A Little Luxury and a Hot Shower

I know what you're probably thinking after reading my last post about rafting in the Ganga. "Ew, she went swimming in a river where people bathe, pee and place their dead?" While parts of the Ganga are polluted and less than sanitary, this segment is quite clean and pure because it is so close to the source in the mountains and its rushing current. There's no downstream effect yet. You can bet that when I go to Varanasai (Beranas), the city on the river where many go to die or spread the ashes of the creamted bodies of their loved ones (or simply drop the body whole), I will be admiring the river from a dry spot on the shore.

I also promptly took a shower, my first hot shower (from a gyser and not a bucket!) since September 6, when I took one at my parents' house in Bloomington, Ill., but not before I had an intense full body massage. I saw signs all around Rishikesh for the Baba Massage Centre and heard great reviews from other travelers. After logging hours on Indian buses and getting knocked around the river, I decided that I deserved a little pampering for the price of two Starbucks lattes. The masseuse used her entire body--hands, feet, knees, elbows, even her head--to massage mine. I got my head massaged, my face massaged, back, legs, arms, feet and even my ears. It was exactly what I needed to work out the kinks from that morning's militant yoga session.

Rolling on the Holy River Ganga

After the light show in Amritsar, I headed toward the the epicenter of inner light: Rishikesh. Famous in the East for its ashrams and prime location on the Ganga and famous in the West for the Beatles and the Maharishi, Rishikesh is beautiful, serene and peaceful. There's definitely an international set of travelers here, but the Indian tourists, pilgrims and ascetics come in droves as well, not like in Dharamsala where Western seekers of enlightenment seemed to outnumber the Indian and Tibetans. Rishikesh and the nearby holy site of Haridwar are the famous points where the Ganga dumps out of the mountains into the plains of India.

I decided the rigidity of an ashram stay might be a bit much for me so I opted instead for the Yoga Niketan Guesthouse where I could cherry pick from the yoga and meditation offerings at the ashram across the street without the minute-to-minute schedule. Plus, I had a magnificent view of the Ganga from my balcony.

Mary Baker Eddy spiritually defines river as a "channel of thought," which I've always found to be a powerful description, but it is especially potent when contemplating the Ganga. This river is a fundamental source of inspiration for Hindus. It's more than a significant part of the Indian landscape; the river's current corresponds with the lives of many Indians. They bathe in it, drink from it, wash clothes in it, lead animals to it, pee in it, play in it, pray by it and release their dead in it. Pilgrims travel for miles to make offerings to it, tourists take countless photos by it, and parents dunk reluctant, crying children in it to assert their purity. Its a source of atonement and necessity, but also, as I found, adventure.

When I got tired of twisting my body into a pretzel and quietly contemplating nothingness, I decided to find adventure on the mighty Ganga and head out on a half-day rafting trip. I joined a sweet Gujarati family, who could hardly contain their excitement for the trip. Each time the calm current of seafoam green water gave way to the choppy whitewater, they forgot to paddle and would wave their paddles in the air like lassos shrieking, "Wahoo!" We shot like a pinball through some hairy class III+ and IV rapids and passed through the splendid lush, green Rishikesh valley, waving to the pilgrims on the shore and the Westerners sunbathing ("Hippies!" yelled the Gujaratis with delight). It was quite a rush, as rafting always is, but especially to know that I was letting a river of such importance splash over me.

And Then There was Light, Fireworks and Mini-explosions

Happy Diwali! Doesn't this picture look like the perfect snap for a holiday card?

Saturday was Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights that celebrates the return of Rama and Sita after almost 15 years of exile. It's one of the biggest holidays and festivals for the Hindu faith and in the weeks leading up to it, my students talked non-stop about the tradition setting off crackers (fireworks). The festival coincided with the Sikh celebration of the return of the sixth Sikh guru, meaning that it was double the celebration in Amritsar.

The beautiful Golden Temple was specially adorned with millions of white lights and an evening celebration of fireworks and candle lighting was planned. The temple complex was absolutely packed, with most of the people filtering in sometime between tea time and dusk. Candles lined the entire pool and by dark, it was difficult to walk around the tank because people had claimed their spots for the show.

I was told at the information center the day before to come a little early and request to be taken upstairs for the best view. A few other Western tourists were there, but it was mostly Sikh tourists. Television camera crews were there to document the event, and I was interviewed as the token American by three television stations, although I didn't have a TV to find out later if I made it onscreen. I spent most of the evening with a few engineers and consultants from England working on a structural engineering project in rural India. The fireworks display was magnificent.

Soon after it started, though, a small explosion went off a few feet from where we were standing. It was followed by a series of explosions, each one louder than the last. The crowd started fleeing for the stairs. One of the British engineers literally picked me up and pulled me through the mob. The explosions dissipated, and it turned out to be a set of firecrackers that had gone off prematurely. The rest of the evening went off without a hitch, and we were able to admire the illuminated temple in all its glory. From my guest house that night, it sounded as if Amritsar was being bombed because those crackers are so loud, and people set them off until about 4:30 in the morning.

Travel as a Spectator Sport

The only open border crossing between India and Pakistan is 32km from Amritsar in Wagah, and each night it draws huge crowds when the border is closed and the flags are lowered. The Indian side was packed with people exuding the same enthusiasm that they might at a cricket match with England. One of the patrol officers leads the people in patriotic chants and songs while Indian tourists push and shove for a chance to wave the Indian flag in front of the crowd. The military police on either side go through a ceremony of yells and stomps, trying to outdo the officers from the other side while the crowds try to outcheer eachother as well. Everyone cheered and waved as the last bus of the week from Delhi to Lahore crossed over and the gate was closed and the flags lowered.

There is a separate "VIP" section for foreign tourists, although I didn't sit there. A group of Gujarati college girls befriended me on the walk from the taxi stand to the border and invited me to sit with them. It was nice to have interpreters for the patriotic chants and cheers.

The Indian side vastly outnumbered the Pakistani spectator side, likely for many reason. One, sheer logic that India has more people. Two, proximity of the border to a major tourist town. Three, a less volitile state of affairs. And four, a much bigger domestic and foreign tourist market, which correlates with number three since several foreign governments advise against travel to Pakistan.

The Best Dal in Life is Free

I spent the first two days of Diwali vacation in Amritsar, a city in Western Punjab famous for its Sikh Golden Temple and its proximity to the only open border crossing with Pakistan. The Golden Temple is astoundingly beautiful and serene. The golden structure glitters in the sun and looks like its floating in the tank of water (or "pool of immortal nectar"). Sikhs from all over make pilgrimages to see the holy temple and bathe in the tank's ghats.

The Sikh pilgrims and those who help maintain the temple were incredibly friendly and enthusiastic about explaining their faith and history. I stopped in the information office to inquire about getting to the border that evening, stayed for a cup of tea and conversation, and an hour later, emerged with more literature about Sikhism than I could read in a lifetime.

When you visit the temple, you can stay there free of charge in one of the Gurudwaras or pay as little as 50 Rs to stay in one of their more private rooms in a guesthouse. You can also eat in their community kitchen for free (although if you're not a pilgrim, you should leave a small donation). The founder of the religion, Guru Nanak instituted pangat (dining together), a practice that enourages equality. Basic meals of chappati and the best dal I've had yet are served to diners who sit together in long rows on the floor, regardless of caste, economic or social status, or religion.

Five Meters of Fabric and a Busted Blouse

My post entitled "Does this saree make me look fat?" was misleading. I never bought a saree in Jaipur. It just had a better ring than "Does this Salwar Kameez make me look fat?" Last week, however, I made my saree debut, and you can judge whether or not five meters of fabric is flattering on me.

Sarees (or saris, like many cities in India, I'm not sure of the correct spelling, but both seem acceptable) are the dress code for the teachers at Carman School, but I am obviously exempt. The students and teachers ask me everyday when I will wear a saree. So for the annual Sports Day, I thought I'd put on the traditional Indian dress.

I enlisted the help of two of my female companions, Sapna and Premjodt, and the trip to the market was one of the most fun shopping experiences I've ever had, although my indecisive nature made choosing one difficult. Every saree is beautiful. Because of my skin tone, we ruled out colors like yellow and peach, and I vetoed an orange and blue saree because it was a little too "Rah-Rah, Go Illini" for my taste. We finally agreed upon a shimmery blue saree with gold trimming. I was fitted for a blouse and picked up the whole ensemble two days later.

The morning of sports day, I took my new digs to the dorm warden Anupama to dress me like a doll because if I did it myself, I would come out looking like a child playing dress-up with her bedsheet. After putting on the blouse and the petticoat, Anu started wrapping. And wrapping. And wrapping. She took the excess and folded it accordian style several times to form pleats and tucked the top into the petticoat just below my navel. Then she swept the remainder diagonally across my torso, letting some drape elegantly down my back. Two safety pins and some bangles from Jaipur completed the look. The dressing process took about eight minutes.

I walked into the dining hall trying not to rip the front of my saree or fall and break my nose. The children all looked at me wide-eyed with smiles and almost choked on their eggs. I felt a little like a a mermaid because of the shiny blue color and the restricting lines, but I got used to it after awhile, except for the blouse. It was too small, meaning I either gained ten pounds in two days or the tailor messed up. I'm going with the latter because I don't think my meals of rice and dal add much weight. Even though I could only close three of the four clasps, I managed, breathing ever so slightly, until mid-morning when I let out of sneeze so violent that it not only popped the second to last button, but ripped the string that formed the hook for the clasp. Fortunately, the saree covered all the vital parts.

I received lots of complements on how well I wore the saree and was encouraged to buy more in order to wear one everyday. I'll admit, I took a few moments to admire myself in the mirror before I relunctantly took it off that afternoon. As temptingly beautiful as all the sarees are, I think I'll stick with one because I don't know what I would do with them back in the States. They'd probably be turned into glorified table runners.

My Current Obsessions

These are my three favorite children on earth right now (l. to r.) Piyush, Raunauk, and Shaswat. The other day Shaswat said, "Lindsey ma'am, when I graduate class 12, I will come live with you in America." I replied, "Oh? And when will you graduate class 12?" "In 10 years," he said.

I read in a recent issue of The Times of India that Madonna is adopting a one-year-old Malawian boy. Is this true? (I'm a little out of the current events loop.) So I was thinking, I would be totally in vogue and in the company of the likes of Madonna and Angelina Jolie if I came home from India with a child.

On an unrelated topic, in the same issue of the Times, the front page carried the headline, "US seeks to rule the universe." I thought, My God, George Bush has gone and declared himself king of the universe. What else has happened since the last time I had my hands on a newspaper? (I read on to find out that he hasn't yet declared himself master of the universe, but that the U.S. is trying to limit the rights to space.)

Confessions of a So-Called Environmentalist

I like to consider myself environmentally conscious. I'll be the first to admit, however, that I don't always practice what I preach. For example, I never recycled in my apartment in New York because I couldn't tell the recycle bin from the trash bin in front of our building. (Judging by the assortment of items in there, I don't think any other tenant could either.) But at least I was putting things in a trash can. I never litter or just toss my trash to the wind.

The other day I was shopping in Dehradun's Palthan Bazaar with my teacher friends from the school, Sapna and Premjodt. We stopped to get ice cream bars and walked as we ate. Long after we were finished, Premjodt turned to me and asked, "Lindsey, why are you still carrying around that stick," pointing to the licked-dry wooden ice cream stick. Then she promptly ripped it from my hands and tossed it on the ground. I shrugged sheepishly and stammered, "I guess I was just waiting until I found a garbage can." She shook her head and said, "Lindsey, this is India. Everywhere is the garbage can."

And the Winner is...the Scootee!

Getting anywhere in India can be like playing a thrilling game of chicken with your life, and transport is half of the adventure of India. Here are some of the players in the game:

Autorickshaw: These icons of India transport are the little motorized, petrol-chugging autos with yellow tops that growl along the roads. They're probably the easiest way to get exactly to where you want to go, unless you're in Agra and the driver takes you a bombed out house instead of the travel agency. This is the method I use most often, especially if I don't know exactly where I'm going, which tends to be most of the time.

Cycle Rickshaw: Man-powered cart pulled by a bicycle. I've only ridden them a few times because they're a little too skeletal for me. I feel like the whole contraption will tip over each time we round a turn. The first time I took one, I thought the driver would be less likely to cheat you and take you in circles because it's his own energy he's draining, but not the case. Some will still shred their leg muscles for extra rupees.

Bus: Two kinds--local and intercity or interstate. I've only taken the local bus in Dehradun, and the first time, I ended up with my nose shoved into someones armpit and a children clutching either leg. Most of the time, though, the other women on the bus will beckon me to the front to sit near the driver, a space reserved for women. For intercity/interstate buses, you can choose between a deluxe tourist bus or a local. The latter has only bench seats and takes forever because it will stop for every person on the route. Some people will stand for the entire eight-hour trip. Deluxe is a bit of a misnomer because the only thing better about those buses is that the seats recline, and they only stop for every third person. You pay a lot more, but they still hit all the same potholes.

Train: Probably the best way to go from city to city, unless you're in the mountains where they don't run. Chair cars in express trains like the famous Shatabdi Express are quite nice with cushy seats, full meal and tea service, and free newspapers. Passenger trains stop at every little train station along the way, but if you're riding overnight, you won't notice, and even better, you will not waste a day, and you'll save on hotel fare.

Private car: India looks different from a private air-conditioned car. It's more like watching the country on TV than truly experiencing it. I actually prefer rickshaws because you can experience the noise and the energy of the country rather than watch it pass you by.


Scootee: This is my new favorite form of transport! It's a motorbike, smaller than a Harley and quite mobile. Usually, motorcyles, like skydiving and pigeons, freak me out, but after a few minute with my friend Sapna on hers, I was loving zipping around the streets of Dehradun. I did, however, almost lost my right leg to a bus, but it's all part of the experience.

Walking: The best way to explore and discover the nooks and crannies of the city as soon as you master crossing the street at tangled intersections.

My Legacy as the Moose Lady

What was once my greatest bribing tool has now become the bane of my existence. On multiple occasions at the school, I've called upon my years of experience as a camp counselor at Adventure Unlimited. In an effort to get the boarding students to feel comfortable around me, I spent an evening teaching them silly songs and dancing, including the now infamous "Moose Song."

Then, much to the students amusement, I started teaching the song to fill the idle time in the classrooms that the students are often stuck with. I'm not sure how often they'll need to use the phrase "There was a moose full of juice on the loose," but hey, it's English, right?

The song has gained such popularity in the school that when some of the students see me, they smile, put their thumbs to their ears with their fingers spread wide and shriek, "Moose!" followed by giggles. When I walk into some classrooms, the sudents immediately plead, "Lindsey Ma'am, dance! Please!" So I started using it as a bribing tool. If you do this adverb exercise and write a paragraph about this story, we'll do the moose song. This worked quite well for awhile, but they have caught on to my scheme, and it no longer works. I now spend half of classtime fending off requests to sing and dance like a moose full of juice.

I am afraid that long after I'm gone, I will not be remembered as the American who taught them how to punctuate their sentences or why you should say "They are" rather than "They is," but as the lady who taught them that the moose liked to drink a lot of juice and even though he drank it with care, he still spilled it on his hair.

Punjabi Dances, Shaking It to Shakira and Marching Like the Saints

I have decided that I unintentionally picked the best time to come to India and the Carman School. I initially chose the months of September, October and November because it was post-monsoon season, and I was getting kicked out of my apartment anyway. October happens to be the month of the Dusshera and Diwali holidays allowing me both a fascinating glimpse into the festivities and time off from school to travel more. But at the school, I've also been fortunate to witness the season of dancing and singing competitions as well as the annual sports day.

Lively dancing and music are such engrained parts of the traditional and modern culture here. You can't walk down the street or ride a bus without hearing Hindi music blasting (I think my favorite is Punjabi). And everyone's always in the mood to start shaking their hips, waving their hands and shrugging their shoulders. Right before Dusshera we had a folk and modern dance competition at the school, and let me tell you, there's nothing cuter than seeing eight-year-olds decked out in traditional garb. The older students put together dances to Shakira, Ricky Martin and the like. A week ago, we competed in a dancing and singing competition against a several other schools. These kids are such excellent dancers. One of our students could definitely put Senor Martin to shame. I love that the male students take get as into the dancing as the girls. I think you'd be hard pressed in America to convince high school boys to put on sequined tops and shake their his to Shakira. One group of girls put together a dance to Michael Jackson, and they came out in skirts so short that even I blushed. You can imagine the reaction of conservative Indian parents. They completed their dance to stripping off their tops, leaving only sports bras, and little applause. I felt a little embarassed for them.

Sports Day is a competition between the four houses in the school. They compete in running races, tug of war, swimming and badminton. The event with the most weight in the final scores, however, is the march pass. The students had been practicing since before I arrived at the school for this event. Each day the march like little soldiers to the beats of the drum or static-filled recordings of "When the Saints Go Marching In." As we got closer to the main event, the teachers began to fine-tune the students' marching. I heard one teacher barking over and over at the KG class to keep their elbows straight. Really, the kids are five and their English is very limited. They don't know their elbow from their ear. It all came together in the end though, as these events usually do, and the kids had fun and looked like perfect little marching saints.

Getting My Feet Wet

I once met a girl from Nepal whose family owned a trekking company. She spent a couple of days training with the mountaineering staff at Adventure Unlimited, and it was in Colorado that she reached her first summit, a 14,000 foot peak. I remembered being amazed that she lived among the greatest mountain range in the world and had trekked above 18,000 feet many times, but never actually climbed to the top of a mountain.

This memory all makes sense now that I understand more about trekking, and that it isn't exactly mountaineering, although at times you encounter some pretty steep and rough terrain. It's basically walking from point to point, usually mountain village to mountain village, sometimes passing over huge passes or peaks to do it.

Robert Pirsig wrote, "It is the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top." On my short two day trek, I passed through several mountain villages, met nomads from Punjab with their sheep and horses and saw a variety of wildflowers and crops terraced into the mountainside. In the villages, local people would invite me and my guide in for chai. My conversations were usually limited to "Namaste" and a smile and children asking my name or yelling "Hello! Chocolate? Hello! Chocolate?" My guide usually did some interpreting for more in-depth conversations. The villagers have been spending the last few weeks stocking up food and cow feed for the harsh winters that are about to come. It never ceases to amaze me, though, that in a village where running water was limited, nearly every house had a satellite dish and a DVD player.

I was pleasantly surprised by the varying terrain and landscape of the Himalayas in the Kullu Valley. There were the snow covered, jagged peaks that I always associated with the range, but the peak I climbed, Pitalthsu (spelling?) Peak, was very agrarian and pastoral. Sheep were grazing and corn was growing below tree line. I usually associate corn with the flat prairie lands of my home state of Illinois, not the Himalayas. Cannibis also grows wild in these parts.

At 12,800 feet Pitalthsu Peak is not the highest mountain I've ever climbed, but it might be the steepest ascent I've ever done. I gained 6,000 feet in about three hours. Needless to say, coming down was a bit painful. My toes are well acquainted with the front of my hiking shoes after slamming into them with each step. I discovered later that I cracked both my big toenails very low in the nailbed.

I'm a bit sore, blissfully exhausted and already planning my next trek. Time was a limiting factor this week, but I'm looking into longer treks in Sikkim, the far north-eastern state near the border of Nepal, during November when my teaching assignment is over. Hopefully my toenails will grow back by then.

Good Karma: The Illustrated Version

I finally figured out how to get some photos up here! Don't laugh...despite my year at Laptop Magazine, I am no more tech-savvy than a Luddite.

I added a few to some recent posts. I may go back and add more to some of the older posts as well, just in case you don't know what the Taj Mahal looks like.

This photo is the view from my guest house in Manali. The British girl I met was meeting a friend at this guest house, and I'm glad she led me to it because I never would have found it on my own. It's just off Old Manali Village, but you have to hike for about ten minutes on a narrow path into the valley. There are several guest houses along the way, but this one is at the top.

I'm heading out on a very short two-day trek tomorrow before I head back to Dehradun and my favorite little kids. It's a good thing I figured out how to get the photos up here; I'm fully prepared for breathtaking sights on the trek.

I Think This Monk is Hitting on Me

The bus ride from Dharamsala to Manali makes the non-air conditioned one across the desert in Rajasthan seem heavenly. You need kneepads and a helmet to drive through the mountain roads. I have bruises on my knees and significant knot on my forehead from where I slammed into the window three times. I may have suffered a mild concussion.

About half the passengers were a group of young monks from a monastery in Sikkim on their way to Ladakh. They were all probably in their early twenties and as soon as they got on the bus they shed their robes for jeans, basketball jerseys, and baseball hats cocked to the side. The British girl I was hanging out with commented that if she didn't know better, she would have thought they were "bad boys" from America.

I settled in for the bumpy ride with my new CD player and Indian/Tibetan tunes that I picked up in Dharamsala (I decided not to bring my iPod to India, but after a couple of long bus rides, I decided my trip needed a soundtrack. So I bought a cheap walkman, which might have already bonked out on me. I'm not sure). Anyway, one of the more hyper monks asked the one sitting next to me to switch him seats. He wanted to borrow my CD player, which was fine because I was trying to sleep anyway.

We chatted for a bit about Sikkim and how he had joined the monestary when he was eight-years-old. He was nice, but oddly persistent in the way that he kept insisting that I give him my e-mail address and asking if we were friends. Then he tried to hold my hand. I politely weasled my way out and tried to fall asleep. When I woke up, his hand was on my leg and his head on my shoulder. As if the bus ride weren't uncomfortable enough.

The Dalai Lama Drives Too Fast

The Dalai Lama came back to Dharamsala yesterday (I'm not sure where he was), and there was all kinds of excitement in the town. Many of the shops and cafes were closed, and the streets, except for Temple Road, were very empty. Everyone gathered around Temple Road, and many of the monks and nuns were carrying flowers to greet him with.

He was running late, but I thought I managed to find a pretty decent viewing spot, except that when word spread that he was minutes away, tons of people moved in and started pushing and shoving. You know, for peace-loving hippies, they sure know how to use their elbows.

Anyway, I'm not sure if the wait was worth it. He went by in a split second and I almost missed it. And then it was over. One woman next to me said half the time its a decoy. So basically I waited two hours to see a glimmer of a man who might not even have been the Dalai Lama.

Samsara

In Sanskrit, samsara means "continuous flowing" or "continuous movement," which in Buddhism, refers to the constant cycle of birth and death or reincarnation, only escaped through enlightenment. In Tibetan Buddhism, it can also be interpreted as "wheel of suffering."

I was thinking about this concept last night as I attedned a local jam session (I know, how hippie of me, but when in Rome, right?). Anyway, the place was packed with dreadlocked travellers and young Tibetans. The music was great and the company even better. I sat with two German girls and a Canadian woman with her Tibetan husband and their two-year-old son.

A few people spoke about the changing attitudes of young Tibetans, a lost generation born in exile. I've heard mummerings about a desire for a less peaceful approach to the occupation of the country, particularly by the younger Tibetans.

The whole room joined in to sing Bob Marley and Pink Floyd. One man, who was a couple decades older than the majority of the wanderlusting twenty-somethings in the room led everyone in "Blowing in the Wind." I realized he was one of a handful of people in attendance who probably sang that song the first time around, and how tragic it is that we sing the same politcally-charged songs of war and peace that our parents sang, not out of nostalgia, but out of relevance.

Thought for the Day

A Precious Human Life

"Everyday, think as you wake up, Today I am fortunate to have woken up. I am alive. I have a precious human life. I am not going to waste it. I am going to use all my energies to develop myself, to expand my heart out to others, to achieve enlightenment for the benefit of all beings. I am going to have kind thoughts toward others. I am not going to get angry or have bad thoughts about others. I am going to benefit others as much as I can."

-His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama

Waterfalls, the Mud Pond and Celebrity Status

Having had enough conversations about getting a guru, how to be your own therapist and techniques to help your dog and cat meditate, I decided to get off the streets of McLeod Ganj and onto the trails.

Yesterday morning I walked to the Bhagasunag temple and then continued on to a waterfall. Wasn't really the serene walk I thought it would be, considering the steady stream of people with the same idea. I came upon a group of Indian school children on holiday and was bombarded with requests for my photograph. Not sure why they picked me out. I'm not exactly an anomaly here; foreign tourists overrun the area. But after they followed me pleading, I decided to indulge them just to shake them.

The waterfall and views from it were lovely, but the whole endeavor took less time than I anticipated so I returned to town for lunch and advice on another day hike. The owner of my guest house suggest Dal Lake and then on to the village of Naddi for the sunset. Sounded good to me, although I decided halfway into the hike that I should bag the sunset. If I watched it set, that would mean hiking back in the dark, not something I was keen to do.

As I paused along the road to capture the scenery, I was again stopped for photographs, this time by four Nepali men on motorcycles. I think they must have me confused with someone.

The lake was a major disappointment. It was nothing more than a muddy pond with boats shaped like dragons and ducks that you could float around in for a couple of rupees. And there wasn't much of a view. It was a good walk, though, and hopefully a warm up to better hikes and treks to come.

Tibetan Refugee: Dolkar Kyap

After the film, I had dinner at a place called Khana Nirvana and sat in on one of their weekly lectures by a Tibetan refugee. I was amazed at the compsure that Dolkar Kyap had as he spoke through an interpreter about being hung from his handcuffed hands for hours upon hours, being beaten, his eyesight destroyed, denied food and water and forced to work. He talked about how prisoners' kidneys were ripped out and sold on the black market. If I weren't hearing the words of the interpreter, I would have thought this well-groomed man in camo pants, tan polo shirt and hiking boots was giving a lecture on local hikes rather than the horrors of being a political prisoner. His lecture was peppered with occasional laughter and his voice remained calm, never rising in anger, but I could feel angr and disgust rigins in my own chest as he spoke.

He was sentenced to five years in prison for posting freedom and environmental awareness posters in his town. One of his main causes was to expose the natural resources being stipped from Tibet and the severe degradation of the natural landscape. He noted that after being released, you are never truly free because you can never hold a job and people avoid you out of fear of becoming a suspect as well. Since 9/11, some of the Tibetan political dissidents have been labled terrorists by the government. He has written a book about his ordeal that is currently being translated into English and he's researching a second based on the sale of prisoners' organs on the black market.

One woman at the lecture pointed out that she has specifically not visited China or Tibet because she does not want to support China in anyway, espeically by giving the country her money. She asked Mr. Kyap if boycotting the country was a good way to show support for the Tibetan people. He answered that while he understood why she was avoiding the country, visits by Westerners could help raise awareness among the Chinese people, most of whom are not fully aware of the plight of the Tibetans or have been educated to see benefits in the occupation. Mr. Kyap expressed that he was not blaming the Chinese population, only the government and its human rights abuses. The vast majority of individuals support human rights and freedoms. He also pointed out that there is virtually no way to avoid supporting China and the governments' treatment of prisoners with our dollars. He said that many of the prisons are given factory names to disguise their real identity, and many of the goods China produces, from shoes to car parts, are produced by prisoners (both Tibetan political prisoners and Chinese criminals) who are working for free.

Even in this age of information and communication, there are still so many things we have such limited knowledge about. We hear stroies from these refugees that are denied by the government, and we see few photos or documented film evidence that might be able to evoke more action. This is only my account of what I learned yesterday from one man and one film. There is a lot of literature about the history and personal accounts from refugees if you want to learn more. I would recommend the book Fire Under the Snow, by Palden Gyatso, an imprisioned monk who escaped to India and smuggled out some of the torture devices used against him.

Red Flag Over Tibet

I spent Sunday afternoon and evening learning more about the occupation of Tibet and its refugees. I started by visiting the Tibet Museum and watching a screening of "Red Flag Over Tibet" (1994), shot by an American journalist who traveled from Nepal to Lhasa as a tourist since journalists were not really welcome in Tibet. The film was an intriguing and troubling look into the way the Tibetan culture been almost completely destroyed and hundreds of thousands of its people killed, displaced, imprisioned and tortured. It also discussed how the environment is being destroyed and the Tibetans still living in Lhasa and other parts of Tibet are strictly limited and monitored and many are out of work, replaced by the influx of Chinese who come there for better money-making opportunities.

A few of the Tibetans, speaking under strict anonimity, that the journalist talked to expressed discontent with the Dalai Lama's nonviolent stance. They were ready to pick up arms to fight for their country. The Dalai Lama was five when he was named the 14th Dalai Lama, 15 when he fled Tibet, and 19 when he started appealing to foreign governments for help. When I was five, I was tasting Elmer's glue, at 15, my biggest troubles were the braces on my teeth, and at 19, I was probably appealing to bartenders at Kam's.

The footage of Chinese brutality against Tibetan demonstrators is very limited, but there were a few snippets shown in the museum. I read accounts of how prisoners were tortured, women who were violated with electric batons and released prisoners who were ignored by family and friends out of fear and could never again get a job. I was haunted the rest of the day by the looks in the eyes of the ragged refugees, photographed as they stumbled down from the mountains into Dharamsala.

Om Shanti

I took a yoga class this morning, which was great. I love doing yoga here even more than at home because the focus here is much more on the spiritual than the physical exercise, and I've found that I can actually bend and twist myself into much more difficult positions because I'm not thinking about the body at all. Today's class was incredibly inspiring because we were facing large windows that displayed the mountains in all their glory. I was reminded of what John Muir said: "Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days opening a thousand windows to God." It's no wonder all the religions of the world convene here and people come in droves to find enlightenment; you'd have to be made of stone not to be inspired in some way.

My dad once told me that it was natural for me to be attracted to yoga because it's the combination of religion and exercise, two things I value. I said I like it because I like any workout that involves lying on your back with your eyes closed for fifteen minutes. Actually, the mediation part is the most difficult for me. Clearing my mind isn't easy because it's usually running at a thousand miles per hour, thinking of dozens of things at once. But today I listened as Yogi Shivam talked about making our thoughts like still water rather than a quickly flowing river. I think I managed to slow mine down to at least a trickling stream. But I did use the time for my own peacful, spiritual thought, and even though Sivam wanted me to focus on nothingness, I think the inspiration I pulled from that time was more beneficial.