Hippies and happiness (Pokhara)

We arrived to eat dinner and sip cocktails with a perfect view of this beautiful lake. I had no idea what I was expecting when I left for Pokhara, but I wasn’t expecting the quiet little Queenstown-like town it is.

Before long, with more new friends, we ventured to the other side of the lake where the Brits had randomlly found a cute little guesthouse with a family, home grown foods and an even greater view of the lake. (Header picture). Had it been any other time of year, this view would have been a panorama of the Himilayas… damn it! Oh well, can’t really complain when it’s still this beautiful.

The family had five dogs! Soooo cute!!!

Lake and mountains, what a combination.

Time stood still after a big glass of a “special” banana lassi.

Good food, good friends, good music, books and movies, friendly dogs and lovely bush and lake walks. I left a day later feeling as if I had been doing absolutely nothing for months.

On occassion, very early in the morning, the sky is clear enough to catch the Himalayas peaking through and tease you with what you’re missing. It’s as close as I’ll get to them on this trip – it’s off season and walking all day in the fifty degree heat is not so appealing…

 

Watching people meditate is almost a meditation in and of itself.

I found myself a new yoga guru, Rishi from Rishikesh, to teach complex asanas (poses) and pranayama techniques (breathing) and the theory behind why you do what and the long term health you can create for yourself with yoga.

Yoga combined with a book Gil loaned me containing essays of scholars from the world’s major religions has spurred me to do a lot of thinking about life, happiness, purpose, and the future. I guess that’s nothing new… it’s just now it’s coming from a less optomistic more realistic post-India perspective… I’m sure I’ll soon be sharing – once I make at least a little sense of it.

Instead of hiking I’ve been spending my days in a hotel pool at the top of a mountain with my yoga buddies. I get a 15 minute hike up the hill – in the heat that’s sufficing my hiking desires for now.

Judit, my new Spanish friend, has plans to go back to India and stay for up to five years… I’m impressed. I guess India is one of those places you either LOVE or HATE. Apparently “The rest of India is great” – I saw India’s worst side – the worst cities in the worst season. Maybe I’ll go back… one day… in the very very distant future…

Cute restaurants abound this place: good food, and VERY CHEAP – like $1-5 a meal!

The best meal was “Buff”, a juicy, tender, sizzling buffalo steak… if only I didn’t have to eat it in shame. Surrounded by vegetarian hippies and Hindis I feel the pain of the animals through the pain they try but fail to conceal in their eyes.

To eat meat, or not to eat meat – that is the question. Usually a debate follows.

I justify my actions by explaining that if our ancestors hadn’t have learned to extract meat and bone marrow from other animals, we may not have survived and our brains certainly would not have evolved to the complexity they are today. Meat is brain food. Then they point out that when it was a question of survival it was one thing, but now we have a choice - there is plenty of other proteins we can eat that do not involve harming other forms of life. They make a good point. Why does meat have to taste so good, smell so good, and make my body feel so good? I usually go on to tell them that beans and vegetables don’t have have the protein or iron of meat. I explain that of course I do not like the idea of animals dying on my behalf but that is the way of nature. We have our pick because we are presently at the top of the food chain, and one day we’ll probably be at the bottom again. I am personally not afraid of death – death is part and parcel with the cycle of life. When I die I hope that other animals eat my body and that the cycle may continue. If you are going to care about animals dying, then what about plants? Are they not lifeforms with some form of consciousness too? Where do you draw the line between different forms of life? More of an issue to me is not the death of these animals for my food… what I care about is the crappy life they have to endure before this death. It’s more difficult when travelling but when I’m home I purchase free range chickens and eggs, and meat that comes from organic farms where the animal has lead a good life and avoiding as much as possible the large scale production facilities. They tend to agree with me on this point. And out of this dialogue I agree it’s a good idea to cut down on my intake. I suppose I don’t need meat/poultry/fish/eggs every day.

By and large my time here has been spent sipping banana lassis and masala tea, reading and writing and dreaming.

I understand how some of the hippies we hang out with at Shiva Bar have been travelling for 15 years!!! One of them uses paragliding as a mode of transport – now that’s a green way to fly…  taking literally the idea of letting the wind guide you to your next destination… 

Life has never been so simple.

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Jun 16, 2010 | Categories: India/Nepal | 1 Comment »

From Bangkok to Bikes, Bollywood and Bongs (Kathmandu)

On the plane from Sydney to Bangkok, a some three weeks ago now, I met Bipeen – a Nepali who has been living in Australia the last couple of years who was on route to visit his family in Kathmandu.

“I’ll pick you up at the airport” he wrote me on facebook.

Sure enough he did, and his kind and generous family invited me to stay a night and experience typical family life in the Tibetan area of the city.

Tibet may be in strife but at least Tibetan culture is everywhere!

The view from Bipeen’s family home.

I spent the next day on the back of Bipeens bike, exploring temples and shops, and coming home with far too much stuff than I know how to get to transport to Sydney (what you can see on the top picture above is the least of it).

We even squeezed in a Bollywood movie named Kites (one thing I forgot to do in India). Set in Las Vegas and Mexico, with English words jumbled throughout the Hindi and an onscreen kiss (oo la la – a big no-no for Indian movies) – this movie was a new breed of half-Hollywood-Bollywood. A very over-the-top love story about the torment over choosing between true love and money. The protagonists chose love, a very lustful love… I loved it!!!

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The next day I farewelled his family and set off to find some hiking buddies in Thamel. Instead I met up with Gil, a Brit I’d made on a plane from Coimbatore to Delhi about five days go, and while missing to meet up with Vilas, an American I’d met on the plane from Delhi to Kathmandu (are you noticing a pattern here?), I enjoyed an entertaining night on the town and on shisha (well I gave it a short puff anyway – I’m not very good at inhaling) and laughing at those who were better at it.

…

While Nepal may be far more relaxed than India, it faces similar issues: horns still beep (albeit not as loud), beggars still beg (while with more limbs attached), and street husslers still hassle you for this and that, with bargaining required for every last rupee. On most occasions I’m too lazy to argue over a dollar or two and then when I see seasoned travellers getting everything from rooms to taxis to souvineers, for half the price I pay. Apparently it goes part and parcel with the nationality: Aussies/Brits/Americans/West-Europeans pay the most, then South American/ Spanish /Eastern Europeans, and with Israelis/Middle Eastern and hippies with dreadlocks getting the best deals without even trying… Slowly slowly I’m starting to haggle, as friends demonstrate the way. They say a price, you say half, then you meet in the middle. That’s the game and while it’s a pain in the arse, I’m starting to realise that playing it actually feels better than knowing you’ve been ripped off.  

My worst experience in Kathmandu was THE BABY NEEDS MILK SCAM.

“Please please come,” a mother with child in one arm grabbed me with the other, leading me to a supermarket. “My baby needs milk,” she said, showing me an empty bottle. I looked into the child’s big brown eyes and I nodded, how can I not buy this poor baby some milk?

As I walked into the supermarket I saw the checkout chicks shake their head. When the mother lopaded me up with two large boxes of powdered milk, each 1000 rupees ($20) and a third smaller box for 800 rupees I wasn’t sure what to do. I was expecting a small carton of milk costing a dollar. “You have to mix them,” she said. I put one of the identical boxes back and handed 1800 rupees at the checkout. As I exited the woman thanked me and invited me over for tea at her house, some 1 hour drive away. I declined politely then looked up to be surrounded by more women with babies in their arms and empty milk bottles in their hands.

“Milk for my baby, please, please,” they said. “I have five babies at home. I need to give them milk. Please.” I look into more little children’s eyes and nearly fall for it again.

“I have no money left,” I told them, “share with this lady.” 

“There is ATM over here,” a mother that couldn’t have been older than twenty told me, pulling me toward the bank. Then it dawned on me: I’d fallen for the oldest scam in the book. The boxes of milk powder had been placed to one side of the road, and the woman with the baby was now looking for more prey to scam into buying more mik powder which I guess she could sell.

“If you can’t afford to feed your babies then stop having them,” I told them, walking away in a huff. I hate so much what poverty does to people. I found out later that babies are rented out for the day, that often they are dropped so they look like they are “crying for milk.” $40 for 10 minutes work. A clever yet deceptively sick way to make one’s living.

…

Similar and in a better way to India, as you can see from the photos, Nepal offers many good experiences that make up for the few bad ones. One of these good little moments was in a shop where I bought some little chimes and asked the shop keeper what the symbols on it mean. “OM MA HUN,” he read. “It means accept the now. 100%. This is happiness. The sound is the dance of silence in your heart. It represents inner peace. Peace comes when your heart and mind are balanced.” I thought it a lovely little message to take away, and I didn’t bother negotiating on the price.

…

Gil and his friend Brett were leaving the next morning for Pokhara. “You’re welcome to jump in our cab!” they offered. Porque no?! And so began a new little adventure…

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Jun 13, 2010 | Categories: India/Nepal | Leave A Comment »

A golden farewell to the Golden Triangle (Delhi)

Counting the days in Mumbai and the Golden Triangle I probably spent a total of one week in what most seasoned travelers would laugh at me for calling raw-India. It was raw enough for me. And I definitely didn’t shed a tear as I stepped on the plane.

The overnight train (in first class) was easy, hop on at 1230am, get off at 6am, and in between catch a few tunes on the last of my iphone battery and a few winks of sleep. I’d organised for Mohan, my friend’s driver who had hooked me up with the friend with the dodgy car, to pick me up at the station. I figured it was a little risky – seeing as his car might be the same as his friends – but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least I have some connection with this guy as opposed to the random taxi and tuk tuk drivers that bombard you when you step off the train.

This time my faith in humanity was rewarded. Rewarded with a fricking cool car, a quick tour around the city, chai tea local style, and a good connection for future purchases I might want be sent to Oz, and travelers I might want to point in his direction (no I’m not getting a commission)… Seriously, Mohan and his 1950s ambassador car, were awesome!!!

Mohan. If you’re going to Rajistan and want to do it in this cool a/c car, let me know and I’ll pass on his details.

India Gate – a war memorial for lives lost in WW1, 90,000 Indian soldiers fighting on behalf of the British Empire who were occupying India.

An impressive looking temple we drove passed. I think Mohan said it was Hindu, but don’t quote me on that – I was quite tired.

Tea local style.

Presentation is everything. I love these little glasses that fit neatly into a wire-tray of glasses. So cute!

It was very very VERY good tea. And the biscottis, a wholesome breakfast.

…

It was a golden end to my blink-and-you-miss-it Indian adventure. Farewell Golden Triangle. Goodbye India. Hello Nepal!!!

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Jun 11, 2010 | Categories: India/Nepal | 1 Comment »

A more-golden Golden Triangle (Jaipur)

If you read my last entry you will probably remember it was written in an exhausted and over-it state of mind. But, as we all know, for every down there is an up. You never know what is waiting for you around the next bend. Or who is going to pick you up at the Jaipur train station.

With my pack on my back and three bags in my hands, I stepped down from the half-moving train, and while scrambling to look in my notebook where exactly my meeting point is, a knight in a white turban holding a sign called out my name. He took my bags and directed me to his car, enthusiastically telling me stories about his experiences with Ayurvedic massage,  art, and hotels – some of his life passions.

Mr Singh is not just a driver, he is also the owner of the Hotel Pearl Palace, where I had prebooked my night (in India arriving at 1030pm one must be organised). Pushing through my tired state within minutes I found myself sitting in his rooftop restaurant enjoying an incredible view of the sparkling city lights, drinking beer and philosophizing about creativity, money, religion, opportunity, freedom, friendship and facebook. It was quite a spin-out.

White turbans, in case you didn’t know (I didn’t) are a sign of a Sikh. As is the surname “Singh” to which many Sikhs are called. Sikhism is an offshoot of Hinduism that started in the warrior-class around 500 years ago. Sikhs are very friendly, very passionate about their jobs, and have a strong attitude to work hard, share generously, and enjoy life. Well that’s what the books say and my little experience with one confirmed the stereotype.

Mr Singh pulled out his laptop and showed me pictures of the new hotel he is building down the road: each room a different theme, from jungle-themes to karma-sutra and beyond. The golden key ring I was holding was his design, as was the chairs and tables n the restaurants, some resembling trees, others like hands… amazingly creative. Quite an inspiring character, I must say.

Eventually, after almost 24-hours on-the-go, I made it to my room.  I turned the A/C off and collapsed on the most comfortable king-size bed I’ve slept in in years. I looked across to the lavish artworks covering the walls, and up at the peacock feathered artwork plastered behind the fan above me – every single item in this hotel was clearly chosen with love and care. Am I staying in some expensive hotel? Nope. I paid a little extra for the air conditioner (not quite sure why I bother considering I always turn it off), and the night in what seriously felt like pure luxury, cost only 900Rs (about $20!). What a turn of events. Maybe India isn’t so bad.

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The next day I met Tom and Ben, fellow backpackers from England and Oz, at breakfast. We proceeded to spend the day shopping for gems and silver, fabrics and bags, as well as visiting a few forts and getting lost in local streets. These guys had been in India, and had the blokey had-enough-bullshit and not-gonna-take-no-shit-from-noone down pat. I’d never thought I’d take delight in hearing someone tell another person to “piss off” (the lightest of the language used). But I did. It was strangely satisfying, like some kind of revenge for all the rip-offs I’d experienced. Not to mention the power of true bargaining… “How much?” I’d ask. “1000 rupees” The shop keeper would reply. “200″ one of my new friends cut in. “No way” the shop keeper would say, yet before long we’d settle on 300. I’d probably have paid the full 1000, or at least 900, had I not had these boys around. I have a lot to learn.

Wandering local streets was celebrity time again. But this time the tables had turned – it was the children, and the adults, who insisted I take their photo. Every time we thought we were done, they would pull us over to someone else and point and pose and smile. It seems there is a model inside everyone…

Actually this photo reminds me of that print ad for… I think it was Burberry… where Agnes Deyn and other models are jumping toward the fish eye…

When we finally escaped we became the Pide Piper…

We did manage to squeeze in a famous array of Indian foods with a Rajistan Thali.

Check out a close up:

Thanks to this mind-body ayurveda connection I’m learning self control. I stopped when I was full which was long before the plate was done. I did try some of everything. The pink and yellow was the best. Sugary who-knows-what. Mmmm mmm!

Below is a couple more of my favourite candid shots:

Women ninjas…

So cute!

Maybe even cuter!!

AUM…. AUM… Everyone’s eating.

“What are you looking at?”

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

A fort.

A shop.

The view from the top.

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Jun 11, 2010 | Categories: India/Nepal | Leave A Comment »

A not-so-golden Golden Triangle (Agra)

I have never felt so dirty and disgusted in my entire life. A thick layer of smog and filth covers my skin. My feet are black. My finger nails are blacker. It is definitely one of those all-I-want-is-a-shower-and-bed moments. But my disgust is far deeper than these physical qualities. In the last 24-hours I feel as if I have been lied to and deceived by more people than in 27-years of life.

My tendency to see the best in people is getting the better of me.  I was warned by my sister, and even in Melbourne when an Indian taxi driver acted like my friend then ripped me off $40. I tried to prepare myself but it seems my mind is so cultivated to look for positives that it is harder than I thought. I knew in coming to India alone I was throwing myself in the deep-end. I guess I didn’t realise quite how deep, and that it would be full of rips and currents trying to pull me under. Or maybe I’m just not as strong a swimmer as I thought. My temporal conclusion: India and I, DO NOT MIX.

Well I wanted to experience India and I got it. I wanted to experience Indian trains and I got that too. And I’m glad tomorrow night’s will be the last.

I’m in AC-3tier which means three beds stacked on top of each other in lines creating a dorm room inside an air-conditioned carriage. Seeing as I was traveling 5-10pm I thought a lower bed a good idea- easier access to try foods and observe what comes past. No. The lower beds turn into a chair and shared by all meaning you can’t lie down and there is no way to escape. Always always always choose the top bunk – then you have a choice. I am surrounded by children and babies who are probably quite cute from a less exhausted-westerner-fed-up-with-India perspective. Don’t children count as people needing a ticket? Why didn’t I choose a top bunk? It’s okay. It’s only five hours. I can ignore the wrenching smell of breast milk for five hours. I should be more grateful – a moment ago I thought I was going to be thrown off the train for not printing out my ticket…

“What seat are you?” asked a neighboring passenger.

“41″ I replied.

“No, this man’s ticket is 41,” he informed me.

My first time on these trains and Mohan (my friend’s driver) had met me in Agra and looked up my seat number on his phone. At this time I didn’t know if I could trust him – considering the disasters experienced with his friend’s car in Delhi. And when it came to this ticket, I had no written proof of anything. Thank God it was just an honest mistake – as it turned out I am seat number 45 and a 50 rupee ($1.50) fine was all I got for not printing out my ticket. I am grateful not to be spending the night laying next to the almost-naked moaning dude laying on the train station floor.

I don’t know how much more of this I can bare.

Especially the children who look at you with big eyes and an open hand. One at the station pointed to her mouth so I bought a deep fried samosa for her. It cost the same price that two poached eggs cost me this morning (20 rupees – 60 cents), which would have been better for her.  I suppose deep fried crap is better than nothing, although nothing you give in this country ever seems to be enough. Everyone wants more. Even a generous payment for a tuktuk is looked at by the driver as an insult – even when you tip over and above the agreed amount that you already know is a ripoff. “More? Please madam, I want some more…”

I can’t blame them – if I were in their shoes I’d probably be doing the same. They have been brought into this mindset that sees rich foreigners as there to be sucked try, as much as one can.

I must warn you, these thoughts are coming after a long day that began with a 230am wake-up call in Delhi.

It was another day of highs and lows – the highs which included the Taj Mahal and the coldest and greatest banana lassi I’ve ever tasted (I downed three), and with lows mainly revolving around the uneasy feeling I get simply from being eyed down and ripped off by every single person that sets eyes on me.

“Did you notice every guy is looking at you?” a friend noted. “They’re not just looking at you, they are seriously fucking you with their eyes.”

Eyes of awe. Eyes of despise. Eyes of people thinking who-knows-what.

I can ignore the eyes to some extent, especially when I’m with other backpackers, but as I discovered today it’s in the moments I find myself alone that I become easy prey. My life’s not in danger – just my wallet… and my respect for other members of the human race. If I ever come back to India it will be with a big strong man, or at the very least a confident street-smart friend, to travel with. But to be honest, I’m doubtful I’ll return. At least not any time soon.

The drive to Agra was another shut-your-eyes-and-pray-your-driver-doesn’t-crash moment – surrounded by honking large trucks – all with drivers you can be sure have not taken their proper 2 hourly break. Then my driver presented me with a tour guide I had not requested.

“You can tip him if you like,” my driver dismissed. Say goodbye to another 500 rupees. At least he was a good guide, sharing lots of facts and figures I’ve now forgotten, and not-half-bad photographer either – directing me to stand here and there, in between the bursts when people would throw babies in my arms for more photos-with-the-foreigner.

Walking to the taj

My favourite of a just a few takes…

My guide and me with Jaap, my new Dutch friend.

The fort in the distance is where the poor taj who built the Taj Mahal spent the last years of his life

Me the celebrity. Lol!

I had to laugh when my fans thanked Jaap instead of thanking me. If you are travelling with a boy you must be married to him – at least that’s what this culture seems to presume.

I wasn’t at the taj for sunrise as I had planned, but when the 50 degree heat hit at about 10am I was glad my site-seeing had long been done and dusted. Now I was free to spend the rest of the day hanging about in a little cafe with other backpackers. That is, after getting all my bags form the car where (alone for ten minutes) I got ripped off by one of those stupid shop scams.

“It’s important you see this,” said my tour guide, “they show you exactly how the stones were carved into the Taj Mahal.”

First I was induced into a state of pity – shown the skinny workers making handicrafts and the deformed fingers that were resulting from the work. Then I was taken into a showroom. I was strong in the first showroom, but not so strong in the second one. Damn it! Just a couple of items that I’m sure I paid triple-price for. These sales people know their stuff.

View from Jaap’s hostel where (thankfully) I could leave my bags for the day.

It doesn’t look like much but this banana lassi was the bomb!!!

Just like with the beggars I give money to, and the tuk tuk drivers I over-pay, these little rip-offs put me in a funny head-space. The price I’m paying is cheap for the number of hours these people put into it, but the prices (about 1000 rupees, or $25, per piece) is still a lot of money to which almost none of it will make it into the hands of these weathered artist-slaves. And then there’s the compulsory bargaining process, which I’m too lazy to really be good at. I mean, I really can’t be bothered arguing over a dollar, but each time I don’t I know the dollars in my not-so-big budget, do add up. Oh man, what a head-fuck. I tell you what, if there is one thing I will take away from this place it’s a renewed appreciation for all I have: for my country, my people, and life in my western world.

Anyway I made it through the day, and soon I will arrive in Jaipur where (hopefully) my hostel will pick me up and I’ll finally get that much-needed shower and sleep.

India is another world. I am an alien on another planet. E.T. want go home…

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Jun 09, 2010 | Categories: India/Nepal | 3 Comments »

Trusting one’s instincts

More than any other country I have visited, in India you have to trust your instincts. Look into someone’s eyes and you know. Even if people who should know assure you it is ok – that you can trust this taxi driver and that the driver knows the location of the domestic airport located some ten kilometers away – if you look into the driver’s eyes and see nothing, or have ‘that” feeling. Trust it. And try the next cab that drives past.

When the driver starts taking narrow winding streets, trust your instincts. Do SOMETHING!!! And it was only at that final crux when everything inside me shouted DANGER that I finally listened to my intuition.

“Airport sir? Domestic airport?” I asked firmly with the tone of a scolding parent. He stopped the car and turned around almost scowling. The look in his eyes said it all. He knew I knew and he wasn’t sure what to do. “You take me to the airport right now. NOW!!!” I screamed in the most aggressive bellowing mean voice I didn’t realize I had inside me.

“Domestic airport? Ahh… Yes ma’am.” He squirmed, looking around for help. “Airport domestic?” he asked a plump man with a moustache who was walking passed. The man pointed back to the direction we had come. The blank faced hollow eyed driver turned the car and took me to the airport. I then had to direct him into the terminal and point out the departures sign when he started to drive into the arrivals. He took my bags from his trunk and said, “250 rupees,” without looking at his price book or the meter, which I then realized he had not turned on. Seeing as a 40 minute journey in the same type of cab had cost 70 rupees the day before, I looked at him in disgust and handed him the 80 rupees I had in my hand, a sum I new was far too generous considering this man (who I still did feel sorry for) had either tried to kidnap me or pretend to get lost simply to rip me off, and then had again tried to rip me off by asking for five times what the price should have been. He accepted the money. I walked away seething inside. Did I mention how much I love India? I definitely have a love-hate relationship with this place. And at this moment it is far more hate then love.

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May 28, 2010 | Categories: India/Nepal | Leave A Comment »

Chapter 2 – One Country, Many Worlds

There seems to be a great reverence for Gandhi throughout India. His face features on every rupee note, and his philosophy and practice of non violence gained a mention in almost every Indian speaker’s presentation at the conference. “Truth is God”, said Gandhi, dedicating his life to it. “You will not have peace, unless you love the truth,” said one of the speakers.

While I was relieved my presentation was over, I did take away a number of fantastic messages from the conference. My favourite was from an academic from Nigeria who made the point that “peace begins with mothers” – when a child is brought up in a peaceful environment, they will not divert from peaceful values. “When you have peace in the home, you will have peace in the country, and peace in the world.”

“The world is getting smaller, our horizons must get larger.” “A peace army requires peace weapons, not weapons of war. What are peace weapons? Love, service, fate, prayer from all the religions, and truth.” ”We need to do more than respect diversity – we need to celebrate it.” “The corporatisation of religion is the problem, not the religion itself. The problem starts when one’s identity is consumed by it. The dogmatic authoritative beliefs are not innate – they are placed there.” “Violence is not an action – it is a response, a reaction.” “Our aim should not be to gain victory, but to come to mutual understanding.” (Just to name a few of my favourite quotes of the day. I will have to wait till the papers are released to attribute them to the scholars appropriately).

Having filled up on yet another large buffet lunch of Indian cuisine and sweet desserts, my new friend Sunny (nickname for Mrinal) introduced me to his girlfriend Varsha who was about to go shopping with his mum. Let’s face it shopping in a new city with local girls is an offer no girl in their right mind would miss. So I decided to play hooky from the last couple of hours of ceremonial peace conference, and jump in Varsha’s car.

“No seatbelt,” Varsha reminded me as I searched for something to tie me to the car before we hit my least favourite streets in our world.

Cities always transforms the second you are seeing it through the eyes of a local. What was scary and horrifying is normalized and shrugged off. The air-conditioned car seemed to block out the sound of the honks, leaving my senses free to peer out and observe, relaxed and (relatively) safe. My friend played dodgem cars with ease, chatting to me while she honked her horn yet still retaining her lady-like manner.

As I watch the streets I noticed that alongside cows, it’s the dogs that live the good life. They own and roam the streets, seemingly more intelligent and free than half the population. Cows have it even better. And I see why: it’s all in the eyes. No body in their right mind messes with the cow.

At a shop, a pretty and very petite Indian sales girl who looks younger than my 13 year old sister communicates and commands attention of someone much older. Curiosity gets the better of me – I have to know, so I ask. She is 22, and married. “That’s what happens when they don’t get enough nutrition as a child,” my friend explains. She was tiny – in every way. There she is, without enough food, and here I am, with every meal: breakfast, lunch and dinner, a smorgasbord at my finger tips. I look down at my own growing belly. In three days I’ve put on weight already – I can see it. As if I needed to do that after the last few months of ankle sprains and chocolate binges while writing and editing and sitting on my ass. Each day at the conference I eat a big lunch thinking I won’t eat dinner, and then friends insist I come with them for more food and drink. Each bite is enjoyable yet brings me one step closer to the well-known proudly rounded Indian body shape – well at least it’s the body shape of the wealthy anyway.

They may be a conservative crowd – I have been warned that showing one’s shoulders or legs being a big no no - but when it comes to big bulging stomachs that’s the one thing you let loose from your dress. Midriffs show like Britney in the nineties but while Britney’s abs (back then) were quite a pleasant site for the eyes, I’m not sure I can say the same about the women I see on the streets. There is something to be said for not caring, for being proud of what you have got, and not being obsessed with one’s weight. It may be healthier for the mind, but I highly doubt it is healthy for the body. And it is definitely not for me.

After an afternoon of shopping, my new friends invite me to a small Indian wedding that is a couple of hours from the city. I readily agree – everyone knows to never turn down an invitation to an Indian wedding. This one is small, only around one to two hundred people. My friends, on the other hand, estimate theirs will be huge. By huge I mean around 2000 people!!! His father is well known. There will be many international guests. And I will be invited… wahooo! But it won’t be till later this year, or next… that and invitations to Turkey and Nigeria are setting me up for another interesting trip.

As we drove to the wedding, I looked out at the huts and clothes and people sleeping at the side of a massive highway. “Why has the population gone from 200 million to 1 or 2 billion since the British arrived?” I asked my friend.

“Many reasons,” he said, “lack of education for one.”

“That’s the reason they always give. But what did the British do to change their education? Surely it should have been rising just as fast before the British?”

“India used to be a rich country. Actually it is still a rich country, only it is inhabited by far more poor people than rich,” he started to explain. “Poverty has never been so bad. The worse the poverty, the worse the education, and the more children. People have children because they think it will bring them more money. And then children don’t go to school because they have to work for their parents. Not to mention lack of entertainment – the more poor you are, the more you rely on sex and of course they don’t use contraception so… Also the religion and old caste system doesn’t help. Girls in lower castes get married as young as 8 years old, and start having babies at 12. And then there’s the face that medicines are brought to the villages, so people live longer. Oh and there’s the prostitution cycles – children are basically bred for the sex trade.”

The whole situation is heartbreaking. The population is incomprehensible. Officially sitting around one billion, with others making estimates it’s now around two. And here I am looking at it through the closed glass window of my friend’s air-conditioned car, driven by a chauffeur who has his own wife and children but who I am sure is more than grateful for his job and the generosity my friend gives him.

There are two worlds here: rich and poor. The poor work for the rich and the rich, I suppose, work for the richer. The gap is incomprehensible, and seemingly unfixable. You are born where you are born, and you deal with it. It’s your karma. Apparently. If you are in the lowest class, getting paid pittence to do any job you can, it’s your own fault. You did it to yourself – last lifetime or the one before. Maybe you killed a mosquito. Now you will pay for it. Bullocks yes. But it does make it easier to accept one’s blessed or cursed fate. When did the caste system start? Did it arrive when the Persians invaded? Or was it already in place before that? Questions for me to research when I get home and have more internet time.

As I sit in the car watching, my heart breaks again and again. It is so so sad and so so hard to accept. The most painful wound is the stabbing guilt in my stomach adjoined to the constant feeling of relief and gratefulness that I am sitting on this side of the window.

“What’s that smell?” I ask, as we stop for my friend to buy cigarettes.

“It comes from the sea,” she explains. “The evaporation of the sanitary deposits that are made far too close to the city. During monsoon, the smell gets worse.” Note to self: avoid monsoon at all costs.

The wedding was great – full of incredible costumes and strange and wonderful traditions.

We were tired and seeing as weddings ceremonies go on forever, we called it a night and drove home.

Bright and early the next morning, Sonny picked me up and with my camera in hand I saw the more touristy side to the city.

Now that’s a lot of mangoes!

Coconut water was good. Not as good as Brazil (to be brutally honest), but still very good.

Apparantly a speeding fine equates to a 100 rupee bribe, that is, $2. Damn it, wish we had corrupt cops in Australia.

Cadbury is one of those companies that everyone claims as their own. I thought it was Aussie chocolate, Sonny thought it was Indian, but Google tells me it’s British. Go figure.

This building is being built by the richest guy in the world, or one of the top three richest people in the world (I think my friends said.) Pretty impressive but imagine the great view of the slums – all those people your wealth could help…

Gateway of India – “Erected to commemorate the landing in India of their imperial majesties King George V and Queen Mary on the second of December MCMXI” – it’s beautiful but not such a nice memory for Indians, right? I wonder why it still draws so many tourists?

Feeding corn to the birds. Obviously.

You all know I’m a big Shanatarm fan… so Leopolds was a must!

Sorry about the blur of my new backpacker friends met while sipping beer and chowing down chicken but the lighting in this shot shows Leopolds more than my other shots.

This boy had only one leg. He doesn’t look it in this photo but he was very happy to have his photo taken. And he wasn’t begging. God bless.

Sonny allowed this man, who spoke very good English and had come from the country to the city to find a job but failed, to polish his shoes. The man asked for only 10 rupees, and while chatting to him Sonny learned that if he had a special shoe-box this man could stand in a busier location by the train station and get far more customers.

“How much would a shoe box cost?” he asked.

“150 rupees,” the man answered. When Sonny handed him a hundred rupees he was gob-smacked and tried to hand it back. Sonny insisted and eventually the man gratefully and graciously accepted.

“That’s a better way to give,” Sonny explained. “Help people on an individual level, and help them have jobs not beg.” True, true, true.

Alina and Joel, our new friends from Leopolds, stayed with us for the rest of the day. After markets and KFC, a glass of Rose in his apartment and a frantic shopping spree we dropped in to a last-minute invitation to a bollywood party. Free booze and more delicious buffet food – served around midnight by a stunning pool that due to my flash you can’t see is behind us. What a day!

I want to say a very special thank you to Mrinal whose unmatchable hospitality and generosity caused me to love a city I first hated. And thank you to Varsha and your family too. Thank you so much.

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May 27, 2010 | Categories: India/Nepal | 1 Comment »

The first chapter – Culture Shock and Stage Fright

Don’t worry, I’m not writing another book (not planning on committing to that ginormous task again in a hurry…)  but the first chapter of my 5 weeks in India/Nepal started out with 4 nights in Mumbai, or Bombay as people tend to still call it.

Right from the beginning, before I had even left Sydney at 9pm on Thursday night, something wasn’t right. Well, something wasn’t right according to the security people checking my hand baggage. Although I had ensured not to bring my nail file on board, in my rush to pack somehow I had my pocket knife inside. Down my knife I was promptly checked for drugs and who knows what else. Oops!

Thirteen hours or sixteen hours or whatever it was later (I never keep track of time in transit), we were preparing to land. From the airplane Bombay looked like every other big city : tall buildings and lots of smog.  As we got closer I saw it. The slum. A big mass of grubby tents stretching for miles. It was a stark reminder – Bombay is not your average city.

Before the seatbelt light was off, the other passengers in the half-empty plane started to stand and as I looked around I realised – I was the ONLY Caucation on the flight. Besides two Chinese passengers, everyone was Indian – another sign of what was to come.

Walking toward baggage I stopped in the restroom. Squat toilets. I remember them well – from Thialand and Japan - only I didn’t expect to meet them so soon and in an international airport.

I stood for half an hour while my visa was verified, feeling as if my knife incident had cast an air of suspicion around me. Am I a terrorist in disguise? I’ve read Glamorama by Bret Easton Ellis.. you never know who is playing what role. But know. My role in this world is not that exciting. I am simply an Australian student about to get the greatest culture shock of my life.

I got my bag, the last one circling the belt, and walked toward security. A large Indian woman in a white dres beckoned me to her. What now??? She pointed to the exit. I could miss lining up for yet another security check with the, what seemed like 99% male, passengers. I was free to take my first breath of the fresh clean air Bombay is so well known for. Thank God. Or maybe not.

The air, at that point in time was the last thing on my mind. I walked out the airport door to be confronted by three walls, each 30 meters long, of Indian men holding signs. Please let my pickup be here, I prayed. I walked down the first edge with hopeful eyes. Hopeful eyes gazed back at me saying “pick me” “pick me”. I reached the first corner – crap! – nothing. I started down the second. The I see it: Juliet Bennett … my sign, but no driver standing behind it. The man next to it called over to suntosh, my driver. Phew!!! I was overwhelmed with relief and very glad I had been orgasnised enough to have a pickup.

The ride was enough culture shock for one day. The streets of thic city are seciously insane: motorized rickshaws (or what I will probably forever call tuk tuks), cars, buses, cows. All except the cows are trying to go as fast as they can, hence no one is getting anywhere very fast at all. It is manic. Horns bals from every direction and there appears to be no road rules whatsoever. The only rule seems to be CONFIDENCE – the more agressive the driver (usually, but not always, relative to the size of the vehicle), the more others give way. It is like one massive game of chicken. And the pedestrians seem to be the least important of all. Run or get hit – it is as simple as that. These running targets carry baskets of fruit and carafs of water on their head – the produce they sell.

Skinny children run past with their arms above thier head and wide smiles across their faces, while other ssleep by the side walk in rags. I look out at the mayhem from the comfort of my air conditioned pickup van and thank god once again I had been organised. And that I was born in Australia.

[VIDEO ON ITS WAY]

I arrive at my fairly up-class serviced hotel room to discover it has no computer for me to finish my speech. The first of many moments to come where I would wish, and wish, and wish, that I had brought my laptop with me on this trip. The hotel does have wifi, but my iPhone does not like it much. Either that, or the internet in India sucks. The later is pretty much what my friend who lives here has told me. It doesn’t let me to much more than post a few tweets and pull out my hair trying to access the address of tomorrow’s conference.

I give up and venture out onto the street to find the internet café that the hotel staff insists is just up the road. I look, but I don’t see. After ten minutes on the street my ear drums were bursting, so I give up on that too.

Then my friend, an Aussie director who has been living in Mumbai this last year, replied to a plea I posted to facebook. A phone number. I call it. We organize to meet at Seaview Hotel for a few beers overlooking the beach. At 745pm I took one last deep breath of the hotel’s air conditioned air and stepped back on the street.

Lucky Seaview was easy to find. I was even early, so I invited myself to join a table of three Americans, relieved at the sight of white skin. Note that I have nothing at all against dark skin, in fact I find it beautiful, but after a day of seeing what felt like millions of dark I took comfort in the familiar.

‘You guys look like you speak English,’ I laughed, as I dragged over a seat. They were impressed on my first night in this massive city I had managed to find what they thought was the best place for a cold beer.

‘It took me months before I found it,’ one of them said.

My friend soon joined us and we drank, ate and laughed, then decided to take a taxi into the heart of Bombay and sneak our way into some fancy schmancy club. We managed it, thanks to a low cut dress, and took a seat in what looked much like a British outdoor garden party.

‘So this is how you survive here,’ I let out another sigh of relief. A western haven in the middle of Mumbai mayhem, full of wealthy Indians wearing almost nothing (compared with the outside cover-alls). We drank (one drink apparently costing the same as a rich person pays for a maid for a month), and chatted with a friendly Panjabi man in a turban, who bought us drinks and gave me his card, instructing me to mail him my book when it is published. I agreed with a smile. He was good value.

At 2am I made it home, showering longer and scrubbing harder than I had ever before. Some six hours later I ate the complementary breakfast buffet, venturing out into the unknown Indian cuisines on offer, unsure how my stomach would appreciate curry for breakfast.

It was then that the no-map-no-internet crisis came to a head. I know the name of the conference center, and I know from its website that it is posh and fancy, and by the looks of its centrality on google maps it looked famous, important, and it didn’t look like it was very far away. Unfortunately in Mumbai there are two worlds: rich and poor; and the poor had never heard of such a place. Eventually we managed to get the address of The Club, and with the street name and number scribbled over three long lines on a piece of paper, one of the hotel staff led me to the street. A tuk tuk (I know I know, an auto-rickshaw), stopped and with no taxi in sight, I felt I had no choice but to get in. The hotel dude explained the address to the tuk tuk driver, who looked unsure but nodded in acknowledgement.

There I was gulping in smoke and pollutants, bopping up and down like a piece of pop corn, and hanging on for my dear life as the driver honks his horn and zig zags between traffic – in the new Chloe sunglasses I bought at the airport, my new Leona Edminston dress I bought especially for the event, a Herringbone shirt I had added in attempt make it conservative enough for Indian standards, and holding my black Donna Karan sack bag up to protect my nose from the aweful smells and foul feeling such gross pollution causes one’s insides.  I was almost in tears when suddenly I saw the humour of my situation. I cracked into laughter, pulled out my iPhone and filmed the craziness.

[VIDEO IS ON IT'S WAY]

What a city!

We did get lost, of course, and while what should have taken 15 minutes took an hour, I did eventually arrive at my destination.

‘Peace and Education conference,’ I said to the security man who stopped us at the gate. He let us pass and we continued up a long drive. As we did, the energy changed: welcome to the land of the rich. I paid the tuk tuk the 70 rupees he requested, and 10 extra. 100 rupees is about $2. Less than $2 for an hour’s work – this world is so unfair.

As I walked into the conference entrance door I was suddenly bombarded with ten cameras in my face, two video cameras, and about five Indian girls surrounding me: one put a flower lei around my neck, another put red dye and rice on my forehead, and the others just smiled and said ‘welcome!’ ‘welcome!!’ leading me through toward the massive auditorium decked out with a panel of 12 at the front, and a big sign that read: World Peace Movement Trust. I was lead through and immediately introduced to the Indian Minister of the Tribes, the Minister of Education from Afghanistan (who will soon be running for president!), academics from Nigeria, Germany, Turkey, and many other people whose seeming importance made me nervous and clucky. What the heck are you meant to say to important people??? I was out of my league.

I didn’t know what to expect when I submitted my abstract to a call for papers for this conference, but I had asked Dr Ravindra Kumar, the organizer, how many people were coming and he hadn’t answered with a number. And when I asked about using PowerPoints he said casually, ‘no, just speak about it, I’ve read your writing, you can do it.’

I interpreted this to mean a small conference, maybe 30-40 academics sitting around sharing their research. No-sir-eee. This was quite an ordeal. It even made the newspaper and tv. The ceremonial presentations of respect, flowers, trophies, certificates, all put to dramatic music and captured on camera, meant that all the presentations were cut from 20 minutes to 8-10 minutes.

Lucky my presentation wasn’t until the second day, so I had time to find a computer, make the changes I had wanted to make, and decide what parts were least important to say.

It wasn’t easy, but I did it. And up on the stage in front of a hundred or two hundred people, I nervously read it. The feedback was positive. I was just glad it was over. Now I could relax and what I managed to arrange to be a 5-week holiday can really begin.

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May 23, 2010 | Categories: India/Nepal | 4 Comments »