Welcome back to India

Rolling into Amritsar is like entering a foreign country from Dharamsala. From the misty hills, Tibetan faces, and chilled-out vibe it's quite a shock to the system to be back to the hot flatlands, darker faces, and pushing crowds that come to mind when you think of the subcontinent. Actually, although Amritsar has a population of around 1 million it really isn't that crowded once you get away from the Golden Temple complex. My Israeli travelling partner and I had a devil of a time navigating to the dorm rooms through the throngs of pilgrims, guided on our way by blue-turbanned Sikh attendants.

I stayed the night at the temple itself, more for the experience than any sort of rest. Sikhism is incredibly inclusive, allowing anyone into their temple to practice as they will, as long as your shoes are removed and your head is covered (for men and women). Part of this is a cafeteria serving daal, rice, and chapati at all hours of the day and an extensive series of dorm rooms, all free, with donations greatly appreciated, of course. There seems to be a special little dorm for the Westerners, tucked just off the chaotic entrance. The guard at the door walks through periodically, clapping his hands, shaking yours, and constantly smiling.

Last night I went into the heart of the complex and walked around in the dark heat. The Golden Temple sits at the end of a causeway in the middle of large pool. It's dazzling at night as all the lights reflect off its surface and into the water. The surrounding buildings are all white marble with ornately inlaid floors and towering spires. Thousands of people were laid out on the stone surface, somehow managing to sleep on the hard ground with the constant humanity all around. I met a South African guy and we made circuits around the pool, talking about life, love, and travel before sitting down so he could read my palm. Apparently I'm emotional, sensitive, and strong-willed, and I have good self-confidence but am not very artistic. I take it all with a grain of salt.

Flashbacks

Although I'm still India, spending one more day in moist, misty Mcleod Ganj before heading back to the heat of the flatlands, my darling sister in Rhode Island has assembled a photo album of our time together in Madagascar. You can see it all on her facebook account at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2085482&l=515fb&id=1708214. Enjoy!

You want me to put what where?

"Now lift both legs above your head, hold it, then lower them to the ground, then one by one put them back over, push up with your hands and do five pushups." I stared in confusion at the contorted Indian man in front of me, having already lost track of the first three poses he had instructed us to do. My sweaty palms and feet had transformed my shiny new yoga mat into a slip-and-slide and whenever the teacher instructed us to hold a pose, my downward dog would turn into a slippery slug. The other student in the class with me was a professional dancer and she cooly performed each new postition with the kind of grace you only get when you've been dancing since age 6. Slowly but surely I worked my way through from shoulder stand to back bend to seated. After practicing yoga on and off for six years, there's a certain amount of muscle memory and natural bendiness that allows me to muddle through. But there was no way in hell my foot was getting behind my head.

Such is yoga in India. Because there's a huge demand for it from Western tourists there is an equally mind-boggling supply of yogis, ashrams, and courses. As you can imagine the quality varies greatly. I've had pretty good luck so far, going on word-of-mouth from fellow white kids. The first class I tried in Dharamsala was a complete sensory overload: I was so busy watching the instructor casually whip out three-fingered handstands, and the other students throw down a dizzying array of headstands and backbends, that I completely lost track of what I was doing (usually something at least five minutes behind). I recommended that class to a couple other people just for the experience.

Story of my life...

I should have known that the toad in my room on the first night was an omen. Combine that with my Oregon genes, the marine mammal tattoo, and an affinity for H2O, and you have a walking, talking water magnet. What all that means is that on an 8 day trek to Kuari Pass it rained every day, without fail. Along the way I learned a smattering of Hindi, including "it's raining", "i'm cold/wet/not dry", "leech", "slug", etc. Despite the constant presence of clouds, mist, and fog, it was wonderful to be outside, climbing up stony ridges through fields of wild flowers, curling up in a tent with the sound of rain pattering down, and just being away from car horns and pushing crowds. The last night it cleared enough to see the panorama of peaks across the valley, and watching the sun rise on them the next morning made it all worthwhile.

This didn't mean there was a lack of people, by any means. A couple nights we camped either near or smack-dab-in-the-middle of some amazingly rural villages. Everyone likes to come watch when the circus comes to town. We had it all - tents, ponies, pale-faced clowns in funny clothes. The spectacle vazaha is truly an international event. This can make things such as going to the bathroom extremely awkward. Well, might as well give them something good to look at.

In addition to an Austrian couple, the entourage included a guide, cook, helper, and intern (a guy my age who had just finished a course in tourism at the local college, and didn't even realize you could sleep in a tent until the first night of the trek). My time in Alaska has prepared me pretty well for living in the constant wet, and I was able to offer the Austrians some techniques for a more comfortable existence. Apparently when the weather's like that they just stay at home. Step 1: just accept that you're wet, your gear's wet, and it will remain that way until the end of the trip. Once you get past that mental block you're set.

I'm back in Rishikesh now after a 13 hour jeep ride yesterday. Apparently it's normally 8, but the heavy rains had caused numerous landslides; at one point we remained stationary for 2 hours while a single, small bulldozer attempted to clear boulders twice the size of a bus. Watching the gathering crowd watching that operation was the most entertaining part of the whole affair. From here I'm planning on hopping a bus to Dharamsala and Mcleod Ganj. I still have another week in India and it's not nearly enough.

Hope you're all well, thanks for checking in.
Love,
Em

Sticky-kesh

Yes, indeed, I am still in Rishikesh. This place is sticky not just from the heat (it must be at least 90 degrees already at 10 in the morning) but also from it's ability to suck you in. Walking around, you start to recognize faces and names, restaurants and shop owners. Many of the travellers you talk to have been here for at least a week. It's got a strong sense of community, in a weird, ex-pat sort of way, that you start missing after being on the road. That, and the heat just makes it too darn difficult to motivate.

Yesterday I went and walked around the huge creamsicle temple that dominates the east side of Lakshman Jhula. Shoes are not allowed inside, even stowed in a bag, so you leave them with the attendant at the door. Each level is split into little cublicles, some of them housing garishly decorated statues, others serving as little stores selling bangles, beads, and holy doo-dads. The mini shrines all have large brass bells suspended from the ceiling, and the kids who can reach them love sounding them as loudly as possible. There's a single staircase that you spiral up after having completed the circuit of each level. At one point I was passed by a whole troop of strong, world-wisened women, brilliant skirts swishing and heavy silver toe rings clicking on the stone floors. The top affords an amazing view of Lakshman Jhula, and I stood for a while watching the swirl of colorful humanity below, across the bridge and through the narrow streets.

Tomorrow I head off from the creature comforts and fast internet connection of this place to the mountains, either with an organized trek or on my own. It's about time - I think my brain has melted in the heat.

Finally!

Rafting through Rishikesh on the Ganges River - somehow I ended up with a group of American medical students, all girls my age. Oh, the irony.

The rooftops of Delhi - this doesn't even begin to capture the scale of this place.

Two Oregon girls in a Malagasy rain forest - proof we were indeed in the same place at the same time.

Holy cow, eh

Just as Delhi wasn't quite what I expected, Rishikesh isn't at all what I imagined. The guide book, and my lively imagination, made it out to be a serene and tranquil haven for spiritual discoveries. On arriving my travel companions and I found a whirring hug of energy, the streets hectic with people and cows and taxis leaning on their horns. Located on the Ganges river, this is a major pilgrimage site for Hindus, as evidenced by the sadhus wandering the streets wrapped in orange cloth, and the huge, ornately decorated and brightly colored temples lining the river banks. It's also a huge center for yoga and meditation, and the many Westerners walking around have dreadlocks, piercings, and tattoos. Well, two out of three ain't bad.

The other night I was sitting in a restaurant down by the river, tucked away down a dark alley. Everyone there was white (albeit from every possible nation), reclining on cushions and eating pizza, hummus, and enchiladas. The electricity had gone out and we were listening to an Israeli woman sing Bob Marley and Bob Dylan songs by candlelight. It was all very surreal - I could have been anywhere in the world, and for the first time in a long while I felt completely placeless.

Then today, finally emerging from my room after a couple days of tummy trouble, walking past women in brilliantly colored saris, stalls selling bangles and prayer beads, holy men in orange robes and not much else, by the banks of the Ganges, it was comforting to know that I couldn't be anywhere else but India.

90 degrees at 10:00

That's how warm it was in my room last night. I can't remember the last time I was somewhere this hot, if ever. Walking out of the airport yesterday was like sticking your head in an oven, and then shoving in the rest of your body. Needless to say I bought a train ticket this morning and am headed for the hills.

Delhi is a lot of what one expects in India: hot, crowded, and colorful. Two weeks in Madagascar have well prepared me for the crush of people, pesky shop-owners and taxi drivers, and cows wandering down the middle of the street. I'm staying in the Main Bazaar area, where the housing is cheap and dodgy and there are plenty of other backpacker-types wandering around. The shops sell brightly colored clothing, scarves, bags, leather shoes, beads, and all sorts of mirrored, shiny things that fascinate the magpie in me.

I'm writing this from the air-conditioned comfort of the U.S. embassy, where they've kindly added some new pages to my passport. The poor thing was almost full, and it's still got such a very long way to go. As a U.S. citizen I got to feel very special, sneaking through the maze of lines and windows to the special corner reserved for citizen services. It's just another reminder of how truly privileged I am.