starving people. Men who leer and stare, intimidate. The lovely Shiva, our guest house, a yogi who welcomes us, smiling, charging us only 100R / night for an amazing river view, a comfortable room, relaxing garden courtyard, delicious food, a temple annex. I know there's more. There will be more and less. I have been here two days, I hate it, I love it. The chaos, the unpredictability, the randomness, the chance, wrongs, rights, lefts and centers. I feel passionate emotion across a gamut. And now I must sleep.

Oh no! Before going to bed, I had to write again. India, how you torment me! After the experience in Kolkata, the poverty, the children who tried to pickpocket us in Varanasi, I was trying so hard not to fall into a vile and wretched feeling about this place. We slept for about 4hours. After waking, feeling much more human, fully able to appreciate the beautiful guesthouse we'd found, with a balcony over the river. The river flows towards Guadulia, The Old City, passing ghats, people bathing. Monkeys hopping along the rooftops! Painted men, beautiful women with their bright silks contrasting against their dark skin. We found a balcony café and drank amazing chai tea. It became dark, lights lit the length of the river toward the end of the city, and walking along we stumbled upon a puja (worship) to the Ganga, an evening ritual, hundreds of people, families, children with big brown wondrous eyes. Ascetics painted in white and in scant orange garb. All seated upon stone and wooden platforms, facing the fiver, paying homage. At the waters edge, 7 men in satin robes and sashes performed a ceremony using incense, candles, basins of fire. In circular movements they moved each of these fiery objects through the air creating rings of smoke in time with the 20 or so bells that were rung constantly throughout, by people pulling ropes which rung two at a time. Singing and samovar played in the background. We sat on a wooden platform next to this beautiful family. The mother next to me held her infant in her arms and the little guy's hands made their way to pinching and tickling my side! His older sisters giggled, as did I.

Toward the end of the ceremony we dame across a yogi, who insisted we come to his mediation school. He led us down the dark alley to his home, and then to a restaurant. We ate with our hands, curry and rice, using only the right, as is custom. Messy, but no less savory and fun! Ghobi masala, parka paneer, rice, naan, chai- sweet sweet chai.

On the walk back along the river we came across a funeral pyre. We didn't linger, but was we turned to leave we could hear music and chanting coming from up the massive steps of the ghat. We followed our ears and found a group of 15 or so men playing in a dark corner below a temple. They were under a structure of bamboo framing, with a sheet metal roof. Sitting in a circle around a square piece of black marble, upon which was a small fire, surrounded by yellow flowers. They had chimes, hand drums, a harmonium, and tambourines. One of the men invited us to sit with them. We accepted the invite, and joined the circle, were given a hand drum and a wooden chime, and happily we began to play, rocking our bodies to the rhythms and the men chanted, such beautifully imposing voices. Between songs the men chatted, yelled out random chants in Hindi, and smoked from a conical shaped pipe. It was such an honor to have been invited to sit and play with them. The energy was overwhelming, it filed me with such joy, I couldn't stop smiling. So India taunts me, it reaffirms the inherent truth that in this country there are no givens, save one: unpredictability. In the past two days my emotions have been so extreme, so intense, something in the air. In the smiles of the people, in the wave of the cows tail, blessed curse and blessed. I feel foolish for trying to explain, once again that concept that's is just on my minds horizon, but defiled once I try to put words on it. The Frenchman had a point, " When you try to describe or deefind aneetheeng weeth words, eez just blahblahblah."  I am sighing a heaving, splendid sigh of blah.

November 4, 2007

In the morning we went to see the famous ghats at sunrise. People bathing in the Ganga, wading in, women almost fully clothed, washing, receiving their ablutions. Touts trying to offer you boat rides, children trying to sell you flowers and candles, the yogis babas and ascetics painting their bodies white and orange, women marking their third eye with bindi. A deep red, pink, orange sun rising amidst the haze, of humid mist, and pollution, as people bath in waters filled with garbage and chemical waste, the rise of an industrial nation. Later we went to see some temples with Nando, the Durga (monkey) Temple, a red temple and the Manas. A massive marble structure with a musical contraption in the corner, emitting a booming sound, which resonates throughout the entire hall, into your soul. Dramatic? That's how it felt. The silk shop, A man throw around silk covers, dresses, Punjabi, sari, scarves until we are practically swimming in silk. Avanda the entrepreneurial 10 year old girl who did a hand henna on me then came to dinner with us, refused food, wanted only money, and after I argued to give her money, wanted food too and more money. An India music concert, us and four other foreigners, listening to tabular and sitar, and watching a very queer Indian man demonstrate classical dance. My favorite was the interpretive dance of Ganesh.

November 5, 2007

A boat to see the bathers on the ghats from the water. Early to wake, watch the scene from the day before, but from a different perspective, the sun at our backs, shining an early morning light onto the people as they performed their daily bathing ritual. Nap. Read. We passed an art gallery, found some beautiful works. And then, a yoga class with Bablu on the roof of a temple. At first I wasn't responsive. I went into it with a very negative view, in a critical state of mind. Through yoga and conversation I warmed to him and am meeting him again today. He said there could be no yoga without meditation and no meditation without yoga. That "yoga" means to come together. God is our heart and we must worship god, therefore we must worship ourselves. Shopping in the old city. The narrow streets, laneways, the dark, the leers. The beautiful shops full of color. The cows! The cow droppings… you must walk with one eye up to see the sights around you and the other down, watching your step. That night we met Rodi, and Iranian man staying at our hostel. We spoke with him about our travels, and his. He's definitely a very free spirit, it seems as if he's been traveling for 20 years. We spoke about Indian culture, about the Indian mind set, and some of our frustrations with it. How, I asked, can they pollute and desecrate their holy city, their temples, their precious Ganga? Are these places not sacred? He answered by saying, "The darkest part of the candle is just underneath it." The Ganga is this great light, this energy force that brings truth, cleansing, peace, profound meaning to life here. And at it's edge, and below its surface are chemicals dumped up stream, garbage, and wasted tossed in by those who worship it. And then Rodi made another point. If the river is truly holy, how can it be sullied? That in the minds of the Indian people no amount of garbage or waste could ever damage their holy body of water. It doesn't matter. They honor their river by prayer and meditation. They prove their faith in its holy cleansing powers by bathing in it. The fait of the pious and devout. At the ashram back in Australia and from my experience with many spiritual westerners, Hinduism tends to be seen more as mythology, or rather stories which provide morals, ideas about life, or that provoke thought and meditation. Study of Hindu tends to be a means of self-realization and even relaxation. Rarely, to me anyway, does it seem to be a religion- it has always appeared as theology, philosophy. But here, it is life, and it is certainly not lacking in devout and religious fervor. The temples are swamped with people bowing their heads to the marble stone, making offerings to their many gods. And people come here, to Varanasi to die, because it is said that if you die here, you will go straight to heaven. This is the power of faith they have in the mighty Ganga, whose riverside harbors the funeral pyres of those who pass onto this heaven. And it is here that I am lost, because I am intellectually blocked. I cannot understand absolute faith and trust in a god or for that matter, many gods. We cannot always understand everything we learn.

Yesterday we went to Sarnath. The place where the original Buddha was meant to give his first sermon. To get there we walked 5 km to the railway station. 5km, through dusty, cow dropping filled roads full of insane bicycle, rickshaw traffic, horns, people, touts. The men. The constant staring, leering of men. I cannot fully explain the horrid feeling a woman gets when she finds she is utterly surrounded by the judging harsh and sometimes perverted eyes of strange men. As a white woman I'm an object of immorality to be leered at. Ignore it completely is impossible, trying to is exhausting. Finally the train station. The bus, Sarnath. Through the gates, another world. Lawns of green grass, clean trees with shady spots, to sit under and relax, beautiful old temple ruins. The stupas. Chinese and Cambodian monks chanting. A peaceful day. And then while along a walk way 3 young men pass and the leering the licking of the lips. I can't stand it! Al and I both go on a tirade, we have a great bit winge about how we can't stand it and I make the sweeping statement that the men like that (which sadly are many, amongst the lower classes anyway) the one who stare, scam, the touts, the cons… They are ruining this beautiful counting, they are killing an experience. And as I finish this, as I'm at an extreme moment of anger and frustration with India, with it's people's disregard for garbage and filth, with the men who stare, who try to brush your breast with their elbow as they pass, as I get all this out… A man walks up to me with a camera, and I think he wants me to take a photo of his family. I reach for the camera, and he pulls it back, and at this moment the mother holds up this gorgeous baby. Under two years old, in a pink and yellow cotton dress, with silver bells around her ankles, and charcoal around her big brown eyes, suddenly this beautiful child has been put into my arms. And so, holding this child, in front of the temple, marking the spot where Siddhartha Guatam, the man who became Buddha, gave his first sermon, did this man take my photo. A moment of surprise, followed b bliss, having that beautiful baby in my arms, reminding me of this good and light, I feel out of control of my emotions now. At that moment I realized that I'm just a drop of water in this Ganga, this river of India, and fighting the path, the flow, is simply futile.

To further the day's experiences and surprises, after leaving the temple grounds, we were looking at some items for sale on a cart of traditional Indian goods. Like every other tout and salesman in the row of carts, we expected the hard sell. After a bit of bargaining and getting a fairly decent price, Al asked the man where everything was made. He said it his village. When we asked where that was, he said it was just a 2-minute walk. Shocked that we wanted to go, he led us there. He told us his name was Sanjay. That tourists never came to his village. They just get off the buses, go to the temples, and leave again. His village was small, cement, stone, and wooden homes, mud rendered walls, straw roofs. Within minutes we had an entourage of children following us in wonder and amazement, the two white people Sanjay brought home. We think he was pretty happy and proud to have brought us. He introduced us to his mother and sister. Took us to see where the silk is woven. A woman sat on the ground, using her barefoot to work a very old spinning wheel to spin the silk thread onto the spindles.

Then, inside, a small hut there were two looms where the silk is woven into saris and scarves to sell at market. He brought us to the place where everyday, men sit and carve by hand the stone statues of the various Buddhist symbols and statues. "All day, always working" he said. He told us about his two daughters, just 2 months and 3 years old. His humble cart of these handmade goods is how he supports them. A new perspective on these men giving the hard sell. We felt so lucky, so privileged to have been brought to this village and so humbled. In everything there is a lesson. This city is full, as Rodi has said with its angels and demons. And I have to wonder, which are we?

November 8, 2007

(Al)

"When the North Pole comes so close as to touch the South Pole, the earth disappears and man finds himself in a void that makes his head spin and beckons him to fall." Milan Kundera, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being"

This excerpt comes from the book I have just read during my time in India and despite it being set in Eastern Europe, it has proven a very appropriate book to read here. The book talks a lot about duality, and how to value and judge a thing as well as it's corresponding opposite. God and Evil, ugly and beautiful, light and heavy. How do you judge these things to be positive or negative? Goodness and beauty seem obviously positive and ugliness and evil seem obviously negative, but what do you make of lightness and heaviness? Your initial reaction to identify lightness as negative and heaviness as positive but after some thought you can also see how the opposite is true. After all, surely a burden is negative and the lack of a burden is positive. But then if you identify a burden as a responsibility, you can attach a value to it and therefore it becomes positive and rewarding. But then responsibility can weigh you down and become negative. Until it becomes apparent that the gab between a thing and it's opposite can become so small that the gab no longer seems to exist at all. Something at one moment can be seen as good and then at the next moment from a slightly different perspective can be seen as bad. Is that a net value of positive or negative? How do you decide? Or in the case of India, where the things seem to be at extremes, yet the time taken to bridge that gap emotionally is incredibly small… It's so easy to flash from love to hatred here, or from beauty to ugly. It happens so fast that the time it takes to go from one pole to the other is an indecipherable blur. And then you find yourself rushing back again to the other side. And thus it goes, always from one side to the other, like running across the bridge that crosses the Ganga and then back again and all at the speed of light in the city of light. Until before you know it, you've lost your head because you no longer know which side of the river you are on. You're being nice to arseholes and an arsehole to children. Uncertain with everything and everyone. The initial words quoted from Kundera are part of a chapter describing the suicide of Stalin's son, Pakov. After a lifetime of experiencing only the extremes of privilege and total disrespect towards others, Pakov in a moment of insanity to throw himself against an electric fence and end it all. The uncertainty created by having no in between has ironically opened a void through which falling into is his only escape. Although suicide for us here would be a little extreme, one certainly does feel the void opening. The constant uncertainty of how to act and how to hold one's self is an insistent force of disorientation and the void has always been at least partly open and beckoning. I can't identify as dramatic a point in my time such as the suicide of Pakov, but I do feel that at some point over the last couple of days we have stepped through that void. It's not that I have died but that I've chosen not to care, or at least not so much. From our own reflections and from talking to other travelers, especially the long term ones, this appears to be the secret to unlocking the true beauty of India. You need to stop caring, or in a sense leave your own cultural sense of morality and your Western judgments at the arrivals gate.

November 9, 2007

(Laina)

Perhaps it took a week of acclimating, perhaps with the help from words of a traveled friend; but for my part at least, I feel I've come to an understanding with my surroundings - not fully of course, but at least to a point of tolerance. For all the stares and catcalls, all I can do is smile to myself and ignore. I simply can't waste any more energy being frustrated or upset. This place has too much more to offer me on this multi-faceted journey; I don't want to misuse my time or myself. Because in truth, no matter my reaction, the situation won't change. It's another country, another culture and I'm a guest.

And it was with this mindset that we made our way towards the great burning Ghat, Manikalika Ghat. The tiered ghat meant as the main site for the funeral pyres. Upon reaching the ghat, a man, an untouchable, whose job is to burn the bodies, he led us to a ledge of the temple so that we could look down on the scene. Two bodies burning. One being prepared. A child's body being rowed out into the river. Children, pregnant women, and sadus aren't burned, their bodies are tied with rocks and given to Mama Ganga, as they are inherently pure and don't need the fire to burn away their sins. The tiers of the ghat also serve a purpose of division between the people. The highest tier for the Brahmans, the second for government officials, the third for the merchant class, and the fourth for untouchables. Women are wrapped in gold saris, while younger women are in red. Men are wrapped in white. Now, it takes 300 kg of wood to burn one body in about 3 hours. The most expensive wood, usually used on the first 2 tiers, is sandalwood, while on the bottom tiers they burn with banyan. Despite the fact that human flesh is burning meters away, the smell is surprisingly bearable because of the wood. If parents have died, the eldest son shaves his head and lights the fire. If a spouse has passed, then the partner does the same. Once a woman is widowed, she must shave her head, dress in white, and can never re-marry. (This practice seems to be relegated to the past, except with some of the lower-classes) In the past, when some girls would be married as young as 8 years old, only to be widowed by 9 or 10, they would have to spend the rest of their childhood, the rest of their lives, in a home for widows, until their own passing. (I recommend the Indian movie, "Water", a harrowing look at this practice) I don't believe girls are married so young any more, and thankfully most of the widows we've seen have been older.

This process of burning on the ghats is meant to incorporate the five elements of water, air, earth, fire, and heaven. Around the burning ghats are "death houses" where people come as a sort of final pilgrimage to die along the Ganga. As I've written, to die here is to go straight to heaven.

To see this with my own eyes, it was very intense and very emotionally and spiritually charged. We did not linger. About ½ km down the ghat, we sat on a platform, in silence, intermingled with mindless chatter. Watched two sadus bathe in this powerfully enigmatic river.

Our hostel has become a haven, a place to return to, to escape the chaos of the streets. Our courtyard proves to be quite socially facilitating, and we've made quite a few good traveling friends. The diversity is fantastic, in the past few days we have shared a living space with Rodi the Iranian, Celia and Gael the Swiss, Tim the Canuck, Anje the Dutch, Marcy and Johnny the Brits, Marie Stephanie and Red Dreads the French a we've just been joined by an Italian and 3 Spaniards.

The conversations have been quite simulating, interesting, and necessary in terms of having a forum to express what effects this place have on a person's psyche.

Even debate! Anje is a psychologist back in Amsterdam, and Celia is social workers in Switzerland. As I've studied the former and plan to study the latter, I was quite interested and intrigued by a heated discussion we got involved in with Rodi about the flaws of Western psychological practices, and their neglect to include Eastern or African thought or meditation into therapeutic diagnosis and treatment. I especially enjoyed the exchange as I want to base my own study on the psychological difficulties immigrants face moving into a Western culture, and how cultural and linguistic differences in terms of explanatory and self-determining language used to describe symptoms and diagnosis must be taken into account when counseling not only immigrants but also children of immigrants. The debate later formed into a very hot discussion between Al and myself - we found stopping for a coconut infused banana lassi helped us like each other again.

And today, how lucky we are, it is the Devali Festival. The celebration of lights. On every house, every building, even every earthen hovel, in the windows and doorways candles are lit, and in some places strings of electric lights are hanging. I can only imagine the power outages we are going to face over the next couple of days… There are children playing with sparklers and firecrackers in the streets. Everyone is in a jovial and festive mood, and as it's our last night in Varanasi, we are very much looking forward to the celebration. (*We later learned that this festival of lights is really an excuse for kids to light loud, explosive and probably dangerous fire crackers at all hours of the night for about a week, making sound sleep an impossibility, and walking down the street after dark terrifying as they think it's funny to light one and toss it in the direction of white people. I also was shot with a piece of glass in my Achilles heel , someone had the brilliant idea of lighting off a cracker in a glass bottle about 3 meters from where we were walking…Happy Devali!!!)

November 11, 2007

Thoughts from the train. We boarded the train about 14 hours ago. On this trip we've had the pleasant companionship of Reeahnin from New York and Ritva from Finland. The train itself is from another era, not quite rickety, but definitively old, musty, with most corners and niches filled with years of accumulated crud.

As we pass through the country side, through the middle of Uttar Pradesh, I look out the window and feel as though we have truly gone back in time. Fields of farmland, being harvested by hand, men, women, children, side by side, collecting what the season has reaped. The women work in saris, all are barefoot. We just passed camels grazing. Girls carry bundles of newly harvested grains upon their heads. Villages of earthen homes, stone, and brick, mostly crumbling, as a bounty of colorful laundry is hung out to dry, decorating these disheveled structures. Along the edge of the villages, next to the fields, are straw huts, where I imagine a mid-day break form the heavy sun is taken. Cow dung is formed into condensed patties, let to dry in the sun so that it can be used as fuel for fires. Cows, bulls who are so thin their skin hangs, or rather is stretched over their hip bones and spine so that you can distinctly see each vertebrae and the deep shadows of their rib cage. A field where some young boys play cricket. It's a hazy horizon on this Sunday morning.

(Al)

Back to leaving your sense of morality at the door - this is all very easy to say, but much harder to practice, especially when you are traveling with your girlfriend. As much as we have tried to trust people and take things with a grain of salt, I have decided that I will no longer trust any Indian male between the age of 15 and 30. As far as I can tell, they are 95% arrogant, perverted arseholes and since I'm traveling with Laina, who is the target, the blanket statement is just necessary. Which is leaving something at the door for me, because I am usually trusting of everybody, even if I shouldn't be. I have a bad habit of looking for the best side of people, even if they don't have one, but that is just not going to work here. This sucks, because the local people you meet are a big part of what I love about travel. And this has been by far my biggest disappointment with India. The kids are cute but as soon as they open their mouths you realize they have little respect, or just want money. The men are just wankers with no respect for women. And the women are relatively non-existent in public. If they're not behind doors they've had their mouths locked shut. So in a place where the people have been a major disappointment and the beauty of natural wilderness has been so far left wanting, I am having trouble enjoying it here. There is beauty here. On the temple balcony next to our guesthouse, you can appreciate the river without being hassled by touts. And walking the narrow back alleys with all the color of fresh vegetables, silks, and the wealthier women in their beautiful saris, the wealthier people with their friendly and respectful smiles.  But then it's this dichotomy that makes it so ugly.

(Laina)

I wish we had more contact with the middle class here, I think we'd get a different perspective on Indian culture, and have a different attitude towards them. I'm having a hard time feeling pity for many of the lower class- I want to, I want to have sympathy for them, but they certainly don't give you the chance. I watched a little girl stick her hand, elbow deep, into my bag today, as I was trying to be nice to her little "distracting" friend to my other side.  It all, everything, makes me feel so guilty for what I have, so evil for feeling negatively towards them. It's so hard.

November 14, 2007

Ritva proved to be an excellent travel companion, and new friend. Upon our arrival in Agra, we stuck together to find a guesthouse and also had dinner together that evening. On a lovely rooftop, which boasted a view of the Taj Mahal, we talked about ideas, beliefs, and of course, Finland. She's 41, and an English and Swedish teacher back in Helsinki.

The next morning the three of us met at 6am for breakfast and then made our way to the Taj. A magnificent work of artistry and architecture, surrounded by a city of garbage, rubble and air pollution. But you forget all that when you cross through the massive gats just after sunrise and find yourself at the end of a long rectangular pool of water, which stretches to the base of one of the most iconic buildings in the world. Perfect in every measurement, proportion, this gleaming marble masterpiece is truly worth all the hype. Along the garden paths, onto the steps, into the entrance and around the tombs of the king who built it and his wife whose death he dedicated it to. Along the river and outer walls there is the most gorgeous marble inlay, greens, reds, pinks forming into vines and flowers. Huge vaulted ceilings and archways. To the left there is a mosque, on the right a building built only for symmetry. We spent 5 hours admiring the palace, walking through the gardens and mosque and also reading under a poplar tree. Because we arrived so early, we were able to enjoy the Taj without the hordes of people who arrived around 9am and poured through the gates at an ever-increasing rate thereafter.

Though the majority were actually Indian tourists, so we got to view heaps of women clad in gorgeous saris, families on holiday wearing their best threads to visit this sacred land mark. Of course no trip to any tourist site would be complete without being asked by no les than tree families to have their photo taken with us. After a morning at the palace, we had lunch with Ritva and then sadly had to say goodbye.

We arrived in Jaipur yesterday at around 4am after a long, 3 hour delayed train from Agra. We slept on the floor of a waiting room, along side about 30 or so India families until about 7am when we headed into town. The Kanti Chandra, our Shangri La. A beautiful old Muslim run hotel, in this amazing old building, high ceilings, massive windows with fantastic old heavy wooden shutters and peacocks in the front courtyard and just 200R a night. It took us about an hour to find, fighting our way past the touts and other hotels, trying to charge us 10 times the price. We felt so lucky to have found this place. And I must say, I have a newfound appreciation for the respectfulness and politeness of the Muslim community here.

Today we went to the city palace, Jantar Mantar, and Hawa Halahl. Jantar Mantar was so interesting - it's a collection of the 7^th century astronomical tools used by the king of that time in Rhajastan. There's a massive 60 ft sundial, huge structures to measure the sun's altitude, azimuth, tell the time, season, etc. It's incredible, the accuracy and to realize how old this technology is, it makes you realize how little the West, (particularly in history classes) appreciates the intellectual developments of the east. The Hawa Mahal, or Palace of the Winds was also quite extraordinary. The dimensions of the building, the long colonnades, the balconies… But a sad history, it was built for women to be able to still watch the city while they were hidden behind the intricately carved designs in the stone windows.

In Rhajasthan, it is even stricter in terms of women sitting purdah, which means married women almost never show their faces in public and are mostly relegated to the home. And the men have simply gotten worse, lots of whistling. We are trying to maintain the ignore tactic. One guy told Al he wanted to… um, stand next to me, and he made a lude gesture. Al has come very close to completely losing his temper a few times. And I think, my poor Al, the most laid back, relaxed man I've ever met, even he is at his end, getting aggressively protective. But once again, never can we judge all by some, or even many. We had walked up the path to Nargamurgh Fort, which over looks the city of Jaipur. I like this city form above! Surrounded by mountains. On the way back down, a tour operator offered us a ride on his bus; but instead of going down, like he'd said, we just headed to another temple, further from the city- then, he told us we had to get off at a point that was literally just on the side of the road, no path or anything, it was a 4 lane high-way, now even further from town than we had been at the fort. And I was just about to cry, at being tired, hungry, and dehydrated along a busy road, about 5 km from town, and Honi arrived. An Indian man with piercing blue eyes, he pulled over and offered us a ride on the back of his motorcycle. How he balanced all three of us on that thing, I have no idea; but off we went, past the serene Maolta Lake, the Amber Fort, and down the crazy laneways of Jaipur. He brought us right to the city center, and didn't want any money for his troubles. So the torment of India continues, and just as you begin to fall into an abyss of frustration, a rope is thrown to you.

We've also changed the way we travel a little. Instead of stubbornly insisting on walking 5km across town, we have started taking more rickshaws- it imparts people with money for providing a service, and keeps us off of the streets, where most of the harassment occurs. Sometimes I feel guilty, I know Al would have a much better time if I weren't here. It's a man's world, and so easy for men to travel around without much hassle. Rodi had told us that he came here a few years ago with his girlfriend and hated it - now he's back alone and loving it. But then again, I'm so glad I came. Regardless of anything that's happened, the difficulties, frustrations - it's forcing me to face things about patience, my prejudices, ignorance, strength, and myself. It's a test of character and understanding. And of course, the food…

November 16, 2007

"Within nations there are also barriers which stand in the way of complete communication and complete mutual understanding, barriers of culture, education, talent, individuality. It might be asserted that every human being on earth can fundamentally hold a dialogue with every other human being, and it might also be asserted that there are no two persons in the whole world between whom genuine, whole, intimate understanding is possible- the one statement is as true as the other. It is yin and yang, day and night; both are  right and at times we have to be reminded of both."  Herman Hesse, "The Glass Bead Game"

Well, what luck we've had over the past two days. Yesterday we were at the front of the post office and whom should we run into but Ritva! She was sending some of her trekking gear back to Finland as we were sending some post cards. As it had turned out, she was staying at the guesthouse we had originally though to stay in, and she had also scheduled a rendezvous with David from Agra, so the four of us went out for dinner last night and caught up on the last couple of days. David had rode his motorbike into Jaipur, so we recommended they spend the afternoon today journeying up to the fort and riding back past the lake, as had by chance the day before; and after a nice late breakfast together this morning, that's just what they did! We spent the day relaxing, after a trip to the jewelry shop, a few sari shops, we spent the remainder of the afternoon amidst the trees, sunlight, and birds singing in the courtyard of our guest house, along side the peacocks. A welcome respite from the inner town. We met Ritva and David again this evening to see the recent Bollywood hit, "Om Shanti Om". This was the most plain, hilarious fun I've had on this trip. All the pomp and extravagance, singing, drama, intensity of Bollywood on the big screen, an audience cheering, singing along, dancing in the aisles, clapping and shouting at every victorious moment for the hero… there was even an intermission! We did comment afterwards on the massive disparity between the "culture" of the film in comparison to the actual Indian way of life. The movie contained tons of dance scenes, light skinned Indians, scantily clad women doing very sexually charged dances with their buff and tight t-shirt wearing male counterparts. And at one point in the main character is fake wrestling a stuffed tiger yelling, "You naughty pussy! Who's your daddy!?" In attendance at this film were whole families, children, many women completely covered from head to tow in burqas. And we have no theory or explanation for how this all has come to pass. How is it ok, acceptable, even glorified for these Bollywood actresses to strut about half naked, yet as a white Western woman, I'm judged as a whore, despite my efforts to dress in the local manner, completely covered. (Though, I have finally reached a point where once inside tourist locations, and surrounded by upper class Indians and other foreigners, at palaces, etc., I do take off my shawl- it's hot and I want some sun on my shoulders!)  Oh well, if Jerry Springer isn't a good representation of what Americans are really like, why should Bollywood be any more culturally accurate? We laughed like crazy, enjoyed the thoroughfare, and left the theater with massive smiles on our face.

November 19, 2007

The past three days have been absolutely fantastic, and while we don't want to jinx ourselves, we think we may have reached a turning point within ourselves.

The camel festival in Pushkar was like nothing we'd ever seen before. We arrived into Pushkar at around 10am. We'd caught a car from Ajmer to Pushkar with another Aussie named Brendan, who happens to be from Mount Eliza, Al's hometown. We made our way through the winding streets and finally found the Paramount Palace where Marcy and Johnny, the Brits we'd met in Varanasi, said to meet. We waited for them in the rooftop restaurant, enjoyed a pot of masala chai, and the amazing view. Pushkar is a large town surrounded on all sides by barren desert mountains of a medium chestnut color, the facets of the rocks catching the sunlight to crated dramatic shadows. In the middle of the town is a small lake around which are a few beautifully built ghats where people bathe and perform pujas. The town itself is a collection of cement, stone, and marble buildings. The architectural style of many dates from the Moghal era; balconies with ornate ironwork, geometrically cut windows, towers with the iconic "upside down turnip" shaped turrets. It's a completely vegetarian town and no alcohol is permitted either, however there's plenty of bhang lassi. The bazaars feature Rhajasthani artwork, woodcrafts, tons of silver jewelry, and lots of beaded and patchwork clothing and textiles. So I suppose it's a big hot spot for hippies, which when backpacking seems to go synonymous with Israelis. (There's a common joke amongst backpackers that at any given time ½ the population of Israel aren't actually at home.)

After meeting with Marcy and Johnny, we went into town and down to the lake. Al did a puja for his father, and we enjoyed a relaxing walk around the ghats and through the lane ways. We also visited a Hindu temple where you go underground to pray to a Shiva linga. And perhaps it was the prevailing attitude in Pushkar or maybe because  we were in a group instead of as a duo, but hassle was at a minimum despite the crowds surrounding the market and temple. After lunch, while J & M went back to their room for a bit, we made our way towards the outskirts of  town where the camel festival was taking place. Of course, whom should we run into, but Ritva and David! Cosmically intertwined with this Fin and Brit, we all headed into the dunes.

So the camel festival is actually a two-week process, which serves a very practical purpose. During the first week (while we were there) camel and horse herders, breeders and buyers come from all over Rhajasthan with their best lot to haggle and bargain over the buying and selling of these animals. It's the second week, after trading is finished, that it becomes more of a celebration and it is during this time that the tourists flood in, last year up to 30,000. So we felt pretty lucky to be there in the bit of quiet before the storm. For at least 1 sq km, all you could see in any direction of desert were makeshift canvas tents, chai shanties, thousands of camels, hundreds of horses, mostly Arabian and palomino. Wreaths of flowers and beads around their necks decorated all the camels, many had been painted with black henna designs around their eyes, necks and hindquarters. Such magnificent animals! The men walked around checking out stock, most wearing long whit tunics and massive turbans. The women were of more tribal regions, and instead of wearing saris, they wore more long and wide brim skirts, with matching long sleeved tops, tons of heavy and ornate silver jewelry, necklaces covering the entire collarbone, earrings with chains reaching to their nose rings, some nose rings about an inch in diameter. For the children, who would mostly be from small villages, this is of course such a great event to run a muck, meeting and playing with other kids, taking turns pretending to be camel, horse and trainer. Later on we sat on top of a hill, at a chai shanty, watching the sun set over the dunes, past an expanse of camels, men in turbans, the deep colors changing in the shallow light of the sun. After returning to town, Al and I said goodbye to our traveling friends, and headed back to Ajmer via a local bus. Now what could have been a hellish experience was actually fun and also a bit needed. On the local buses there are no actual seats, just benches where they will squeeze as many people as possible, including sitting on stranger's laps. We got lucky, and were invited to squeeze in next to a family towards the back. Al sat with 3 young men in their early 20's and I sat with one of the men's aunt and her 3 children. The guys spoke a little English so they rapped on and on to Al about cricket and showed him photos and music on a mobile phone. The woman, Geta, spoke no English, but through gesture we had a bit of conversation, from which I gathered that the two little boys and teenage girl were hers. Also, she seemed to motion to me asking if Al and I had children. She then "told" me that I'd be much prettier if I dressed in Rhajasthani clothes and that I needed a forehead bindi. I pointed at Al and made the hand gesture for money and she laughed. Afterwards, on the express (and seated) bus back to Jaipur, Al pointed out that I'd finally talked to an Indian woman. I considered it later and thought, no, I didn't talk to one, but did have a conversation, and for that brief interlude I am thankful.

Yesterday, our last in Jaipur, we decided to treat ourselves like royalty, by spending the entire day at the Raj Mahal Palace, the same place the British Royal family including Diana, stayed on a trip to India. For just 150R, non-guests could have access to the pool all day, so until the sun went down behind the tree-line, we lay on comfy pool chairs, in our bathing suits, catching UV's and dipping into the refreshingly blue water. Finishing off at an "expensive" restaurant (dinner came to $10- usually we pay $4) we felt pampered, relaxed, rejuvenated, and ready for the long overnight train to Jodhpur. But of course, no train ride in India can be had without at least  a 4-hour delay. As our train was originally schedule to depart at 12am, with nothing to do we arrived at 9pm. The train didn't actually depart until 3:30am. During this time, I began and finished Kundera's, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" and afterwards discussed with Al some of the ideas and philosophies presented in the book. From this we delved into character development; personally I think that for an author to fully develop a character, at least the basest soul of that character must also dwell within the author him or herself. Al allows for more creativity to be involved, but I still feel that at least a tiny facet of the author's inner psyche is tapped. But then, what of characters like Thomas Harris's Hannibal Lector, while a brilliant intellectual also murders and eats other humans? AT what point has the author separated from himself and let imagination run with it, let the character live out their own life, personality, and development, a process for which the conscious author is only a pen wielding slave to his imagination? And does the imagination reveal anything about he author beyond just creative talent? Do the psyche and the imagination ever reconcile with one another? I just finished Hesse's TGBG the other night and I can't help but think that all of Hesse's main characters are modeled, even if unintentionally, on his own truth seeking, intellectually bent world view. And so in this state of mind and conversation we boarded the train at 3:30am.

We got off in Jodhpur at 10am.

What a town! Jodhpur, home to a massive fort, whose ramparts overbear the whole town, as the city tries to reach its base, with building stopping just 100 meters below on the escarpment. Many of the houses here have been blue washed in a brilliant sky blue and the architecture and street design are similar to Pushkar. In the center of the town is a massive clock tower and on the other side of town, practically opposite the fort, is the spectacular Palace of Rhajashtan's King, who still lives there. The Taj of the Raj, from the distance it looks amazing. We found a great guest house, a blue washed building, mosaic tiled floor, roof views of the fort and palace and our cozy room for just 200R a night. We spent the day walking through the vast markets and bazaars, which constitute the majority of downtown - and means tons of women everywhere! It was so great to explore on foot downtown, the different paths of spices grains sweets fruits vegetables, antiques, saris, pashmina, men and women bartering in general, a very relaxing and friendly vibe. Of course, there are still the touts, scams, and begging but to a lesser extent. We also notice, compared with those cities from before, and especially with Calcutta, there  seems to be less poverty here.  I should mention here the truth of relativity in regards to poverty. What we now perceive to be the "middle" class or least the people not living in poverty probably still live on a household annual income of under $5,000. The true poverty is the reality of many people living on much less than $500/year. We had dinner on a rooftop restaurant and watched the half-moon rise over this lovely city, the palace lit up in the distance. It's wedding season here, and in a lane way below and engagement procession made it's way towards the brides home. A drummer leading the way, followed buy the grooms family bringing silver trays of sweets, clothes and jewelry. We could hear them singing, the joy of the party echoing out into the night, the face of the mountain and fort creating the perfect acoustics. We have truly been enjoying ourselves, deep breathes, sighs, good night.

November 25, 2007

In Jodhpur at the moment, much has happened since last leaving off. We went to the fort and toured through the many courtyards, halls, and colonnades. The architecture if beautiful, based on geometric design. Some of the windows have the most intricate and exact patterns, but for me are tainted by their history, designed so that the women of the palace, living lives of purdah, could only watch life outside through the tiny carved holes, whilst remaining hidden behind the walls.

Australia: Fun In The Winter Sun At Wilson's Prom

August 20, 2007

            A week ago today Al woke up nice and early to head off to Mt. Eliza Secondary College to teach a bunch of high school students, while I (with a day off for once) lazily slept in till about 11am. I dabbled on the internet, took a walk, and slowly started packing up some things for the next few days' journey. When Al got home from school, we hastily packed the car, the back of the station wagon transformed into a bed by a very suitably fitting black futon, had a snack, and off we went.

The first stop on our mid-week adventure was the Tooradin Fish and Chip shop for dinner. Al insisted, as they have cheese fritters. It's also a tradition for his family (and the first question asked by his brother when we got back) Then we headed for Lang Lang, the very small country village where Al lived until he was 15. He took me to his old house, which sits just on the edge of a nature reserve and is surrounded by native eucalypt forest that crawls with snakes during the summer. His mother acknowledges the fear associated with raising 4 boys in such a setting. But for Al, it was a fantastic place to grow up, with plenty of tree-climbing, cubby-building, creek-exploring, and just time spent in the bush. We didn't linger long as the sun was going down, and we didn't want to arrive at our destination too late. After another brief stop to pick up some food for the trip: chocolate covered raisins, cashews, garlic chappati bread (much thinner than pitas), cream cheese, 2 tomatoes, 4 dehydrated pasta dinners, a snickers bar, and a chocolated dipped honeycomb, a box of bagged tea; already packed were 2 carrots, 2 apples, 2 serves of oatmeal, and rice cakes. Then, it was onto the The Prom.

We arrived at the Prom at around 9pm. Driving slowly down the flat road through the opening plains of this massive national park and nature reserve, we could see a wombat just off to the side, still within the grasp of the car's headlights. It's face looks similar to a koala, but the body is longer and much stockier, it lives underground like a badger, and is largely nocturnal. Just past this furry creature, I saw my first kangaroos. We stopped the car, and I got out and very quietly walked towards them. One got a little spooked and hopped away, but the other just watched me with what seemed like a bit of malaise. It's a national park, so the while the animals are in the wild, they are still used to seeing plenty of people. I had never seen a kangaroo before, and to be standing in the dark, so close to one was pretty amazing. I felt kind of giddy!

After getting over my furry cute feelings, I got back in the car and we drove further in, found a small side road and a turn around to park in. We figured being surrounded by trees would act as a good wind block to keep the car a bit warmer during the night. Granted, Victorian winter's aren't relatively cold, but it is still winter. And sleeping off the road away from the main camping area was prohibited anyway, so it was best to find a more secluded spot.  Enjoying our lumpy but still somewhat soft futon, sleep time.

The next morning we drove a little further down the road, parked the car and walked into the flat, grassy plains that extend along the neck of the promontory before entering the mountains that predominate the end. Not only did we see more kangaroos, but emus. What an amazing bird. Flightless and old as time, these birds walk on long grey, scaly legs, which support a rounded and shaggy body that is more fur than feather. Orange-red eyes dart around, very suspiciously. They don't seem to belong in this century, or any of the centuries of man, but yet here they are. On foot I couldn't get closer than about 20 meters, but from the car we came within maybe 15 feet of a couple which were grazing along the side of the road. I instantly felt an affinity for these animals, I was more excited about them than the 'roos, even the adorable joey and it's mom.

From there we drove into the "base camp" area of the park, and registered with the rangers. Then we re-packed the bags, drove to a different parking area halfway up Mount Oberon, and began the 10km hike to Sealer's Cove.

The terrain here is amazing. There was a bush fire a few years back, so on the North side of the mountain range, all the tree trunks and many of the limbs are black. Against the bright green of the new vegetation and the incredibly blue sky, the contrast and poignancy of the colors is fantastic. This was a beautiful example of the regenerative powers of the Australian bush after a fire.  I learned that the fires are somewhat necessary due to the use of 'fire-stick' farming by Aboriginals.  With a history dating from 40,000-100,000 years (it's argued among experts), the Aborigines purposefully set fire to the bush as a means of removing shrubby under-story plants from taking over the bush, thus allowing them to hunt more easily and assist them with their nomadic lifestyle. Consequently, current Australian plant species show the adaptations the environment underwent due to this, with successful species refreshing and replenishing the land quickly after a fire. So the trees here are suited to this, with some Eucalypt species only releasing their seeds under the extreme heat of a bushfire. The rapidity and strength of the re-vegetation since the last fire is so impressive. From many of the burnt tree trunks, you can see pale limbs springing green leaves, as the charred bark sheds away revealing living tree beneath. I've never seen anything like it before. 

Another addition to this scene is the presence of massive, rounded granite boulders. Whether standing alone, or compounded on top of one another, these rocks shining in the sunlight create in the mind images of a pre-historic era. You can easily envision a dinosaur coming out from behind the gigantic stones. Also, are the Xanthorrhoea Gracilis, (Austral Grass Tree, or Blackboy), short, squat trees with dark brown trunks, topped with hundreds of long, thin, green spikey leaves.

Crossing over the mountain range, the landscape changes drastically. Winding away from the North side, leaving behind the dry landscape of half burnt trees and tall eucalypts, we entered into a much darker and damper surrounding. The path turned muddy, and you could feel the dampness in the air. On every side, we were faced with the tree ferns, which to me, look more like palm trees. They grow in a similar way to date palms, in that every year new branches sprout, and then break off, so that going up the trunk you have rings of broken off stubs, which can tell you how old the tree is. From the top, the branches first appear as curled up, thick, green, hairy fists; they unravel to become the long V-shaped leafy branch familiar to most.

Soon we reached an enclave, where we left the bags and entered a world of ferns, brushing just over our heads, walking across a stream using stone tops, to the most narrow waterfall, with deep green plants, dark brown logs, and orange mushrooms all around us. It was such a beautiful spot, we stopped there for a while to take it in. While it's the first time for me to see all this, Al has been coming here with his family since his childhood; it's his favorite place on earth. Reminiscing about good memories and making these new ones was an important part of our trip here.

A while on, we reached the marshlands, where it becomes too wet to walk along the path. Instead, the parks people have built a 2km stretch of "boardwalk". It's literally a wooden plank path, about 2 ½ feet wide, which winds through the swamp. Along here we stopped to make a cup of tea, and have a snack. Not much further after our rest, we reached Sealer's Cove.

It's a beautiful entrance, you emerge from the dark and low tree cover of the swamp, onto this beautiful, sun drenched beach with low lying mountains framing your view on both sides. We left the rucksack underneath the tree line and walked along the beach, collecting seashells and enjoying being near the water. The shells here are gorgeous, so many colors, patterns, and shapes I've never seen before. I was excited to find many with small circular holes in them, in perfect spots for making jewelry with, and Al explained why. A carnivorous sea-snail comes up to these herbivorous sea-snails, usually bivalve (like a clam's relation), and it uses a drill-like snout to get into the shell of the dirty vegetarian (just kidding). It then releases it's digestive juices into it's prey, waits for the fluids to break down and digest the meat inside, and then it sucks the juices back inside itself, leaving the hollow casing with the almost perfectly circularly drilled hole through the shell. I picked up about 20. Along our walk we also noticed a dead Fairy Penguin which had washed up onto the beach. Carrion birds had already taken to it. And then there was the mysterious sea creature, which we still cannot identify. It looked like some sort of alien pod, that in a really bad movie would burst and out would come some sharp toothed, slimy creature which would act like a parasite on our human bodies.  This is the image that came to mind when seeing this thing lying washed up on the beach, though Al has a more credible theory that it's a shark's egg.

We decided it would be a good idea to set up camp before it got dark. To get into the camping area though, we had to cross at the mouth of the brackish river that releases into the ocean at the end of the beach. The water was freezing, but it only lasted about 30 seconds. As we were the only people there, we had plenty of places to choose from. We set up just near the edge of the tree line, where we could view the beach through the trees.

Then we cooked our pasta dinners in our little camping cooker, and enjoyed the rest of the evening in the forest. The moon was only a sliver, but the night was still clear, and from a boulder on the beach, we had a spectacular view of the stars. Walking back to our tent was a bit tasking though, as under tree cover and without moonlight, it was pitch black. In all our preparations, we had foolishly left the torch in the car. It's amazing though, what your eyes and other senses can adjust to. And the tent and sleeping bags must have been fairly comfortable, because we both managed to sleep until after 8am the next morning.

During breakfast that morning we were joined by a Crimson Rosella. Such an exquisitely beautiful bird, whose feathers streak black down the middle of her back, in the rounded shape of fish scales. Towards her side, the black is fringed with red, which then becomes a deep red down under her belly. Her wings flash a brilliant blue, and her tail a deep teal. Such a friendly creature, she came right up to us, and within minutes, was eating oatmeal out of my left hand, while I fed myself oatmeal with my right. I had breakfast with a bird! I couldn't even bring myself to get my camera, I was so happy and blissful in those moments, sitting in the dappled sunlight, with my dear friend the Rosella.

After breakfast we went climbing and tumbling along the massive boulders which jet out from the beach along the coast, with the aim of going fishing. We instead decided to go swimming, which really meant jumping in the water and getting out again as quick as possible because the currents come from an Antarctic winter and were bloody freezing. But it was nonetheless refreshing, and the fact we were able to do this is a true testament to beautiful weather we had. Deciding we'd rather hike than fish, we packed up camp, and headed back along the trail, leaving the beach, saying goodbye to Sealer's Cove. The trek back was just as beautiful as the day before, we were lucky to have 2 days in a row of uninterrupted sunlight, a rarity in winter here. Also, we were able to notice things we hadn't the day before, coming from a different angle, in a different mood and mindset.

When we got back to the car, we ditched our bags, and speed-hiked to the top of Mt. Oberon for sunset. Alone at the summit, we overlooked Norman Bay and Squeaky Beach, across the whole promontory, and watched the sun set over the ocean. It was a fantastic way to end our visit. We hitched a ride down to the bottom with some rangers who had arrived after sunset, got in our car, and in the deep haze of late dusk, drove out of the Prom…

…and straight to the Fish Creek Pub for an awesome pub meal.  Fish Creek is a small town located outside the park entrance, and a stop at the pub is a must for anyone coming to the Prom.  For carnivorous snails Al recommends the Chicken Parma (an Aussie favorite with little to no connection to the traditional Italian dish) and for the vegetarians I recommend the Vegetarian Cannelonni.

Japan:  Camping on the shore of Lake Giselle

So you're in Japan and sick to death of the sound of constant traffic and the buzz of people.  You want to get away from the hive and just chill somewhere beautiful, quiet and serene.  And where there are no tourists...  From spending a year or two living in and around the port city of Nagoya, Lake Giselle (as named by us, for lack of it's real name) is your best bet...

Lake Giselle is a beautifully remote, yet easily accessed lake located in the centre of Japan's main island, Honshu.  The nearest major city is Nagoya.  The area is easily reached via Japan's excellent public transport system, by catching a train to the small town of Tarui (about 40 minutes from Nagoya, 1.5 hours from Kyoto, 2 hours from Osaka), and then walking 40 minutes through the small town and countryside, into the mountains, and finally to the lake. 

For more detailed directions on how to reach Lake Giselle scroll to the bottom of this document and follow the directions under "Getting there"

April 29, 2007

After a very late night dancing at a club called the Creek, where our friend Tom-u was DJ'ing, we set out for Tarui, via the JR train line. When we got to the station we first headed to the local grocery store to stock up on some food. Our shopping list ended up as follows: bread, jam, bananas, a bento box of sushi, potato chips, two small boxes of chocolate mushrooms (not that kind), water, ginger ale, tuna fish, and whiskey. Now we were ready. 

From there we simply started walking towards the mountains. To give an idea of distance, it's about 3km from the station to the base of the mountains. We weren't sure if we were coming from the right direction as last year we biked from Ogaki, where Al was living at the time. Either way, we arrived at one side of the mountain, surrounded by flooded rice patties, old farmers in conical shaped woven hats, and Buddhist cemeteries. It was then that we remembered- a cemetery had been one of our landmarks… but which one? We walked through a small village, that looked entirely unfamiliar, and asked a man on a tractor if he knew where the lake was. He smiled and pointed ambiguously. We followed the vague direction of his finger for about 20 more minutes, to find ourselves at a small shrine atop a slight ledge in the mountain, and with no trail to follow further. Turning back around… walking backwards a bit more, we found a cemetery, that we were pretty sure wasn't the one from last year, but followed the trail next to it anyway. The trail ended and we were climbing over rotting wood that had been felled long ago and never collected. It was sunny, hot, and we were getting a fair bit frustrated, so we stopped and had something to eat, and to um… strategize. Now, some of you may remember from my journal last year, my allusion to the two of us being divining rods… well we decided to put our faith once again into our most likely imagined abilities to find water, and just kept on walking through the woods,  on no actual path, over and under trees and branches and thicket, and at one point, on a ridge, through waist high grasses, where we disturbed a napping boar. Luckily he was more scared of us than we should've been of him. And  then suddenly, over another bit of the ridge, and there, in the distance, we saw a glimpse of water… now all we had to do was get to it! Down a ravine, up another, through the woods a bit more, and finally, there we were, on the familiar dirt path encircling the finger shaped, looping lake system. Sighs of relief, pats on the back, let's camp. 

We found a nice bit of clearing next to the path, at the end of one of the finger tips of the lake, which had a nice little mud beach along side it. After setting up the tent, we stripped down and attempted a swim. We got in to our knees and realized we'd been way to optimistic about the water temperature; but no worries, there was still the sun.

Along the lakes edge there are tons of make-shift wooden planks set up for fisherman. We stationed ourselves on two of them, and began to soak up the golden rays of early afternoon. After about 20 minutes were heard voices coming, and scrambled for our clothes. A family out for a Sunday afternoon stroll! No offense was made. Instead we retired to the tent to nap, as the fact that we hadn't really slept the night before was starting to become more apparent to us. We woke up just in time to utilize the last bit of daylight to find firewood. 

April 30, 2007

The next morning we woke up pretty early, as our tent faced east and it was bright out by about 9am. Bathing suits on (lesson learned) we set up shop on our respective docks, and became worshippers to the almighty sun. When giving my back a turn at the rays, I was reading "The Kite Runner" by Kahled Hosseini, which I highly recommend to everyone. It's a very well written and poignant story of a boy growing up in Afghanistan during the 70's, and how his life changed with the invasion of Russia. Aside from the historical perspective, it is also a great and rare view into Afghani culture. And… it's simply a really great story about a boy growing up, loving and hating a best friend, loving and fearing his father, loathing and fighting himself. Give it a go. 

May 1, 2007

We woke up the next morning to the lovely sound of heavy rain hitting the roof of our tent. Let's wait it out… 5 hours of waiting it out, in the smugness and mugginess of our little green tent, and it had barely let up. The lower sides of the ten were starting to feel damp, along with everything else. We decided to just get it over with, and break camp in the rain. Not that I was so useful, hobbling around, but I did what I could. Al carried everything down the mountain, as the extra weight on my ankle, along with the slippery path, simply wasn't the wisest course for me to take. Once were down into town the rain had almost all but died away. Train station, train, home sweet Kamimaezu home. Not the greatest way to end a trip, but overall we could never complain.  A great couple of days to remind ourselves that Japan is more than just a convenient yet concrete jungle.  There is a whole other side just waiting to be explored.

Getting there...

(for a nice printable version of this map, cut n' paste the following into a Word doc)

PART 1 – GETTING THE TRAIN TO TARUI

From Nagoya (40 minutes)

Take a JR train on the Tokaido line heading towards Ogaki.  When you arrive at Ogaki change platforms and get on a train towards Maibara.  Tarui is the first station away from Ogaki.

Nagoya à Ogaki à Tarui à Maibara

From Kyoto (1.5 hours) / Osaka (2 hours)

Take a JR train on the Tokaido line heading towards Nagoya.  When you arrive at Maibara change platforms and get on a train towards Ogaki or Nagoya.  Tarui is one stop before Ogaki.

Osaka à Kyoto à Maibara à Tarui à Ogaki

PART 2 – WALKING FROM TARUI STATION TO LAKE GISELLE (walking time – 40 minutes)

Upon exiting the ticket gates turn right down the stairs and out of Tarui station.  Take a right and walk past the undercover bike areas and down a walkway until you hit a road over looking the river.  Turn left up this road, and then turn right over the bridge that crosses the river.  After crossing the bridge, keep following this road as it veers to the left.  The road will end in a T-intersection, where you will turn right, walk 50m, and then turn left at the set of lights.  Keep walking until you reach another set of lights with a Circle K on the corner.  Turn right at these lights and keep walking until you see this road (see below) turning left (look for the green Toex sign on the left).

Follow this road until you reach a set of lights crossing a main road.

Cross straight over this intersection and keep walking towards the cemetery on the hill in front of you.  When you reach the cemetery take the road that winds around the left of the cemetery and heads up into the mountains.

You will then reach this intersection (see below) where you walk through the tunnel and continue walking up into the mountains.

From this point on it's just a matter of always taking the road that is heading up-hill.  About 5 minutes after walking though the tunnel you will come to this fork in the road (see below).  Take the left-hand fork.  (We were also later told that the red kanji sign in the photo below says "Caution: Beware of bears".  Maybe that wasn't a wild pig!)

Keep walking up-hill along the beautiful forest road.  At the top of this road you will find the beautiful Lake Giselle.  Congratulations!!!

China: Adventures in the Himalayan foothills

December 23, 2006 (Laina)

Well, we've been in China now for almost 15 hours, and still haven't left the airport.  But with our travel plans it just made more sense to spend the first night here.  There isn't really too much to say about it, except a noteworthy anecdote that may yet give you faith in the world. At around midnight I was in line at the China Eastern check-in counter, and Al was waiting about 20 feet away on a metal bench.  Next to him were a father, toting a cart full of luggage, and his 2 small children.  The mother was in line in front of me.  This poor family had already been stuck in Hong Kong airport for two days, trying to get home to America for Christmas.  But the little girl, with beautiful olive skin, big brown eyes, and a red tie-dyed dress, at about the age of seven, didn't betray even a hint of impatience or child-like frustration.  Instead she embraced that true spirit of Christmas, and walked around the check-in area giving small pieces of chocolate to everyone, while wishing these perfect strangers a very "Merry Christmas".  Utterly charming, heartwarming, and the kind of sincerity we need more of.  Sometimes I think adults are too scared to be genuine.

Aside from ¼ a bottle of Suntory whisky and cards, the night was fairly uneventful.  The morning thus far has consisted of lounging in the sun on the carpet of a random boarding gate, ramen noodles, and Ben & Jerry's ice cream.  At the moment we are on a small plane heading to Kunming.  We have a general idea of where we want to head from there, but no definite plans.

December 24, 2006 (Laina)

We have come fairly far since our flight to Kunming.  Upon landing in Kunming, we booked a flight straight to Lijiang, leaving just 2 hours later.  During that gap we walked away from the airport and had delicious noodle soup at an open-air street vendor.  In fact, that's mostly how we've been eating, as it's cheap, tasty, and easy to order, as all the food to be cooked is laid out along the counter next to the stove range.  These places usually have around 3-5 tables, and despite the colder temperatures, remain open-air, with no actual wall to create an outer façade.

After arriving in Lijiang we made our first priority finding a hostel.  We stayed at the Rong Po Inn in Lijiang's "Old Town".  Lijiang Old Town is enchanting.  Cobble stones paving narrow walkways between traditional Chinese and Tibetan style houses, inns, shops, and restaurants.  This area of China also has a high proportion of Naxi, a people native to large parts of southern China and South-East Asia.  So much of the folk art and jewelry are made by the Naxi, who seem to remain at least somewhat true to their culture and heritage.

We walked through the streets of Old Town, and it seemed as if there were some sort of festival.  Street vendors, serving up all sorts of spiced grilled meats and vegetables, performers in traditional costumes dancing and singing, and the red lanterns everywhere against the backdrop of dark old wood and black night sky were absolutely amazing.  In one area there were rows of restaurants lining both sides of a small river, and on the rock walls and roof balconies were groups of young girls in Naxi costume having what seemed to be chanting competitions back and forth from one side of the river to the other. Often the crowd joined in, which created a scene of noise, song, and simply exuberance from everyone present.  We ate at a place called "Sakura", and were able to get a booth upstairs with a fantastic view of the street madness below, as well as a beautifully lit up Buddhist temple, which stood high up on a hill amongst cypress and spruce trees.  I should mention here that all the restaurants along the street were also open air; hence the customers as well as the staff remained bundled up in coats, hats, and scarves.  The food was incredible, but to be honest, that can be said for everything we've eaten since arriving in China.  After eating we went to a small café/pub where there was man singing and playing acoustic guitar.  The place had a great atmosphere, so we just chilled there the rest of the night, sipping on Chinese beer and then some quite pungent local whisky.

Impressions of Chinese people… They are wonderful and if not that at least entertaining. For one thing, the concept of waiting in line doesn't seem to exist. I imagine counter staff  must want to bang their head against said counter at various points throughout the day. A person will literally be in the middle of speaking with the staff, when another will just walk right up and start speaking too. Also it is so much louder here than in Japan. That social restraint that seems to choke the personality out of some Japanese doesn't exist here. It's great to be able to talk at a louder volume and not feel rude about it. We have been stared at a lot, but I think that's because very few foreigners travel through this part of the country, particularly at this time of year. And then of course there is Chinese driving… crossing the street is like playing a deadly game of "Frogger". It seems that the traffic signals are merely symbolic of civilization, however in practice are entirely ignored, and the little green man blinking at you is no sure sign that cars and motorbikes aren't still screeching your way. As for the language, it's the most difficult I have ever tried to speak. At first I was really shaky and down on myself for not being understood when using what I had studied.  Usually language comes easy to me, so it was really frustrating. But at this point I at least have a few key things down such as asking about hostel rooms, prices, numbers and the basic greetings.  Its so fascinating to listen to though, how the different sounds are created and combined, as well as the different stresses, cadence, and intonation. But I digress…

This morning we were woken up at 8am,  and from our hostel we went to Wen Cheng Temple to view post-sunrise (not quite early enough…) and get a great view of the town. I said a prayer at the temple and accidentally ended up buying a prayer card to hang under one of the Buddhas… nothing is free. We then wandered slowly through the old town, finally coming to an awesome morning market with vegetables, animals, spices, and people everywhere. 

After wandering around taking photos of the marketplace we caught a bus from Lijiang to Zhongdian, or rather, Shangri La. It was a 4-hour bus-ride along the Yangtze River, through massive mountain ranges. What flat land existed was almost entirely being used for farming. The views were fantastic, and we also met a very helpful young boy named Maching. He spoke decent English, impressive for a 14 year old, and helped us figure out where to get off. He also gave us free apples and invited us to his home. Unfortunately his village's stop was an hour before ours, but it was such a nice offer, and in truth, you could see in his eyes what a kind and generous soul he has. Trail magic is what they call kind and helpful strangers along the Appalachian Trail, which runs down the Eastern coast of America. This, for me, felt like a bit of trail magic.

Once in Zhongdian, we found another open noodle shop, and enjoyed a spicy soup while being started at intently by about 5 or 6 high school boys. After lunch we wandered around confused for a while, but finally found a hostel to ditch our bags at. It was now around 4:30pm and we decided to check out the rest of Shangri-La. We walked into the Old Town, which was similar in style to Lijiang, but much more run down. We started walking uphill to a temple we saw, and the path began to narrow, become dirt, and led us through some very old and somewhat tattered housing. The path up the hill to one of the Tibetan Buddhist shrines was lined with stone cairns and colorful prayer flags. The shrine was painted in such bright reds, greens and blues, which were striking against the light of the setting sun. Further up from the shrine was a small temple where there were some more flags, cairns, animals and a monk.

The sun was now set and it had become quite cold, so we decided to head back into town, passing two more temples on the way. The town is surrounded by mountains on all sides, so as the sun went down, there was an amazingly contrasting horizon line in every direction.

In the old town square we saw Naxi and Tibetan people dancing in a large circle under a bright crescent moon. There were about 100 or so, dancing in traditional style. Some wore the cultural dress, mostly the older women, the rest in modern casual jeans and sweaters. And then of course, more hot noodle soup. We picked up some Chinese alcohol (putrid stuff, really…) and we are now back at the hostel. Mind you, the alcohol is very necessary-not only are all the restaurants open air, but the hostels here don't have heating. It's about 35degrees F. Tomorrow we head to Dequin. Merry Christmas Eve.

December 26, 2006 (Al)

Well it's my turn now. Currently sitting on the deck outside our room in Feilai Si. The morning sun is out, warming my body after a cold morning of photography and the mountains in front of me are incredible, providing a view that is nothing short of spectacular. But before I go any further into the present surroundings, I'll back track a bit. Firstly, I'd like to add a little on Maching, the 14 year old Chinese boy we met on the bus to Zhongdian. His kindness was amazing, particularly in his sincerity. It was obvious that he wanted nothing in return. This led Laina to comment on trail magic, and for me to develop my own idiom: Nothing provides faith in humanity more than the kindness of strangers. After translating our bus drivers questions into English and then giving us apples to eat, I gave him a note thanking him for his kindness. At this stage, I didn't have a grasp on how good his English was, and though that he would have to have the note translated for him. But to my surprise he read it word for word, translated it into Chinese for his father and then asked for my pen so he could write a response. His note described himself as a high school student with three years of English study under his belt, but his handwriting was what stood out most. It was a little shaky, probably because of the bus we were sitting on, but all of the letters were joined in a beautiful flowing cursive writing. This was crazy from the perspective that Japan has given us on the difficulties of learning English. While in Japan many children study from as early as three and are barely able to say how old they are, here was a 14 year old Chinese boy from the middle of nowhere who could do all that and so much more after just three years of study. Our current theory concerning this is that the Chinese language is so much more complex than Japanese and therefore prepares the Chinese well for English, which is also, relatively, a complex language. Then again, it may be that the will to learn is greater amongst the Chinese, who knows. But apart form Maching, we have also met a few tourists from Beijing and Shanghai, all of which are quite proficient in English, and perhaps more importantly, more confident in using it. But back to Maching… About 1 km from his town, he tapped me on the shoulder to show me his home town and point out his house. It was in a beautiful location, amongst the mountains, with one large snow capped peak providing the perfect backdrop. The look in his face told of how proud he was of his home and heritage. He then asked if we would like to come and stay at his house and meet his family. It was with great regret that I told him no, that we had a long way to go and we must get to Zhongdian, but I will never forget the look of disappointment in his face. He was a beautiful kid and it was unfortunate that we had to say goodbye under such solemn circumstances. Still, I am so glad that we met him, he has provided us with one of the more memorable experiences of the trip thus far.

We then traveled onto Zhongdian, spent the afternoon as Laina has already described, and spent a very cold night in the hostel. I'm not sure about degrees F, but it seemed below 0 degrees C, in our massive room with no heating and no hot shower. We were wearing socks, pants, thermals, jumpers, t-shirts, gloves, beanies, and scarves, and all under 4-5 layers of blanket and still it was cold going to sleep. After a late afternoon and night of taking photos requiring bare fingers it seemed like our hands in particular would never get warm. Never the less, I woke in the middle of the night feeling like I was in a furnace. We got up early the next morning with the assistance of our crappy new maroon watch alarm, and walked to catch our 7:20am bus to Deqin. The ride started simply enough in the darkness of early dawn, and always seeming to be heading up hill. Tibetan chanting or mantras played from the cassette player, and a picture of the Dali Lama was taped to the inside front of the bus. We passed some beautiful farms early on, with these amazing structures that had been built to keep the hay off of the icy ground and away from the livestock. (At this point in the journal Al drew a picture of said structure) In terms of livestock, we've seen cows, yaks (or some sort of Asian ox, not sure), pigs, mountain goats, chickens, and in the towns a lot of undomesticated cats and dogs. We spoke to one of the Chinese tourists on board, a guy named Thomas who had gone to school in London and now worked in Hong Kong. Laina tells me that having an English first name is coming in China's big cities, among the middle to upper classes and has thus far proved true as other Chinese tourists we have met also have English first names. He was wearing one of those funny Chinese cowboy hats that many of the tourists here like to wear. But apart from him and his friends who all seemed released and happy, it was a quiet bus ride through ever-increasingly spectacular scenery.

About half way through the 6- hour bus ride we picked up a group of about 8-10 Tibetans. They sang what seemed like local pop songs for most of the rest of the trip, providing a beautiful soundtrack. They all seemed so happy and had such beautiful faces and voices; it was a pleasure to travel with them. It became apparent that Deqin and the local surroundings were their home, as they became particularly joyful and excited when the town of Deqin came into view. Once again, it was great to see these people's pride and sense of joy upon coming home. It was as if they had heard about the rest of the world, had saved the money, taken the time, and effort to see something new, and yet there was no greater happiness than the feeling of coming back home.