back home

I'm still half comatose with jetlag, 24 hours after having gotten home. My flight was supposed to leave at 5 am, but when I got to the airport at 2 am it turned out that the flight was delayed until 7 am. As I had only an hour layover in Istanbul this would automatically have meant that I'd miss my connecting flight. With a bewildered look I approached an agent for the airline company, and with unpreceded swiftness, never before encountered in India, I suddenly found myself booked on the next available outbound Lufthansa flight, 2 hours earlier then my original flight.

As I had to run to catch the flight I had no time to change my rupees back to dollars until past the security gates. Well there I discovered that only Indian citizens were allowed to change rupees... And in the duty free only US dollars were allowed! How cheeky!

I therefore arrived in Gothenburg 2.5 hours earlier than according to plan, without having slept all night and after having changed my last remaining 3000 rupess into Swedish krona, (they didn't even cover the taxi fare from the airport...), I found myself outside my parents door only to discover that no-one was home! For 2 hours I plodded around in the rain, grumbingly waiting for my parents to grace me with their presence, and more importantly - the house key. Fair enough, it wasn't their fault, I hadn't notified them about the changed plans, and who on earth would have expected a flight from India to arrive earlier ?! But still...

last night in Delhi

I'm finally feeling better, the antibiotics did the trick with the stomach bug and I've managed to have a WHOLE plate of rice without vomiting. Wohoo!

I'm in Brina and Matt's apartment, watching mind-numbing television and killing my last few hours in India before my flight at 5 am. Matt met me at the train station last night, and on the drive back we came across a horrific motorcycle accident, where the two riders were lying several meters away from the crumbled pieces of the bike. Sirens were signalling the approach of an ambulance and several other people were milling around the motionless riders. As terrible as the accident was, I'm actually even more surprised that I haven't seen more of them, and everytime I've been on a bus I'm sure my heart has skipped a beat or two on numerous occasions.

I'm flying via Istanbul, with only an hour between flights, which will probably mean that I'll miss my connection and get stuck in Istanbul, which is a great city, but I'm really not in the mood for more cultural explorations at the moment. I just want to have my bed and my mum's food.

almost but no cigar

Damn! I was so proud of having survived 5.5 weeks in India without getting food poisoning! Until yesterday that it... I had some scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast from the snazzy hotel I was staying at, and 1 hour later, when standing in line for the shrine at the Golden Temple, I started feeling very nauseous. Frantically I looked around for a convenient spot to vomit, but not surprisingly there was none. I'm sure the koi carps in the pond surrounding the shrine would have had a feast on my leftovers, but my pride stopped me from desecrating this holy place. Instead I rushed back to the hotel, and vomited in their fancy lobby bathroom. Then I tried to blend in into the walls, looking innocent, as I watched the hotel manager ordering the cleaners to unclog the sink. Oops.

I vomited twice more, once whilst on the train to Delhi, after that I decided to start myself on some antibiotics and oral salt replacements. I'm SOO glad that I was travelling first class, it meant that the toilets were at least somewhat decent. And I wouldn't be surprised if the hotel poisoned me on purpose, as a revenge for blowing up on the manager the day before. It is ironic that I get food poisoning from the poshest place I've stayed in during my trip, Hotel City Heart in Amritsar, which also is the only hotel where I've found cockroaches in the bathroom.

I haven't vomited since last night, but I'm still feeling nauseous whenever I try to eat, I'm just crossing my fingers that I'll be ok over the next 24 hours, I can't think of anything worse than being sick on the flight home.

Amritsar

I'm in Amritsar. The Golden Temple is very very cool. I've been to the India/Pakistani border to see the border closure shenanigans. It was fun for 5 min but then I got bored. I'm tired of India and just want to go home now. I finally had my first "India-melt down", yelling at one of the managers of my hotel because they charged me 25% more for the taxi-ride to the border than the other two passengers, plus the fact that the driver was trying to get baksheesh from me by pretending there was a parking fee. I'm not really upset about the money, 2 dollars here or there doesn't really make a difference, I am just tired of being lied to and ripped off. I hate dishonesty. Bleurg.

Himalayan Queen

The toy train from Shimla to Kalka is one of few narrow gauge trains left in the world, and has even made it's way to the UNESCO world heritage list. It rattles and rocks it's way through 96 km scenic mountain rail, 103 tunnels and 864 bridges, at the neck-breaking speed of 22 km/h, and if it wasn't for the stinking diesel fumes of the engine the journey could have been really pleasant. Short food replenishing stops are made at small mountain stations, vestiges of the time when Britain still ruled the world, but it almost seems as if the train also needs to stretch it's legs and catch it's breath before continuing the slow descent onto the Kalka plains.


Getting from Kalka to Chandingarh was a nightmare after the gentle lull of the mountain train. Chandingarh was designed in the fifties, and has been divided up into sectors lined by broad straight avenues. It was built to hold half a million people, but the population is now 2 million and counting, making the city bursting at it's tailored seams. Strangely enough the hotels here are ridiculously expensive, at least for what you get, and it was absurd to discover that the most pricey room of my trip was the only place with live and kicking cockroaches in the dining room.

Bored

I'm bored, bored bored out of my mind. There is nothing to do in Shimla apart from walking either back and forth on the ridge, or uphills, and I'm avoiding the latter at all costs. I don't even feel like shopping, which is highly unlike me, and I bet that I'll regret not buying a few cheap Pashmina shawls at some point in the future, but right now I just don't know what I would do with them.


Tomorrow I'm taking the toy train to Kalka, a train ride which covers 90 kilometers in just over 5 hours. After that I'm planning to get to Amritsar for my final days in India. And I've just recieved an inquiry whether I'm still interested in a position as an emergency night vet in the UK! I don't know any of the specifics yet, apart from that it is in Cambridge. I'm however a bit keen on trying to work with camels, either in Dubai or India. We'll just have to see what happens.

monkey business

I've just been pissed on by a monkey. I'm SO ready to go home now.

tibetan horoscope

Oh yeah, I almost forgot about the Tibetan life horoscope I!

So apparently I will be successful in business and have a good financial status, I will achieve some sort of a fame but with it will come a sudden, unexpected criticism, and I'll generally be happier from the age 35 onwards compared to my earlier years. I'm short-tempered but very good-hearted, and slightly naive (no shit, I give strange little men money to cast funky horoscopes!)

I will eventually get married and have two boys (hm, not so sure I like that part), and I will live until 81. It is advisable for me to do acts for the good of animals (the astrologer DIDN'T know I was a veterinarian), and I should be wearing green and a wooden artifact as protection. (?!)

The funniest part is that I used to be a deity in my previous life, and according to Irina this corresponds to a reading her mother made long time ago, saying that I was a re-incarnated demi-God.
Quote Irina: "the Demi-Gods are actually quite unhappy, cause there is no such thing as the term "God" in Buddhism, so their use of the term is for the humans that were highly spiritual, but fucked up getting to Nirvana somehow, instead ending up in a "God"-realm, where they have almost everything, so much that they don't continue to developing their spirituality, indulge in all the good things around them, and therefore get thrown back into the low human form in their next lifetime."

Yup, sounds about right.

Shimla

Remind me to not take a night bus EVER AGAIN. I've never really learnt how to sleep on the things, and tonight trip from Dharamsala to Shimla was no exception. To make matters worse, the bus actually arrived ahead of schedule, at 5.30 when it was still pitchdark. Not the best of times to try to look for a hotel in a town where basically everything lies uphills. To add to the surreal experience, I was greeted to Shimla by two huge Rhesus macaque monkey casually copulating on the roof top ahead of me.



Stupidly, I was persuaded to let a porter lead me to a hotel I had chosen, despite knowing that often these porters take you to other hotels where you promptly get to pay double the price for their kind services. I thought that if the porter took me to where I wanted I would avoid this whole dilemma. Unfortunately, my chosen hotel was shut down and out of business, which I could see for myself after 5 min strenous walk towards the city centre. So defeated, I let myself be led to a ramshackle, filthy place, where I stayed for only an hour before deciding that I would rather chew off my foot than keep on staying there. I stormed out with my money (well, most of it anyway), and spent half the morning walking up on Shimlas ridge looking for another decent room. I just hate being tricked, especially when I tried my utmost to avoid it!
And why is it that is seems impossible for Indians to CLEAN a room properly? I can't recall other places throughout the world to have that same feeling of dilapidation and decay.


Shimla is a gorgeous city lusciously draped over several mountaintops. In the early hours of dawn the valleys below were still shrouded in fog, with the glistening white peaks of the Great Himalayan range in the distance. It is no wonder that the British set up shop here, creating their own little mini-summer capital with typical British-era houses. This is therefore the city in India which mostly resembles "home", or at least Europe, and it is only adding to the growing urgency of wanting to go back. I think I'm done with India. At least for now.

leaving McLeod Ganj

The rain has finally stopped and brought a rare glimmer of sunshine to McLeod Ganj, together with a large number of Indian tourists. I am anxious to move on, but not really looking forward to my 9 hour night-bus ride to Shimla. Also, it is very weird being in an environment like McLeod Ganj, all these devoted monks and survivor's of year's of terror, make me feel like a bad person, just because I haven't devoted my life to the good of others.

I was once told that my sole altruistic act was when I made chicken soup for our flatmate Jason, who had come down with a cold. I'm sure I've done other good things, however, I cannot seem to recall any. Brina had the opportunity to meet with the Dalai Lama last year, she was even holding his hand throughout the audience he was given to the assembled foreigners. This doesn't surprise me the least, as Brina is one of the few people I know with true compassion in her heart.

I have arranged to have my life horoscope drawn up for me according to Tibetan astrology. I'm anxious, and a little nervous about what I will hear. One one hand I want to know my future, on the other I'm afraid of bad news. Me = always the optimist.

being poorly

It is raining in McLeod Ganj like from a Hollywood disaster movie. The clouds are a menacing shade of gunpowder and frequent thunders threaten with more promise of rain. The water flows down the narrow streets like small rivers. And I have no umbrella.

Yesterday I visited a Tibetan doctor in the hope of finding an alternative way to battle some of my chronic health problems. The doctor however gave me a speech on the austerity of healthy living, and sent me on my way with some herbal pills of unknown origin. Later on I decided to get a second opinion, not realising that I was visiting an Indian government doctor, who gave me a cocktail of antibiotics and decongestants for my cold, which is now so severe that I have problems breathing and can neither smell or taste anything. I'm pretty sure that he overcharged me for his troubles, as I doubt that a normal Indian person can afford a consultation fee of 500 rps. I therefore do not feel guilty in the slightest that I paid him with a defaulty 500-note, which I had accidentally ripped earlier that day. I guess that my karma is never gonna recover.

I very rarely take antibiotics, the last time I did was when I had been bitten in the face by a chow-chow, and even then I did it reluctantly. The only reason I'm doing it now is because I've booked a seat on tomorrows night bus to Shimla, and I really can't travel for 10 hours feeling like this. I've also stocked up on some Vicks vaporiser cream, which brings back unpleasant memories of dissecting sheep, the menthol smell always forever associated with the stench of half-rotten intestines.

Because of my poor state, I've allowed myself the luxury of checking in to a REAL hotel, for the extortionate price of $25 a night. I might even splash out on a heater, as 3 blankets don't seem to do the trick. I'm now off to snuggle up in my bed again, reading the fascinating autobiography of Dalai Lama, whilst listening to the gentle thud of the raindrops on the roof, occasionally interrupted by the heavy thud of a monkey landing.

McLeod Ganj

McLeod Ganj is the home to His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan exile government. Consequently there is a large tibetan community here, made out of parts "normal" refugees, and part monks, most of whom have experienced the cruel whip of their Chinese oppressors first hand. The streets are full with the tall slender figures of the monks in their maroon robes, idly chatting away on the latest mobile phone and sporting modern high tech trekking shoes. It never seizes to baffle me how China has managed to get away with the illegal occupation of Tibet for FIFTY years without the rest of the world doing anything more than offering their condolences to the Tibetan people. But then again, the communist regime of China has been getting away with murdering and torturing it's own people for almost as long.


As opposed to their Indian counterpart the Tibetans are quiet, patient and honest, never trying to catch your attention to their goods. Subsequently the Tibetan shops have fair prices from the starts, eliminating the tiresome need of having to haggle. I've been careful only to buy from the Tibetan co-operative stores, where all the profits go back to the community.

Yesterday I took a walk down to His Holiness residency and the main temple, a very inconspicious drab yellow building housing many of the refugee monks and some very delicate Buddhistic relics. Around the temple is the Kora path, a pleasant walk through fir trees lined by Tibetan prayer flags. At the entrance of the temple, there is a basic security check. The irony is not lost on me that I accidentally brought a Swiss Army knife with me to the residency of the worlds greatest peace maker.

peasant girl

I think I must have been a peasant in a previous life. There is something deeply satisfying about the routines of farmlife, always having something to do, crops to be sown, fields to reap, food to prepare. The first day in the village I was trying my utmost to avoid any social faux pas, not daring to talk or sit unless instructed to, but I quickly realised that even though Indian marriages are formal, they are anything but stiff. Women talk and children run around during the cermonies, not really paying attention to what is happening or caring that they might be heard. By the second day I was starting to feel so comfortable that I just simply joined the villagers in their lunch on the courtyard grounds. Mr Black Cat looked pleasantly surprised by the scene, and told me that I had just made him proud.


And on the third day I got bored of just watching everybody else milling around, so I simply put myself to work peeling vegetables with the men and later on, making roti with the women. I think it was there and then that half of the women decided to adopt me, and the rest of the night I had to turn down offers of staying a various houses. Before I left the village I was made to promise to return, but not without a husband.

Indian marriage

A normal Indian wedding last approximately 5 days. Frankly, if they got rid of all the waiting in between the different ceremonies and blessings, this could all be achieved in a fraction of the time.
It wasn't until the end of day 2 that I even saw the bride, a shy blushing beauty who had only met her future husband for a brief 10 minutes. That evening the groom and his party (all men), stayed at the bride's village, only to take her with them back to his village the following day. Most of this time the bride was hidden in a back room, surrounded by complete strangers. I felt so sorry for her, she looked so scared, barely daring to lift her eyes off the ground. However, when I tried to test the subject with the villagers I was only rewarded with a blank stare of indifference.
"This is our culture", they said, shaking their heads at the mere thought of a love marriage.


In India the majority of marriages are arranged. It is not so much a communion of two people as the joining of two families, with similar outlooks on all aspects of life. The bride is carefully chosen by the parents, and when she is deemed as satisfactory (social status, education, financial contribution etcetera) the bride and the groom get to meet alone, to give their final verdict on their parent's choice. In theory the youngsters have the right to decline any prospective partner, but I seriously doubt that the majority of young women dare to go against their parent's wishes.
The general consensus is "first marriage, then love", and everyone involved is aware that their duty to the family and society comes first, and their own personal happiness second. It is a system that has been working for centuries, and it is as deeply rooted in the Indian mind as the idea of karma.


Stupidly I admitted to not being married when asked. This brought about bewilderment, sympathetic looks and a steady stream of suggestions of available bachelors in the village. My hostess, Pan's auntie, was even joking that I should marry her son, the shy Ashwani, who I think developed a little crush on me. The only excuse she seemed to accept was the fact that Ashwani was barely 20 years old, never mind that he barely spoke English or that I wasn't Indian: by the third day the villagers had adopted me as one of their own, and I was therefore eligible for marriage as one of their own.

a whale in India

My hosts in the village of Bharan were literally bending themselves over backwards to make me feel at home. Sometimes to the point of breaking, as soon as I tried to sit down on the ground or a stone there were panicked cries echoing around the courtyard and a chair or a cushion magically produced. Never mind if I wanted to sit on the ground, or that I didn't need an extra sweater, or that I actually didn't feel like dancing in front of 200 people staring at me as if I were from outer space, or that I'd rather eat together with the other villagers instead of being refined with Mr Black Cat to a "dining parlour", desperately trying to think of a way to get rid of the whiskey that he insisted that I drink. I still don't know if he ever realised that the chutney suddenly changed consistency during the brief seconds he stepped outside to take a phone call.


Brina had told me that I needed to wear a sari for the wedding, she couldn't have known that the women of Himachal Pradesh actually don't wear saris, instead preferring the much warmer salwar kameez, also called the punjabi dress. So there I was, insisting on wearing my sari despite the villager's protests of me being cold: if I had dragged the darn thing across half of India I was gonna wear it!


Now posing in a sari is very different to actually wearing a sari. Since it had been raining on and off through the day, I couldn't just walk with the normal poise of an Indian woman. I had to hike my skirt up over my ankles, and then carefully step through the muddy fields in my Chinese flip-flops. And within a minute of eating dinner with my bare hands, sitting crosslegged on the ground, I managed to drop greasy dal all over the skirt, to the muffled laughter of the boys in front of me. And later that very night, whilst trekking through a pitch black field still slick from the previous rain, I saw the world pause in slow motion as I suddenly lost control of my footing, waving my arms helplessly like a helicopter, and landing on my arse with a heavy thud, once more underlining the fact that I am as elegant as a beached whale. And don't even start me on the subject of how to pee on an Indian squat toilet whilst dressed in a sari, I think you can imagine the disaster.

no time for no

I really don't know where to start describing such a surreal and outwordly experience as an Indian wedding. Three days have passed in a blur of ceremonies, blessings, chants, and rice flung to the left and right.

I was immediately made to feel welcome at Pan's village, which basically consisted of a bunch of houses clustered together at the leafy and green valley floor of the Kangra Valley. My chaperone and translater for the whole event was one of Pan's uncles, Mr Chohan, who in his younger days had been a commanding officer in the fierce elite troops Black Cat, India's answer to the USA's Seal and British SAS. He was stationed in Amritsar during the "Bluestar"-operation of the Golden Temple in -84, and since learning of this I simply referred to him as "Mr Black Cat", which made everybody laugh.


Everybody was more or less introduced to me as as "my auntie", or "my brother", subtleties as "cousin" or "the wife of my uncles's cousin" being lost in translation. I never really managed to figure out who was related how, apart from that the whole village seemed to stem from the same bloodline. I was given my own room at Pan's uncles house, whose wife kept the place absolutely immaculate, including the bathrooms! (to my surprise...)


Apart from Mr Black Cat, only a few of the men spoke a little bit of English, the women compensated for this by simply shouting louder to me, as if this would break the language barrier. Most of the time I just smiled and shook my head in any direction. Everytime I looked up there was a woman or a child standing in front of me, offering me water, chai, roti or fresh buffalo milk neatly placed on a brick. It just didn't seem appropriate to go, "thank you for the lovely glass of milk, but actually, I think that Monsieur Pasteur would have some objections". I just had to take my friendship offerings, forget all I know about giardia and other waterborne parasites and drink up.

back in business

I'm back in civilisation, I was persuaded to stay an extra day in the village. I am now in McLeod Ganj, hometown the Dalai Lama. More to follow as soon as I have had a shower or something.

oupf

Ok, not liking the mountains so much any more: had hard time sleeping last night as the monkeys were fighting outside my window, and today the rain is pouring down and reducing the streets to a browns slush, it is cold and I'm nauseous with a burning feeling in my intestines, most probably from the chow mein I had yesterday. I'm coughing up yellow phlegm and feeling generally under the weather. Naturally I left all my raingear in Delhi, thinking that it wouldn't rain in the mountains (duh!), but at least I'm staying warm with my fluffy Monchichi-jacket.

I've self-medicated myself under the devise "common is common", or even better: "when you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras". I'm hoping a mix of anti-nausea and anti-acid will take care of the worst problem. I really, REALLY don't want to be remembered as "that white girl who vomited at Paan's wedding".

baijnath

Baijnath really is a shithole: two streets littered with ramshackle houses, colourful vegetable stands and a couple of thousand inhabitants. It's only purpose of existence is as a home to a popular Shiva-temple, which I coincidentally managed to stumble upon without even looking for it. It was old and ...pretty.
I've checked into a fairly decent, but expensive (10 dollars!) hotel, as I need to catch up on the sleep I missed last night, I can never relax properly when I have to get up at 4 am, dreaming nightmares and waking up numerous times thinking I've overslept.

I also have to call Paan and let him know that I've arrived, but I don't want him to get upset that I'm staying in "town" tonight. Since Paan's English is limited, and very few people in this place seem to be able to interpret, I don't really know how to explain this to him. So as the coward I am, I'm waiting until it gets dark, hoping that my little white lie of being tired will be sufficient cover.

My cold has now moved on down into my lungs, I have a soft muted, expectorant cough, with slight pain on exhalation deep down from within the alveoli. My top differential diagnosis is a viral bronchitis with a secondary bacterial infection, possibly turning into some funky asian form of pneumonia. Or hey, why not tuberculosis?! Several wheal tests have shown that I have no natural immunity against TB, and as this is India, everything is possible. Treatment: time.

more mountains

No, I really mean it, I love the mountains. The crisp air, the nature, the valleys and their blood, the rivers. The smell of freshly cut hay and pink cherry blossom trees. Plumes of fires from distant chimney and yellow leaves slowly singling down to the ground. And I might be imagining it, but it also seems cleaner up here, less rubbish along the road. Even the people seem different; whereas I have been the major attraction in the rest of India, pulled and jostled and cajouled every step of the way, the mountain people barely acknowledge me with a curt nod, possibly even a slight frown before continuing with their own business. I think the reason is more due to a reluctance to appear intrusive than as a lack of curiosity, a sense of pride in privacy. Whatever the motive, I'm just happy not having people shouting after me "hello madame, what you looking for?", "hello madame, please look my shop, just look", "hello madame, where you from, real silk scarf only 200 rupees".

The only downside with the mountains is that most things are uphills.

hello Himalaya

Flying in over the Himalayas was something out of the ordinary, glistening white peaks conquering the clouds in the far corners of the Tibetean plateu, fronted by the soft hills of the Kullu Valley. The small propeller plane landed gracefully on an airstrip the size of a football field, and a serious looking soldier with a big machine gun quickly deterred me from taking any pictures of the cute little plane.

At 8.30 am I was already crammed in on a wooden bench on the local bus to Mandi, with an Indian man sound asleep on my shoulder. The road snaked it's way through the mountains like a lethal viper, with the driver pivoting on 2 wheels and schreeching tires through sharp curves, as a pro from Grand Theft Auto 4.

Within seconds of descending the bus in Mandi, I was firmly but politely shoved onto another bus, with the destination of Kangra Valley. It took almost 4 hours to reach Baijnath, 70 kms away, but considering the road was mostly single lane and the bus had to either stop or reverse for every larger oncoming vehicle, I'm surprised it didn't take even longer.

As the bus conductor had chucked my backpack into the locker compartment, I instincively reached into my pocket for the customary rupees. He pushed the note back into my hand, shook his head and laughed. If I had been sitting on a chair I would have fallen off. I love the mountains.

delhi - himalaya

I think the notion that I'm a travel ninja might just be wishful thinking, because I seem to be getting terrible migraines whenever I travel for even a few hours. It has taken me almost 24 hours to recover from the 1.5 hour flight from Varanasi, and I'm still moving around in sloth-like slow motion, mustering up about as much energy as "an asthmatic ant with heavy shopping" (thank you Black Adder!) My biggest concerns for the past day has been where to find a McDonalds, which of the 4 bathrooms in Brina's flat to use, and why does it smell like something has died in my bedroom?!

I'm flying up to Kullu Valley tomorrow at 7 am, and then I have to figure out which bus or buses will take me to Baijnath, where I'll be picked up by Paan or his brothers. The bus ride will take anything between 6-10 hours, I'm a bit worried I'll be a absolute wreck by the time I arrive at my final destination. I'm not very pleasant when I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Since I'm going up to the mountains I've had to change my whole packing, but it doesn't seem I'll be really that high up, only around 1500 metres, which is good because it won't be THAT cold, but bad because it is still not high enough to deter cockroaches and other creatures with exoskeletons.

According to the forecast the temperature will be approximately 28 degrees C during the day and 13 in the night. My only previous mountain experience is from chasing alpacas at 5000 metres in the Andes, and even though the days were warm when the sun was out, the nights were absolutely miserable. I had to sleep with three layers of clothing, three woolen blankets + my sleeping bag, and I was STILL cold. And this was during the Peruvian summer... Hopefully the conditions won't be as harsh this time, or I'll have to book a flight to the Maldives or something.


I'm dragging two of my saris with me, I tried them on last night and they're so beautiful! Although I'm pretty sure they'll look even better when having been put on by someone who actually knows how to do it.

life is for the living

What I feared most about going to Varanasi was to be reminded of the ever-present shadow of death. However, it was not the burning ghats or the hindu rituals of the afterlife that shook me the most, it was one little boy watching a human autopsy on YouTube next to me at the internet.
"Oh my God, what on earth are you looking at, stop it", I cried out at the involuntary and ghastly sight of a knife slicing up the abdomen of a white haired man, intestines spilling out from it's wax-like shell.
"Sorry madame, sorry", the little rascal excused himself, before explaining in perfect English that he wanted to become a doctor when he grows up, that was why he was watching the autopsy.

This incident has returned to my mind over and over again, and I cannot help but feel fear clutching at my heart every time I visualise the glimpses of the autopsy forever imprinted on my retinas. And then I think about the quiet, matter-of-factly respect shown to the dead at the Manikarnika Ghat, a reminder that death is nothing more than an aspect of life, and life is only part of death.


And in the middle of this all, a 12-year old boy way wiser beyond his years, a boy who has already grasped what doesn't come to me until on the plane back to Delhi, and it is there, at 30 000 feet and with the mighty Himalayas as a backdrop, that I suddenly realise that death is not what we should fear in life. It is the life without death, the loneliness which kills.

surrender

It was almost a relief to leave Varanasi and it's claustrophobic alleyways today. There is a limit to the amount of phony holiness, pollution, urine stench and filth that I can take. However, I have to say I'm a little bit impressed with myself for not having had an "India-meltdown" yet, although it was very close last night when I had my first face-off with an Indian cockroach the size of a small tax-free Alpine country. I admit, I didn't stick around long enough to meet the rest of the tribe. (Which co-incidentally happened right after a little mouse trotted over my feet whilst I was having dinner)

I think the key to surviving India is to just surrender. Just accept that this is India, this is how it is, this is how things are done and there is absolutely nothing you can do to change it. Just accept that your reciept is nothing more than a handwritten note on a piece of flimsy papers, the laudromat is actually the river, your hands the cutlery. Just accept that whatever you do, you'll always remain a rich white foreigner, just begging to be ripped off. And then smile while it happens.

panic in the streets of varanasi

I'm flying back to Delhi in a few hours, and I found out only last night that Paan, the groom of the wedding, apparently has arranged for me to stay at his house, in this village of only 60 houses that doesn't even exist on a map. I really have no other choice than to accept this invitation, anything else would be considered rude.

Cue slight panic, not only because I have no idea what this entails (is there electricity? Do they have running water? Will I be sleeping with the chickens?) but mostly because I feel like I need/want to bring a gift to him and his family as a show of my gratitude. (According to custom I'll also give the bride and the groom some money in an envelope)

Now, finding an appropriate wedding gift is a headache in any normal occasion, but what do you give to an Indian man, who you only know by proxy, but who will treat you as the guest of honour at his wedding?! It has to be a special, but useful gift, not too cheap but not too fancy. Because every one will be asking: what did the white girl give you?

I debated this with the Indian man at the internet, the other patriots at the internet, the owner of a silk shop, and some other random people. Finally I decided to buy a green silk bedcover, and give it to his mother, and then she can do what the heck she want's with it. I'm nervous already.

don't mess with the God's

Ok, I don't really know which God I've managed to piss off, but for the past 24 hours every computer has been crashing as soon as I've touched the keyboard. All the other computers at the various internet places have been unaffected, only my particular computer has gone on strike. At one point I thought I had managed to cheat this jinx, and was just about to hit "send" on an email I'd been composing over and over again for the past 3 hours, only to find that the whole neighbourhood blacked out that very instant. Karma?

So Shiva, I apologise to thee, Vishnu - I honour you. And Ganesh: you're in my heart. And please forget all that stuff I said about your holy Ganges being filthy and full of shit, and please forgive me for having taken sneaky undercover photographs of the burning ghat. And for not giving money to the poor. And for having unpure thoughts and dreaming about a nice, juicy steak. And I get the message: I won't send that email. Ok?

pretty little feet

Throughout the world people come to India in the neverending search of the meaning of life. Gurus and ashrams are just as common here as sheep in New Zealand, and every traveller with a little bit of pride claims to be performing the steps of the gruelsome Ashtanga-yoga as effortlessly as they're brushing their teeth. Their spiritual achievements are measured with increasing levels of self-purgatory, giving the illusion that this simple lifestyle is the anti-dote to the troubles of life. Naturally, this is all bullshit.

The only thing that India gives you is maldigestion, a thinner wallet and even more questions, especially since the universal answer to just about anything is "why not?".
The ascetic lifestyle flaunted by all these holy men and whatnots, has even crept into the mainstream idea of what us westerners seek, otherwise I cannot find a plausible explanation to why every mattress in every hotel that I've stayed in for the past 2.5 weeks, has been rock solid hard. I could just as well have been staying in the interrogation room for suspected terrorists, India vs comfort 1-0.


So today I decided to take this self-punishment even further, and wear my new, shiny shoes. After only a few hours I'm now therefore hobbling along the ghats, the skin rubbed raw around my toes. And I still don't know the answer to life, but at least my feet are pretty, goddammit!

burn baby, burn

I decided to bite the bullet today and head over to the main burning ghat, easily identified by the towers of wood surrounding the eternal fires. Over 300 bodies are being burned here, day and night, every day of the year. Each caste has it's own separate fire place, and the bodies of the Brahmin caste are being cremated by the means of the very expensive sandalwood, the one's from the lower castes have to get by with cheaper wood, all of which is meticulously weighed before distributed under and around the deceased.


The burning ghat is open to public, but the locals are not kidding when they tell you that photography is not allowed, last night a japanese tourist apparently got mauled and dragged to the police by an angry mob after having snapped a few shots of the ghat. Apart from that, it is business as usual, and people sit on the stairs surrounding the ghat eating snacks and gossiping about the latest, watching the show taking place in front of them with mild disinterest. A dhalit pokes the fires from now and then, another group of men carry a new corpse covered in shiny fabrics and garlands of flower down to the river, dipping it in the holy water before it is being consumed by the holy fires. A cow calmly makes her way through the fires, chants are chanted, spells are read, and a new flame is born, cleansing the air with a thick smoke and the smell of burning wood.


The atmosphere is in fact so relaxed that you're almost led to believe that you're watching a cosy little bonfire, until you spot the charred remains of a foot poking out from the flames and you realise that this is a barbeque you don't mind missing.

logistical problems

I don't actually know anyone at the wedding I'm attending. The groom is Brina's driver Paan from her work, and I've met him for a car-ride of totally hmmm... 10 minutes maybe? As Paan's village only consists of 60 houses, it doesn't really exist on a map. We THINK that it is called Bharan and lies somewhere close to Baijnath up in Himalch Pradesh, but nobody is really sure. I therefore need to get my white ass up to Dharamsala, and then take a local bus down Kangra Valley to Baijnath and then ask around. Preferentially avoiding the 20-hour cockroach express.

Imagine if I end up in the wrong village, a white women dressed to her teeth in a Varanasi sari. Now, that is a sight that even I would pay for.

shopping babylon

As I'm planning to attend this wedding up in the Himalayas I've spent the day looking for saris. Varanasi is known for it's silk, so if you need a sari - this is the place to get it. Which basically means that now I've got not one sari, but THREE. Don't ask what the hell I'm going to do with three saris, but I just couldn't choose! Funnily, I wanted a red sari but instead I ended up with a simple lavender colour with some gold embroidery, the other a deep sad green with peacock blue and silver borders, and the last one a bright turquoise and purple with heavy silver embroidery. A sari consists of 6 meters of fabric, and you put it on in a very intricate way. I asked the salesman if the price included a small Indian man who will put the sari on for me, but he didn't really get the joke.


I even got so carried away with the shopping that I called my sister in the United States to ask if she wanted a bedspread. Apparently the time in Boston was 5 am, my sister informed me dryly, and no, she didn't need a bedspread, with two kids she needed sleep. The time-difference thingy had completely slipped my mind together with my disappearing dollars. Oops.


Outside of the old alleyways near the ghats, Varanasi is a gridlock of noisy motorcycles, blinging rickshaws and the odd automobile who get's special permission to drive in the centre by the means of a small baksheesh to the traffic police. I strolled around the local fabric market, in the muslim area, getting curious looks from women in burkhas and proud men with kaftans. It was impossibly crowded and busy, one tout shouting louder than the other, hoping that he would be the lucky one. I didn't see any other foreigners there, but for some reason I didn't feel afraid, despite all the chaos. I think it is because I'm currently reading Robert Ludlum's spy stories, and I'm therefore imagining myself to be a beautiful, but lethal, undercover spy, ready to spring a killing blow at any given moment. Nevermind that I'm really as graceful as a cow on a bicycle, and the last time I tried to glide elegantly through a set of doors I managed to get stuck in the frame.

varanasi

Today is the festival of Dee-Deepawali in Varanasi. It is supposed to be a celebration of the river, but what it really means is that 2 million people or so decided to go down to the Ganges all at the same time to play with fireworks and watch the spectacle by boats. Coincidentally I was trying to get to my hotel simultaniously, which was easier said than done.

Varanasi is by far the filthiest and most disgusting place I've been to in a long, long time. I've already managed to get lost ambling down the dark alleyways, which twist and turn more than the tail of an angry cat. And I NEVER get lost; the other day I even guided two native Indians through Udaipur by car. The only other place that has managed to defeat my internal map was Istanbul, I'm blaming it on the lack of street signs. :)

I joined the crowd for a stroll along the Ganges, trying not to look too closely at the suspisciously looking objects bobbing in the river. Next to my hotel is the main burning ghat, it's identity given away by the large fires + piles of firewood lying around. I had expected the air to be full with the smell of burning flesh, but there was surprisingly little barbeque-feeling going on, it might be different in the day. Report coming later.

Also sprach Zarathustra

For the past couple of weeks I've been thinking about Zoroastrianism, one of the oldest religions in the world, and it's followers, the Parsis. The Parsis of India make up a very small (100 000), but influential and educated community, and mostly reside in Bombay. They originally came from Persia over a thousand years ago, but the Indian Parsis have fairly little in common with their modern day Iranian counterparts.

The key beliefs of Zoroastrianism are way too complicated for me to get my head around, but I can't help but being fascinated by the funeral rites practiced by the Parsis in India. The newly deceased is placed on a "Tower of silence", which is exposed to the sun and the elements. The tower consists of three concentric rings, one for men, one for woman and one for children. One this tower the flesh of the corpse is to be eaten by vultures, and when the body is decomposed the bones are burnt in a commune well.

However, there is one huge problems. The vultures are dying, and not until a few years ago did they discover the link of their death to an anti-inflammatory drug called Diclofenac, commonly used in cattle and humans. Sources claim that 99.9 % of the vultures have perished, which means that the corpses of the Parsis are rottening.

Ever since Brina told me this story, I've woken up in cold sweat every night, my brain full with images of rotting corpses with cloudy half-open eyes, lying on a huge tower and waiting for the vultures which never will be.

I am actually not looking forward to tomorrow's trip to Varanasi. According to Hinduism, a person who dies in Varanasi is immediately granted access to "heaven", without having to go through the whole "re-born again" malarkey. It is therefore a very auspicious, and popular place to die. And even though a traditional Hindu funeral mainly consists of cremating the deceased's body and then spreading the ashes in Ganges, they still sometimes just chuck the corpse in the Ganges, especially if the poor soul can't afford to pay for the cremation. Sadhus, pregnant woman and children are however considered to be "pure", so they are simply disposed of in the river with weights around their wrists and ankels, which technically means that the corpse floats back up to the surface after a few days or so. For a hindu, Ganges is a holy river. For a westerner like myself, Ganges is the river of death.

I wish I wasn't going on my own, I wish I had someone with me, someone who could just hold me and calm me down when my nights are ravaged by these echoes of the towers of silence.