McLeod Ganj

A little over two weeks ago I arrived in McLeod Ganj. Coming from Delhi was an exhausting two days of travel, but I made it - to FREEZING cold weather. It's a fair trade off though. I give up the warmth and mosquitoes of Southern India for the cold without mosquitoes of McLeod Ganj. I'll take it.

It is stunningly beautiful here. I'm in the Dauladhar Mountain Range in the foothills of the Himalayas. I'm surrounded by majestic mountains and trees. The area has two main parts: McLeod Ganj and lower Dharamsala. His Holiness the Dalai Lama's residence and his monastery, Namgyal Gompa are both in McLeod. The Tibetan Government in Exile is located in the Ganshen Kyishong complex between McLeod and Lower Dharamsala. The entire area is home to a Tibetan refugee community.

On my second day here, I made a Tibetan friend, Tenzin, a social worker. He's turned out to be a valuable friend because he has many connections and has made inquiries into several places where I can volunteer. He also has some convoluted fantasy that I might fall in love with him some day, so I've had to set some clear, firm boundaries with him, like it will NEVER happen.

McLeod Ganj is small, really two main parallel running streets that both lead down to lower Dharamsala. The streets are lined with vendors, both Indian - mostly Kashmiri - and Tibetan, and restaurants. The food is delicious. I keep warm by eating Tibetan thugpa, noodle soup, and love munching on street side potato momo. Chowmein here is bomb. Most places also serve pancakes to my delight, and the best pancakes are at Nick's Italian Kitchen. I was having dinner there one evening and the music they were playing gave me my first bout of homesickness. It was a mix of songs by American artists - Leanne Rhimes, Alison Krauss, Mariah Carey - all songs that I love to sing along to.

I was at a small chai stop on the way down to McLeod Ganj one day and a radio was tuned to an Indian radio show. Pearl Jam's Alive started playing and I told Tenzin that the band was from my home town. That week gave me many reminders of home.

On my second day in McLeod, I circumambulated the Dalai Lama's temple at Namgyal Gompa, turning the prayer wheels. Elderly Tibetans walk with their malas chanting mantras while circumambulating the temple and walking throughout town. I see shopkeepers with their malas too as they sit at their stalls or talk to customers. I don't see young people so much with malas.

I love being in McLeod because I love being among a community whose spirituality is absorbed into every aspect of life. It is evident from the craft cooperatives, the craft vocational programs, the cultural preservation and education institutes like Norbulingka, how hard the Tibetan government and community work to preserve their language and culture. They do so much with limited resources and with a growing refugee community, I wonder how the growing Tibetan diaspora will choose to shape itself and be shaped with populations in India, France, the U.S., Australia, Switzerland, Canada and elsewhere. With limited and overburdened resources in McLeod, the Dalai Lama is encouraging new refugees to return to occupied Tibet to tell the truth about their culture and history after receiving their education from Tibetan schools that exist all throughout India.

More Angels in Delhi

I left Mamallapuram at 3:00 AM to catch my flight to New Delhi, the first leg of a multi-vehicle trip to Himachal Pradesh in Northern India. I boarded a 5:55 AM flight that arrived in Delhi at 8:30 AM. I then jumped into a pre-paid taxi to the area of Paharganj to find a room for the next 10 hours before jumping on an overnight train. When I arrived in Paharganj, a maze of market streets that are part of a huge bazaar, a man immediately asked me where I was going. When I told him the name of my guesthouse, he said to follow him. I did so not knowing if I should trust him or not. We walked a short ways to a tourist office where there were several men. One man wearing a leather jacket with a mustache and a cell phone headset in his ear asked me where I was staying. He looked like a 90's cop straight out of a Bollywood movie. When I told him he called the guesthouse. It turned out that they had taken my name, but didn't assign me a room so now they were all full. The Bollywood Cop then suggested a hotel whose advertisement was pinned to the wall. No way, I said, was I going to pay that much for a half day stay, so I whipped out my Lonely Planet and gave him several more numbers of guesthouses to dial. All full. He pushed for the advertised hotel again. When I said no, it seemed he was at his whits end because none of the places I suggested from my guidebook where suitable for a lady and if I wanted to meander through Paharganj then go on ahead. I was already up with my pack on my back when I said if I don't find anything I'll come back. Bollywood cop said okay. "Are you disappointed I didn't take the hotel you suggested?" I asked. "You seemed mad."

"Of course not," he said. "It's not about business. It's about helping out your fellow man." I softened up. Then the man who brought me to the tourist office in the first place, Vijay, invited me to go upstairs to the International Tourist Office desk. I followed him upstairs. "Is this all free?" I asked. Of course. I thought they were touts that my guidebook forewarned me of, especially with Bollywood Cop, whose name is Kamal, pushing his hotel.

Suman (pronounced Schuman) got behind the International Tourist Office desk. He served me some tea, served up some small talk, then filled out a pre-paid hotel reservation voucher and got me a room within my price range. Part of the small talk was what I was going to do for the day. And soon enough we had a plan: he would meet me at my hotel where we would have lunch and then see a Bollywood movie. Vijay arranged for a cycle rickshaw to take me to my hotel and on the way out I apologized to Kamal for being so hard. I didn't know what was going on and what their intentions were. No problem. After finding out that I can read Hindi and with my Indian looking hair he pulled me aside and said if I ever wanted to get married in India, he approved of me and when I decide to let him know.

I arrive at my hotel and an hour later Suman met me for lunch. He also took care of the bill. I ran a quick errand and met him back at the tourist office and it turned out that he couldn't go to the movie because he had a meeting with his boss. I went with Vijay instead, but we left the movie early. Neither of us liked it. He took me to chai, the India Gate, to the train station to buy a chain for my luggage. We had a plan to meet up again in an hour so he could take me to the Old Delhi station where I would catch my overnight train. He didn't end up meeting me, but I made my train on my own just fine.

I am truly blessed and protected in India. I don't know where these guys from the tourist office came from, but they sure saved my ass in Delhi. Not only did they save my ass, they were gentlemen who took me out to lunch, paid for my movie, and paid for the rickshaws to the India Gate. Then they faded into the distance with the rest of Delhi as my train pulled away.

I'm learning that for me, India is a tough balance between staying guarded with edges rough enough to keep me safe and remaining open to and receiving the guidance and protection that the universe is blessing me with. It's like having a strong, clear protective layer that my heart can still see and act through.

My First Love Letter in India

Well, it's more like a love post-it. Remember the one Sex and the City episode when Burger breaks up with Carie on a post-it note? Well, a shop owner in Mamallapuram expressed his fond feelings for me in the same way, on a 2x2 inch piece of paper.

Each morning in Mamallapuram greets me with the clank clank of stone artists chiseling away at their sculptures. My days and evenings are sprinkled with greetings from shopkeepers as I walk by them. In this town, the majority are from Kashmir, the northern most state of India that is only accessible by road four months out of the year. Many of them sell bags, beautiful rugs, wall hangings, pillow covers, and bed spreads from Rajasthan, and shawls from Kashmir. During the winter months, the shop owners work in Southern India and then return home to Kashmir in the spring and summer time to run their other shops.

I had fun getting to know many of them. The shop owners are very nice and a few of my afternoons have been spent chatting with them. They genuinely enjoy learning about those who walk by and browse their shops. With the shops I've visited, I've been invited to have a seat and drink some chai. They always reassure me that they're not trying to sell me anything and it turns out they're not.

The shop right next to my budget hotel is owned by a Kashmiri shop owner who told me today on a note that he likes me. I'm not interested at all, and then I found out he was 21 - way not interested. He's been involved in the family business since he was 15 and it turns out that many of the Kashmiri shop owners are young, in their twenties and in their fourth or fifth year of running their own business. Amazing.

It turns out that I may be in the business of breaking hearts in India. The most common question I get is if I'm married and then if I have a boyfriend. I was hoping from this crushed out shop owner that I could get a good deal on a ring that I could stick on my wedding finger to avoid the inquiries. No such luck.

Goodbye Sadhana Forest

I left Sadhana Forest Thursday. It turned out that I was quite a popular cook there. Typically the most flavor the food had was the salt that each person added to his or her own dish. When I busted out with the Indian food that my Hindi teacher taught me how to cook, food with flavor, it became a hit.

My last night at Sadhana was lit by a full moon framed by the silhouette of trees just outside my hut. With the moon coming into its full cycle, I thought I'd begin my new cycles of renewal and change for the new year.

My friend, Venedel, has the most brilliant phrase: I don't know and let it go. I think about it everytime I want something to roll off my back. With the help of the moon, I did a meditative ritual to let it all go, a ritual of forgiving and asking forgiveness. The more good karma I can accumulate, especially before seeing the Karmapa, the better.

Traveling is teaching me how to open up my heart. I had my guards up when I came to Sadhana Forest. Being there was an exercise in protecting myself AND keeping an open heart toward people. Everyone was very nice and it was fun getting to know the people I had a chance to talk and hang out with. I had a lot of laughs.

So now I am passing my days in Mamallapuram, a city renowned for its stone temples and sculptures, until I make my way up north to see the Karmapa. Everyone is recommending that I stay longer in Southern India because it's so cold up north, but a good tourist I do not make. I need a deeper context for traveling than going from site to site and from guesthouse to guesthouse. For me it's either learning or volunteering. So hopefully the context for my stay up north will gel more concretely in the next few weeks. Until then, I'll enjoy eating Indian food again and having internet access within a short walking distance.

Morattandi? Morattandi?

Catching the bus from the bus stand in Pondicherry to Sadhana Forest is always an interesting adventure. Actually, to get to Sadhana Forest, I get off at the bus stop in the village of Morattandi and then I walk 3 km from the main road.

Since today was the first day of the New year, everyone got the day off from volunteer work. I and another fellow American volunteer decided to spend the day in Pondy. We enjoyed a day of shopping and eating.

Sadhana Forest is completely vegan and the food cupboards are not stocked with cooking oil. Most of the food I eat here is a combination of boiled, mushy vegetables. The vegan fare is of the non-spicy, non-flavorful variety that is also void of anything sweet. I call Sadhana Forest the land of bland. So naturally when I come into Pondy, my first stop is the French bakeries and the chai walas. Today I had a butter roll and big chocolate donut. Then it was on to the chai wala for two cups of chai - a perfect way to end the day in Pondy. And here begins our eventful bus adventure.

The bus stand is chaos. Here's how it works: I wait near the free men's urinal and ask either the bus driver or the fare collector, "Morattandi?" They then bobble their heads no. I then get directed to the opposite side of the terminal where I continue, "Morattandi? Morattandi?" Then I'm pointed in the direction of the urinal where I started. So it goes back and forth like this until I find a driver who bobbles his head for me to get on the bus. The last five times I've taken the bus, I got on near the urinal three times, opposite the urinal one time, and then the location where I boarded today. To summarize, it's a mystery where to catch the damn bus.

So today started like every other day, near the urinal. My cohort and I did the back and forth gig and ended up where we started, but this time standing next to a group of women and their kids. I heard Morattandi sprinkled throughout their conversation in Tamil.

One of the little boys was looking our way, so I bobbled my head and smiled. He gave me a big smile back, so I offered him a snack. He accepted after some prodding from his mother. "Morattandi?" I asked her. She confirmed her location, "Morattandi." So now we knew that we could follow them to the bus, and that we did. After a few moments more of waiting, they made their way opposite the urinal and we followed behind. As we made our way, one of the women was humorously complaining in Tamil about the back and forth, back and forth. After a few moments one of the women started running. She was chasing a bus leaving the terminal. We chased her chasing the bus and finally all of us made it on - to a jam, jam packed bus. It was like a can of sardines and it only got worse.

We were all tightly squished up against each other, contorted in ways that magically allowed us to cram on. The bus stopped and more people crammed on. The bus attendant moved us around like puzzle pieces, grouping us together by our stop. With each shift, a new contortion - someone's elbow pressed tightly against someone's stomach, someone else pressed up against someone's back, another against someone else's shoulder. The bus chug chugged along and then stopped. More people piled in. Whatever minute space was between our body parts, the bus attendant filled with new passengers. Again another stop and more people squeezed on. And again. The women kept yelling at the attendant with each new body. Men don’t get squeezed on. They hang out of the bus instead. For a split second, the image came to my mind of the people trampled to death at soccer games in Europe because of the crowd size. My friend and I easily estimated 150 passengers on a bus with a regular capacity of half that. I was worried about the kids being squished among a sea of legs, but they were okay.

I would look at the women and all we could do was laugh it was so crazy. Somehow there was enough space to reach into my friend's purse for her camera and take pictures of everyone squished on the bus. The women got a kick out of the images as I played them back.

It took a while to get to Morattandi with the bus chugging along so slowly. When we finally got off, everyone in the back of the bus waved goodbye as the bus slowly rolled away. The women remained on the bus to get off at a different stop and I was sad I didn't have a chance to thank them. I doubt two less people made a difference, but I hoped at least one person could breathe a little better.

My legs were drenched with sweat it was so hot on that bus. So much so that I sweated off my butter roll and chocolate donut. While at the bus stand, we wondered how the Indians knew where to catch the bus. We learned this evening that it's even a mystery for them.

Volunteering

12 days down, two more to go. There are about 30 volunteers with new ones who arrive every few days or so. So far my volunteer duties have consisted of cutting grass with a sickle, clearing grassy areas completely, dumping compost, mulching, and cooking lunch.

Last week Amalia arrived, a middle aged Israeli woman with three kids: one daughter who is working on her Ph.D., a son who is a filmmaker (he’s worked with Robert Altman), and her youngest son who is in the military. He plays soccer in the position of goalkeeper. She's a very proud mom and I loved watching her glow as she talked about her kids.

When Amalia arrived at the forest, she rolled in with her rolling luggage, an interesting contrast to the younger people who arrive with their backpacks and a tight budget. She’s in India for one year. Her husband is in Israel and she’s in India, free as a solo traveler. I wondered how she would take to the forest because she seemed a more comfortable traveler, not one seeking to rough it in thatched huts and composting squat toilets as we do here.

During her first full volunteer day, we were clearing grass. She asked me how to say in English what she was gesturing. She had all the words except the verb. After repeating after me a few times she had it down. “I am collecting the grass.” Yes, I said. Perfect. From then on, she would say, “I am collecting the grass,” to each volunteer whose grass pile she collected. “I am collecting the grass.” She taught me how to say it in Hebrew. Then it changed to, “I am dumping the grass.”

Amalia is one of my favorite people I’ve met at the forest. Upon seeing her for the first time in the day, I get a big hug and a kiss. “You know I love you,” she says. Yeah, and I love Amalia too. She has a lot of courage breaking out of her comfort zone. A big heart in Sadhana Forest she is.