tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44609622435039351742023-11-15T08:23:19.356-08:00On the road againSharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-48689238295391469322011-12-26T21:24:00.000-08:002011-12-28T22:05:42.421-08:00Reflections on a great yearI'm a sucker for resolutions and reflections. Even though many people talk about it only being a date in the calendar, for me New Years is a hugely symbolic time to do both of these R's. <br /><br />In just under a month in Vietnam we'll be experiencing 'Tet', the Vietnamese lunar new year. This new moon'll be a much more auspicious time to manifest I'm sure, so perhaps I'll leave my resolution making until that time. However, I feel the time is ripe for a fair bit of reflection on this amazing year.<br /><br />I do believe that this year has been the best year of my life so far. The older I get, the more amazing the world seems to me. Is this normal? Who knows... normality's never been a favourite word of mine anyway. Here are some other words to sum up 2011:<br /><br />Seemingly endless Kiwi summer - lazy barefoot days, two months of farewells, tear-jerking weddings and music making.<br /><br />Snakes in the bushes in Queensland - time spent with my nephew and niece reading Richard Scarry on repeat and running Thomas the Tank Engine endlessly around on his tracks.<br /><br />Finding a Sanctuary in Thailand - literally - 'The Sanctuary' of Haad Tien beach (on Ko Pha Ngan island), an incredible getaway filled with yogic delights.<br /><br />Cambodian compassion - the beauty of Siem Reap contrasting with gritty Phnom Penh and that haunting museum of torture that reminded me just how little the world has learnt from war. <br /><br />Saigon the first. I kinda liked it actually... I seemed to gloss over the pollution and traffic congestion.. funny how things are always different when you're on holiday. <br /><br />Return to India...<br /><br />Geez, you can NEVER Write about India in a sentence. My words are: annoying-as-hell-at-first, I'd-changed-a-lot-in-the-five-years-since-I'd-been-here, big-lack-of-peace-within, HIMALAYA, transformative, PEACE again, Russian and Ukranian whanau, Bhagsu community - alchemical...<br /><br />Holland and Germany (Bavaria). Old friends and their families, enjoying the luxury of the first world again - fresh sheets and clean air never felt so good...<br /><br />Ljubljana. Even writing the name makes me romantic. One of my favourite places on the planet. I don't know why... quiet river, good memories, bridges to play music on, lovely Slovenian folk... I would love to find a teaching job in this place one day...<br /><br />Croatia. Alternately masculine and meaty, and beautiful and gentle. Best and worst busking experiences (best = Korcula. Worst = money hungry Dubrovnik)<br /><br />Italia. Bella bella! Bari, Roma, Siena, Verona, Venizia. Pizza! Spaghetti Pomodoro! Bellissimo!<br /><br />Austria - gallavanting with a fire pixie from my past. Fun times! And swanky busking near a touristic lake polluted with yachts. Good for my pockets though, so, can't complain.<br /><br />London town - Vauxhall, Clapham, Chiswick... and some other places I've forgotten. Beautiful reconnections with friends, especially my Russian soulmate.<br /><br />Brighton for three weeks - well, HOVE, actually... good busking, unwanted attention from all the mad hatters on George Street, and a home away from home at 'Small World' festival. Living off my earnings and totally close to the edge of life... wondrous but scary at times. <br /><br />Portugal - roadtripping without a map with Vladi, both literally and figuratively, barefeet on the dashboard and arms out the window. It's HOT HOT HOT. And an amazing two weeks together, writing music in the parks and drinking endless cups of tea.<br /><br />London, Brighton, Scotland again. More cups of tea, and my final goodbyes because the money has more than run out this time and it's high time to get a job somewhere in the world. I'm choosing SAIGON, and two months in, I'm happy with my choice. <br /><br />In the present again, at my office desk in Saigon. Working through the Christmas holiday but I don't mind too much because it's been a good year, a damn fine one actually, and although I've glossed over the details there is much in my heart that I will never succeed in translating. I love where I'm at in my life and I look forward to 2012 whole heartedly. And if I could choose a few words for the coming year, I would choose: CONSCIOUSNESS, MOTIVATION and MOJO. I've been such a cruiser for ages, I think it's time to get a bit more hip to the possibilities of being alive. They are limitless...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-23637919215439873292011-12-11T00:53:00.000-08:002011-12-11T01:48:51.952-08:00Just getting along.It's so much easier to write when you're travelling. There are new things to see every day, interesting anecdotes, chance encounters with new friends... all of the same things that are possible wherever you are in fact. Now that I've been here (Saigon) for two months, things are becoming more ordinary and I sometimes struggle for new material.<br /><br />That's why I love travelling. With no ties or responsibilities, the world is limitless once more - there are no deadlines and few decisions to make other than what to eat for lunch every day.<br /><br />But this is not how life is all the time necessarily, or how I would even like it to be - I love working and feeling more settled (from time to time). I have noticed lately however, that with this settled feeling comes a kind of complacency and a sense of 'just getting along'. There's nothing wrong with this, but I do sometimes miss the creative outbursts that used to colour my days in India earlier this year. I guess this means I just have to try harder, right?<br /><br />Earlier this year I decided to turn this blog into a book, at some point. The idea seemed so simple back then, but I have not even begun to put that process in motion - I don't even have my own computer! I am sure there will be a time for more serious writing in the next few months and am under no illusion about the work and discipline involved in it... until that more committed time, my posts will probably continue to be sporadic.<br /><br />But! I DO have something to write about today! I have really turned my Saigon situation around in the last two weeks, going from my tiny $8/night hotel room in the noisy soup of Bui Vien (backpackers area) to my beloved alleyway at 18a Nguyen Thi Minh Khai. I am finally enjoying walking around the streets in the weekends - midday on Saturday or Sunday is a perfect time to do this as most people are sleeping off their lunch. Yesterday, as I was walking into town from my alleyway (a 40 minute walk), I passed by the beautiful Notre-Dame-esque cathedral, the widely paved streets and green parks, and began to realise that... heaven forbid... that I have not just learnt to 'put up' with this place but am in fact starting to be wooed by its urban charm. Part of me almost doesn't want to admit this to myself, as if clinging to the sense of not liking a place would inflate my ego and sense of righteousness or something... as if starting to enjoy this place would serve as a complicit acceptance of Saigon's shocking pollution and traffic problems... all very interesting observations. I think that whenever we oppose something in life, it's to do with defending our false sense of our own 'identity' (which is actually ever changing and doesn't really exist!)... the reason why neighbouring countries are rivals is always about making themselevs right and others wrong... when you think about it, it's kind of ridiculous...<br /><br />Anyways, I'm getting off track with all this philosophising... So I was walking yeterday at lunchtime, watching the blue shirted cyclo drivers snooze in their carriages and the even more impressive balancing acts of xe om (motorbike) drivers managing to sleep with one eye open, perfectly balanced on their steeds whilst still managing to offer their services to any would-be tourist who happened to be passing. I love it how people here seem to sleep anywhere... the woman in her hammock on the side of a busy road... my co-workers on their office desks with their heads crooked in their office sleeves at lunchtime... my students who pile 30+ in a room on the floor for a quick kip before another 4 hours of lessons... and as well as being able to enjoy my face-masked city walks, I've also become used to the weather - wither that or it's actually cooled down since I've got here. Gone are the days of overly sweaty foreheads and attractive pit-stains - yuss!<br /><br />And last night I even managed to get out of the city, quite spontaneously. It was after a friend's 21st and we'd all heard tell of a music festival going on somewhere near the city. After jumping in a taxi adn managing to somehow help our driver navigate the forty minute journey, we got there - I have no idea where it actually was geographicaly, but I just know that being in a palce with so much grass and breathing the clean air felt amazing!<br /><br />The music was allright as well - I'm not massively into house or trance and know very little about all the different sub-genres, but I just know that I loved the last guy's set anyway, and at 4am we were still up for more. It felt kind of nice to recognise certain faces in the crowd - lots of long-terms travellers/teachers/ex-pats - as wel as spot a few hippy types in there as well. Made me feel at home...<br /><br />We got lost on the way back into town afterwards, thanks to our Irish friend who didn't know the way to his own house so we ended up back in sleazy Bui Vien again for breakfast. I tell you, fried rice had never tasted so good... and instead of xe-omming it up I opted to walk home in the breaking dawn and watch Saigon wake up around me. <br /><br />You wouldn't have guessed that some poeple were still up from the night before - at 6 am the parks were filled with ladies doing their morning exercises. As I heard the exercise tape from a hidden speaker I realised I could count to 20 in Vietnamese with them. I passed the school I teach at every weekday and saw full fledged games of badmington going on in a court opposite, the participants full of energy at this early hour. The street cart owners wre just beginning to lay out their magazines / coconuts / sandwich fillings and I saw lots of men crouching low at plastic tables slurping their breakfast Pho. The streets were almost empty and a;though I still clutched my bag tightly to me, the thought of getting my purse stolen seemed less of a possibility at this gentle hour. Once home, after smiling at the early monring flower sellers and fruit merchants, I fell asleep straight away in my room with a clear and happy heart.<br /><br />I remember just a few weeks ago despairing and wondering where the sense of peace and contentment that came so easy to me for much of this year had gone. I really wondered what was wrong with me - why I was struggling to meditate and even to simply feel happy. Now that it's over, it doesn't seem so bad and I'm beginning to get some of the sense of peace and mystery of the world back again. Really, there is beauty everywhere - even in this urban jungle. I may curse capitalism and Western influence at times, but really - we are all still people and all of us still connect to this at times, whether we realise it or not. The best glimpses of humanity I've seen lately have been at these quiet times - the early dawn and the sleepy afternoons, where people are just doing the things that make them human. Not trying to be anything other than what they are, not wanting for anything - 'just getting along' I suppose, which is what I'm learning to do: get on with things, and to enjoy every minute of a life which is becoming more normal every day, but no less beautiful.Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-46389929458023356622011-11-26T23:06:00.000-08:002012-05-13T01:19:20.075-07:00A New Neighbourhood Makes All the DifferenceIt only took me seven weeks... but I really do think that my negative opinion and experience of Saigon is beginning to change. Overnight.<br /><br />On Friday afternoon, after battling to be heard over the ceiling fans and general noisy school atmosphere (and smoky school atmosphere - I saw one of the teachers climbing the stairs to his classroom with a lit fag in his hand - a far cry from NZ's smoke free schools!) my throat is wrecked from teaching 12 year olds how to punctuate correctly. Despite my desire to go back to my hotel and sleep off the week, I allow myself to get pulled out for a 50c can of beer down an alleyway ten minutes from work that I never knew existed. We arrive in a swarm, five female whiteys all working for the same company and each pull up a plastic chair at the local 'bar' while Emma (the ringleader in the know) opens the fridge herself and begins handing out the 'BaBaBa' beers. A Vietnamese fella in a singlet is hanging around smiling while his three beautiful young daughters flounce about, climbing on and off the laps of the ones who got there before us, who all seem to live in this strangely quiet alleyway. <br /><br />There are four of us all completely sick of living in the land of backpacker sleaze known as Pham Ngu Lao. Now that I've moved and been gone a day, I wonder how I could have stayed there so long, but I suppose it was because a) it was what I knew how to do b) it was easy and cheap, which I needed at the time and c) I really hate hotel / house hunting. But in hindsight, I now know that this was what was making me so miserable about being here.<br /><br />Besides the traffic and the pollution, that is - moving hasn't changed those things, although they are much less noticeable down my new alleyway, which is too narrow and filled with roadside juice/beer/noodle soup joints for bikes to drive too quickly. The alley is also void of hawkers trying to sell you sunglasses every two minutes, or pester you about motorbike rides, and you are much less likely to get ripped off.<br /> <br />Most long term ex-pats in Saigon tend to opt for apartments because of the lounge factor, but from now on our lounge would be the plastic chaired roadside bar where everyone seemed to meet in the evenings ater work - within ten minutes we had made five new friends and gained valuable information about where to go for everything we needed - except vegetarian food. However, thanks to international veggie website www.happycow.net I soon found three decent local places to chow down in my new 'hood. With a shop selling guitars and pick-ups (which I need in order to do any more gigs here), 50 cent baguette stands, laundromats where a kilo of laundry will cost you 40 cents and where all shopowners will bring out complementary iced tea, this is a local alley in which prices have remained thus. Apparently there have been a handful of foreigners here for a year or so, but not too many to create another Pham Ngu Lao - the alley is too small for that anyway. <br /><br />It's amazing how much a new home has changed me - I feel like I have an entirely new perspective on where I'm living. Until now I'd been hating on my city in a major way, and it's interesting that things just seemed to be going wrong for me again and again - in hindsight I know it's because I was attracting that kind of business - losing my wallet (or getting it pickpocketed - still don't know...), getting shortchanged and nearly run over - with my attitude. I hope I never forget this again. I probably will, but if so, I hope I can manage to maintain a better balance and acceptance of everything - all of a sudden I am somewhat ashamed of my feelings of helplessness in the past weeks. It's astounding what can change in just an evening... <br /><br />Now that I'm away from the tourists I'm experiencing a different kind of behaviour from the locals as well. Yesterday, as I explored my new surroundings and tried to find somewhere to eat I was having my usual difficulty crossing the road, until a local man came up and gestured that I should follow him as he stepped out and wove his way through the moving bikes. I think I was much better at this when I first arrived actually, but for some reason I've developed a bit of anxiety about it lately and always sigh with relief when I finally get across safe. Sometimes I feel like living here has taken years off my life! So, the roads haven't changed, but the kindness of strangers has. <br /><br />Last night, sitting around the plastic table littered with cans one of my new neighbours, a New Yorker named Chris, asked me how long I was planning on staying here. I told him definitely no longer than May when the school year finished, and he just looked at me, smiled and said he looked forward to having this conversation again in May to see how things had changed. I still don't know what makes so many people fall in love with this place - it hasn't QUITE happened to me yet - but let me say that Saigon and I are now in a 'courting' phase. Who knows - maybe we'll discover that we do like each other after all.Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-56234566025062295152011-11-18T07:07:00.000-08:002011-11-18T07:43:34.180-08:00'sbeen something of a rough week. Getting ripped off in my local shop, having my wallet disappear within a matter of minutes on a quiet(er) street the following night (I'll never know what really happened),realising I'm almost maxed out on my credit card and that my first proper pay check will only just cover the repayments, leaving nothing left for a deposit on an apartment... financially, it's not been a great time for me lately! But tonight, Friday, 'teacher's day' (which is actually on Sunday although kids and schools have been celebrating all week),I'm post five-course dinner at the school for the gifted where I work in which I could only eat sticky rice and lettuce, drink beer and represent the pasty faced teachers in the karaoke, and I'm actually feelin' okay! (They tell me the deer, squid and other meaty delicacies were delicious. Pretty amazing treatment in a third world country, don't you think?!)<br /><br />This leads me to wonder if my problem with Saigon up until now has, in fact, been not enough beer?! For, two nights ago, after all my financial woes were woven, I went for a beer with a workmate in the same restaurant that saved my ass after my wallet went missing on Tuesday (they took me in, made me drink iced tea, waited for my hysteria to calm the hell down). As we walked home afterwards, I noticed that the traffic didn't even make me flinch. Oh, the numbing beer factor... so good at the time, although within an hour I'd lost my sense of taste and smell and wanted to fall asleep by 8.30 - just can't drink very much these days. It's a good thing.<br /><br />Anyway, tonight I feel some sort of majesty and sense of the mystery of it all returning to my life. I ate my favourite dish of vermicilli noodles with spring rolls (rice and lettuce not really cutting it to be honest...) and stared at the lizards climbing the peeling walls, looked out at the makeshift kitchen twenty metres from where I sat with crates of local produce hanging in baskets form the bamboo ceiling, and realised that actually, life's not too bad after all... Even though I love to complain about this place - and wouldn't choose to live here again given the chance - I look around me and see xe om (motorbike) drivers earning a few dollars per day, children going to school for ten hours a day, six days a week without a complaint, and Vietnamese teachers earning a tenth of what I earn. It all kinda puts things into perspective and all of a sudden I feel ashamed for my hysterical rants about the polluted, maniacal motorcycling nature of this place. Yeah, it's true that it isn't really the place for me, and that I should have known better before buying a ticket here, but the truth is that I can't really afford to leave just yet, having got myself into this rather crap financial situation by choosing to have the year of a lifetime and gallavanting around the world until the very last minute (and cent), credit card be damned...<br /><br />So, I suppose I'm learning to live with the consequence of my actions just now. And, slowly slowly, learning to deal with the noise of 10,000 motorbikes screaming around the streets at 2 a.m when Vietnam has won the football, learning to cope with the corruption of this place and the sleazy backpacker scene - learning to ADAPT, really... It really is the best thing one can do.<br /><br />I'm excited about possible future ventures. Working in Jordan or Lebanon or another part of the Middle East.. or even India (just caught the end of a documentary on Indian private schools)... and visiting my homeland sometime after May next year for a while... There are definitely things to work towards at the moment, while I learn to live IN the moment and ENJOY the moment more... it has been so easy all year to do this and it is only now, when I am struggling again for the first time in a long while, that I remember how easy it is to preach presence and peace and harmony, but how much harder it is to practise these things in times of despair. BUT... I know I am strong enough to do so. <br /><br />SO, I'm off to sleep off this beer haze and dream of brighter and more positive futures... and to do my best to appreciate what I do have rather than moan about what I'm missing. All very humbling stuff. <br /><br />Enough said. It's bedtime. Time to climb the stairs back up to my fourth floor hotel room and earplug out the nighttime concerto of bikes, dogs and hawkers. Night night everyone xxSharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-1725066734330459192011-11-11T21:32:00.000-08:002011-11-11T22:29:29.138-08:00One month in... (still in Saigon, Vietnam)I reached my month's anniversary of being here the other day. Can't say I've fallen in love with the city yet, and don't know if I ever will, but I am starting to live with certain aspects of Saigon life a wee bit better.. like the noise, for example...<br /><br />Whether it be a whole class of Vietnamese 11 year olds performing an ear-splitting dance routine in their breaks, or another teacher making himself heard over the tug-of-war by shouting into a microphone, or the incessant hooting, tooting, throttling, pulsating cacophony of motorbikes 24 hours of the day and night, there is rarely a peaceful moment in this city, it seems... <br /><br />Except during lunchbreak. Here, the city stops sometime between 11.30 and 2, eats their main meal of the day, and SLEEPS... Shops close... shop keepers ignore you.. even the men selling sunglasses on the street (8 of them approached me as I ate breakfast this morning! EIGHT!!!) take a break. Even our air conditioned office is eerily quiet after we pick through the dubious yellow lunch trays (tofu for the vegetarians every bloody day of the week - I've gone off it for good now) and settle in for a rest. My Vietnamese co-workers all pull their soft toys out, use them as pillows on their desks or just slump down into their seats, put their heads back and open their mouths for a sleep they're used to having since birth. <br /><br />My afternoon classes begin at 1.50 pm, right after nap time is over. It takes a while to get the classrooms back to normal - for all the sleeping mats to be folded away into the cupboard, the desks to be put back, the heavy teacher's desk to be dragged back into the room... and while the children are rubbing sleep from their eyes and devouring their leftover lunch, some are frantically memorising their spelling words so they'll get ten out of ten, even if they have no idea what the words mean... I'm struggling with this cultural love of memorising and rote learning. When I ask for volunteers to read aloud something we're studying, I get a seas of hands and a show of reading as quickly as they can to prove their cleverness. When I stop the kids after every paragraph and ask them what has just happened in the story, the sea of eager faces suddenly turns blank. It seems they know their letters and how to read, but have no idea what the words mean.<br /><br />I have to hand it to them though. At school 9 hours a day, 6 days a week, and learning in a language foreign to them. Keeping all this in mind, they're doing amazingly! And yet, I wonder how they'll cope with the Cabridge English exams they'll eventually sit. Even at the gifted school where I teach every afternoon, regurgitating knowledge has been given paramount importance. Frustrating to say the least, but we'll get there...<br /><br />I teach at one other school three mornings a week, with kids at a much lower level. They greet me every morning with a "GOOD MORNING MISS SHARON" spoken very mindlessly and in unison, to which I reply "Good morning class, how are you?" before a very collective "WE ARE FINE THANK YOU, AND YOU?" comes back at me. This class doesn't understand much of what I'm saying, but there are small victories - like the kid who has been named 'Harry Potter' being able to string a few letters together on his own. As I congratulate him he looks up at me with big hopeful eyes and asks 'Stick-er?' , a most important word for these kids who work so hard and get little acknowledgement from their Vietnamese teachers who control with the cane alone(in general, I'm sure there are some exceptions...). At first I wondered why the kids were sitting stock still and listening while their other teachers wrote in perfect cursive letters on the blackboard with their backs turned, and where I was going wrong, until someone told me about the quality of the punishments. <br /><br />I've taken to teaching through a microphone myself sometimes when my voice is tired and I love it, no longer competing with the noise from the ceiling fans or drills going off in various parts of the school, OR the monsoon - it hit the other day halfway through an afternoon class and the noise was deafening as sheets of rain pounded the open air school, past the three floors and down onto the stone courtyard where teachers conduct activities (through microphones) in breaktimes. <br /><br />It hit last night too as I ate, the gunfire of the thunder no longer making me jump. After waiting for half an hour and failing to hail down a taxi, I decided to leg it and had my clothes clinging to me within seconds. I eventually found a roadside stall who sold me a flimsy polkadotted plastic raincover for 7000 dong (about 40 US cents). No raincoat could prepare me for crossing the streets though - the water was halfway up my calves and I tried not to think about cockroaches (one ran up my arm the other day!!!) or the rats whose sewer homes had been flushed out once again.<br /><br />Anyway, being here is still a valid experience even if I'm not having the time of my life. Career wise it's fantastic, I'm still loving the job and the teaching - but lifestyle-wise, gimme clean green New Zealand any day. I'm hungering for some BEAUTY and REAL greenery, not the skinny parks filled with exercise machines and statues. Someone told me that every foreigner here is here for a reason and I'm certainly not here to enjoy the aroma of pollution, or risk my life crossing the road every day or fight off the cockroaches. I'm going to stick it out until May, learn as much as I can about teaching English as a foreign language, enjoy simple pleasures such as fresh coconuts and origami cranes from students, and practise being content...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-80930891917242557092011-10-31T05:29:00.000-07:002011-10-31T06:45:41.652-07:00Little pieces of SaigonME<br /><br />I'm feeling pleasantly upbeat tonight, after almost three weeks of internally moaning to myself about being here. Just ain't my city, ultimately, although I do really think that me and Saigon can learn to get on once I adjust to the heat and learn to ignore the pollution. It doesn't help that I'm living in a hotel room and have to wait another month for a full paycheck to be able to afford a deposit for a better place. Oh well. Serves me right for living on a dream so long in Asia and Europe this summer, surviving off of human kindness and my credit card. Wouldn't change a thing about it. Anyway it seems that the little things, this week at least, are paying off. A gig to go to tomorrow (on a school night!!) and a muso to meet that wants to put a band together (it might go nowhere, but it could go somewhere...), a nice day at work... good music in my ears as always (listening to lots of Beatles and Lennon at the moment). A papaya for breakfast. I thought it was high time I wrote about some of the things, little and big, that are making my world what it is at the moment...<br /><br />MY 'HOOD<br /><br />I live on a small side street off of Bui Vien, which is Saigon's answer to Khao San road in Bangkok. It's actually pretty quiet, and has no chickens on it as far as the eye can see - I overheard a work mate's conversation about getting woken every morning at 4am by his neighbour's roosters, and I don't envy him... Every morning at 7.30 I walk out, grab my shoes from the rack downstairs and wait for my local 'xe om' driver (motorbike taxi) to finish his smoke (as if the pollution ain't enough, right??) and whisk me off to work, expertly weaving through the traffic, driving on the footpath against the flow on a one way street if need be - it's just what you do here... I keep meaning to take some photos of all the beautiful high heeled women riding to work every morning, but I'm not that balanced yet - don't want to stop traffic by making an ass of myself and falling... We fly by various parks with their early morning jazzercise classes and locals with their limbs flying on the free-for-all cross training machines that line the precious green spaces, until he drops me at the door of 41 Duong Nguyen Thi Minh Khai about ten minutes later (luckily I live pretty close to my work).<br /><br />THE OFFICE<br /><br />I never thought I'd be working in an office again, but I suppose it's just like a really big teacher's work room, with little cubicles and photocopiers and the like. It's not bad at all really, and we get free lunch (of questionable quality) every day - mine usually consists of some fake meat substitute with rice, only slightly wilted greens and this kind of clear soup thing in a sealed plastic bag which I'm still not sure what to do with - I just mix it in with my rice and hope none of the Viets are looking strangely at me... where I sit I am surrounded by them and they are sweet, always smiling and doing their best to include us in their celebrations - offering us their gelatinous desserts coated in coffee flavoured jelly (weird...) or plasticky rice paper to chew before the yellow lunch trays are delivered. Everyone eats at their cubicles (the kitchen is tiny) before the Vietnamese in the room drop their heads onto their desks for an hour or so and take their accustomed siesta. I usually try to attempt a walk in a park nearby but just end up sweating and that's never a good look for a teacher...<br /><br />SCHOOLIN' IT<br /><br />All the teachers work in various schools across town and I'm lucky enough to be limited to two, one of which is designed for gifted children. We either climb in the company minibus or get taxied to the door, although most of the people I work with have joined the motorbike squad and make their own way there. As far as teaching goes, it's really so cruisy - every afternoon (and three mornings a week) I teach a 2 1/2 hour class to 11 or 12 year olds, all with English names. I have no idea where they got them but I do wonder, teaching two boys called 'Messy', one 'Strawberry' and one 'Harry Potter'. Seriously!!! If I'm lucky my classroom will have air conditioning, but sadly, not a whiteboard in sight - it's chalk all the way baby... my hands feel disgusting by the end of 2 1/2 hours.<br /><br />The kids are mostly really well behaved although I'm still learning to get used to the sheer amount of surrounding noise - as I teach, various gongs are being hit for classes to have their breaks at different times, and teachers are speaking through loud speakers, and drills are going off... I found out today that I could ask for a microphone if I wanted to, and as crazy as it may sound, I'm considering doing it - it's just really hard to be heard over the cacophony. I've noticed that the kids I teach are really good at rote learning, and can read whole pages aloud without understanding a bit of them, so I'm constantly stopping to explain this or that. Thinking for themselves seems to be a problem, which is worrying considering the schools will be putting them through Cambridge English exams eventually.. oh well! We do the best we can... They call me 'Miss Sharon' mostly, or 'teeee-cher!' and I'm hoping to have the same classes until the end of the school year in May. The best thing is that I never have to take work home with me - the scheduled hours are plenty, especially considering I never teach two classes in a row - I don't know if anybody does?<br /><br />THE AFTERWARDS<br /><br />To be honest, the afterwards is still what I'm figuring it out at the moment - after working all day I'm either exhausted or unsure of where to go in this fumy city so I usually head back to my hotel warren. I miss walking, actually! Not really something I want to do much here... but I know there are places that do yoga classes and the like, I just need to muster the energy to find them. I can honestly say that this is the most physically alone I have felt in my life, in a city of 6 million people! But it's not necessarily a bad thing - its just the beginning of a new phase. And everything changes so quickly - ridiculously quickly - that it's useless to feel any kind of up or down, really... things transform in an instant. What's the point of labelling onesself as being lonely or unhappy - or ecstatic and over the moon for that matter? More and more these days, I'm discovering equilibrium, and being content to be on the outskirts for a short while. George Bernard Shaw once said "Just do what must be done. This may not be happiness, but it is greatness" and I've always admired that quote - right now, what must be done for me is get outta debt, and any fun I might have I'm going to see as an added bonus. Simultaneously in my ears as I write, a folk singer named Peter Mulvey is singing "It's just your tender blindspot, and from that tender blindspot you will grooowww..." Perfectly put I think - for there is a time for everything - to be broke, to be rolling in it, to be partying, to be monk-like, to sleep, to dream... and I am happy, or rather, content with this strange period of my life, which will probably change the minute I walk out of this internet cafe. Bring it on, I say - life, and whatever it holds...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-2563052733099836162011-10-27T04:48:00.000-07:002011-10-27T05:27:52.757-07:00Here and Now - Saigon at last...This blog entry is named after the fact that for the past few weeks I've been attempting to catch up with all I didn't write about over the past months. Twas an admirable effort, but one which I'm abandoning as of HERE AND NOW , BABY! Cause it's time to put the presence back in the present, dig?<br /><br />SO... for the past two weeks I've been learning to like Saigon after a rough start here, arriving half heartbroke and... well, broke, actually. Totally void of any 'real' money, a fact which I have been lucky enough to fix straight away with a job offer that came flying in at exactly the right time. Anyway, it was hot, the pollution gave me asthma, I knew absolutely nobody here... and coming as I did from the summer of my life, I didn't take to it too well...<br /><br />But enough of that! I am here NOW and started teaching in local schools today, employed through a well paying company who taxis me to my classes and gives everyone free lunch (admittedly of varying quality...). After three days of induction and loads of time to plan I walked into my first classroom of smiling bespectacled Vietnamese faces (about a third of the kids in my class wear glasses, and another third need to - I've been told it's the lack of Vitamin A in the diet because eyesight is pretty bad in general... correct me if I'm wrong here!) and taught a two and half hour session on Frankenstein. Such a cool and gory tale, particularly the graphic novel the kids have been doing...<br /><br />Surprisingly enough, it IS actually 'real teaching' that I'm doing. I had imagined myself teaching 5 years olds how to sing the alphabet, but I've been put with kids aged about 11-13, most of whom have a pretty good grasp of the English language. SO I'm teaching what I would teach to a normal intermediate age. Horror, folk tales, non fiction, autobiography... exciting stuff, particularly as I've now tested my brain function and am happy to say that after a ten month break from teaching, my brain does still work! And I'm so glad now that I'm back in the classroom. It wasn't until I got back here that I realised how much I missed it.<br /><br />Because, to be honest, I've hardly given it a second thought these past few months, completely on holiday on all levels and loving it. And although I adored my last school and my three years there, I did suffer from stress quite a lot. It's my personality - intense and somewhat highly strung, brain going 100 miles a minute and stopping me sleeping at night with thoughts about how I could modify lessons for my five classes, what I could do, some behavioral issue that was going on and how I could fix it... All of this stuff has been coming back for me this week, all of the waking up in the middle of the night too unfortunately.. but thankfully the work I am doing here is so stress-free that I am gradually learning that there's nothing to wake up for. <br /><br />I've also realised that I really love teaching - I love it! But seriously, I don't know if I would go back to full-time teaching in New Zealand or any other Westernised nation again. I'd do it part time of course... but I don't know if I could 'fulltime myself' again. Some things are just not suited to some people, and I just feel like I compromised my own enjoyment of life too much when I was working 60 hours a week. Honestly, I've still been having the same old anxiety dreams of not being able to control students and missing classes for the past ten months of holidaying! It's unbelievable...<br /><br />So here I am in this nice air-conditioned office, planning my lessons before I am chaffeured across town to teach. I never teach more than one class at a time, which means that even though I often teach 2 1/2 hour sessions, at least I have time after each class to go back and debrief with myself. I teach 8 long sessions a week to four different classes in two different schools, always with a Vietnamese assistant in the class which I don't use cause the kids are all well behaved, if a little noisy. And they WANT TO LEARN!! It's so wonderful... even though they have difficulty thinking for themselves, they are total sweethearts and call me 'Miss Sharon' or 'Teeecher!'<br /><br />So, even though this city is disgustingly smoggy from the thousands of motorbikes that crowd the roads... I think I can learn to like it more and more. Exhausted after work every day, I catch a 'xe om' (motorbike taxi) home each day and am whizzed through the rush hour traffic, getting an adrenalin rush through my face mask (you need one here, believe me...). And when the monsoon hits, I love it...<br /><br />The Vietnamese staff in our office are so cute, all curling up and going to sleep on their lunchbreaks despite the airconditioning (old habits die hard...) and they seem so happy with their lives. Outside perspective of course, but I see it in the kids I teach too - there is none of the surliness I was used to, or the refusal to work... there are many many reasons for this of course, and they're not all good - I bet some of them are threatened if their marks aren't good enough... but my point is, in a nation that has been so screwed over in the past, people still seem happy with what they've got, which is much less than what we Westernites have come to expect and whine about when we don't receive. None of my students complain about being given homework, or having 2 1/2 hour classes, or about going to school from 7- 4.30, six days a week! It's just an accepted part of 'the way things are' here, one which I think everyone could learn from - not that quantity equals quality by any means, I'm more getting at the ability to just get on with things whilst still keeping a smile on ones face...<br /><br />Anyway, it's the end of my first week of full time work and I'm exhausted so am going to sign off. I've been in bed before 9pm every night this week and, besides waking up in the early hours of the morning (old habits die hard...) am having no problems falling asleep even with the traffic noise coming through the toilet paper stuffed into my ears (note to self: buy proper ear plugs this weekend). I'm yawning as I write this, so I know it's time to get back to my cute little top-floor $8 a night hotel room. <br /><br />xxxxSharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-14957981851391932282011-10-19T04:56:00.001-07:002011-10-19T05:31:55.701-07:00Shuffling along in SaigonWELL, this is interesting. I'm LOST in the middle of Ho Chi Minh city in peak hour traffic. AGAIN! And not only that, but the daily thunder and lightning have begun to rumble and flash in the smoggy sky above me, pregnant with its daily monsoon. Leaving me feeling rather foolish in my slippery shoes. <br /><br />Inwardly cursing my love of colour co-ordination which has influenced this impractical matter, I quicken my pace and search the street signs for a familiar syllable or two. I vaguely know where I am at least - I'm on a huge street that I had a job interview on this morning. It's close to a huge park, but I'm just not yet sure which end of it I'm at, or whether I'm walking in the right direction.<br /><br />I'd been doing so well, too. My sense of direction has been so lacking for much of my life that I'd taken to chanting in my head mantra-like whenever I took a turn "right then left then back, right then left then back" but somewhere along the way I forgot how many lefts and rights I was up to, stopped and ate some spring rolls with noodles, and found myself at once in another district to the one I thought I was in and surrounded by 10,000 motorbikes all trying to get home from work before the skies opened.<br /><br />Anyway, I'm on Nguyen van Thi street(or something similar...) and pretty sure I'm going the right way when the little droplets of rain I've been ignoring suddenly become BIG and MANY. I've never been caught till now, and have often wondered what happens to the throes of bodies on bikes congesting the road. It seems they are all prepared and seem to somehow co-ordinate a huge group pulling over to the side of the road, all pull full body rain coats out of secret motorcycle pockets and then jump back on board and assume their place in the traffic chain.<br /><br />I find a balcony to shelter under, although it's attached to a starkly lit bright white cafe with various fishy meats hanging up - to dry??? - on hooks outside the 'shop', and motorbikes and other vehicles are coming onto the pavement now to try and sneak up the traffic chain. Across the road is a "Lotteria", Vietnam's version of McDOnalds and I vow not to give in and take shelter there. I wait it out a bit longer, enviously watching a local dude hail down the only free taxi while nearby shopkeepers expertly bundle their wares into plastic sheets and wrap themselves tighter in their tee-shirts.<br /><br />I give in. I approach the Lotteria, wringing out my face mask as I go, and enter even though I feel disgusting and it smells like deep fried hell. EWWW. Even before I went veggie I hated the smell of these places and now is no different. But I've got a camera in my non-plastic handbag so right now I'm choosing practicaility over morality, and it's either the Lotteria or the anonymous fish factory - both are reeking. <br /><br />It's SO WEIRD!!! So brightly lit, red and white and kind of fake-happy, with a technicolour menu and uniform plastic chairs. I point to the least fried looking thing, a kind of a green tea shake, probably made with soya milk anyway and tiptoe (carefully) upstairs to find a good vantage point at least. <br /><br />It's not too bad actually. I sip away and write this down and I see that already, the monsoon is getting over itself. Such violent rain, every day, for months, but over and done within 5 or 10 minutes if we're lucky... I can tell that the rains have calmed the atmosphere down somewhat - it'd been my hottest day here so far, with my only good interview / teaching shirt now in dire need of wash. I'd shopped for about two hours today in search of more suitable things to wear teaching, but try as I might I just ain't Vietnamese size baby, so it's proving to be quite a challenge. After a week here I'm well aware that my 8 months of carefree travelling have come to an abrupt end, especially when my potential employer laughs when I ask her whether my (rather smart looking!) black flip flops would be okay for the classroom. THEY'RE GOOD ENOUGH FOR NEW ZEALAND SCHOOLS, LADY! I want to tell her but instead smile sweetly and play the good teacher game, hoping she'll give me the job. <br /><br />Back in the present moment, it's stopped enough for me to leave the scent of grease behind, and I see that I've just turned down the right road so should be home in ten or so minutes. Time then for me shuffle off into the night then, VERY CAREFULLY in my impractical shoes. I'm inching down the street the way the locals do when they cross the road in rush hour traffic - one step at a time. Kind of a good metaphor for me at the moment, having just overcome my shock at being here in such a strange hot place after the summer of my life. After almost despising this place for my first few days I think I can begin to like it little by little... as it is now though, I'm stuck between two hyperactive young men playing virtual football and calling across me to each other in this crappy internet cafe, masters on the keyboard but each with a sniffing problem which is driving me crazy, so I better wrap this up and inch myself home...<br /><br />blessings... <br />xxxxSharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-52714215055805104832011-10-17T23:49:00.000-07:002011-10-19T05:47:56.235-07:00August = South Austria, London, BrightonIt's been five years since I last saw my fire twirling friend and journeyed through Slovenian forests together but his pixie face hasn't changed a bit. We fill in the gaps as we drive from the train station in <span style="font-weight:bold;">Villach, Austria</span> to his farmhouse 45 minutes away and once I'm there I'm amazed at how good it feels to be in a HOME again after a month of hostels and B&B's of varying qualities. <br /><br />Bhak's cooking is as good as ever - we eat fresh guacamole, vegetable rice and halva at 2 a.m, my friend still a night owl. We do get come rest though, important because we both have gigs busking in a swanky tourist town the following evening - he has organised fire shows there and managed to get me a slot too. Easiest 60 Euros I've ever made, all given willingly by smiling strolling tourists staring at the beautiful lake view - beautiful that is, until an enormously ugly hired out yacht docks near me, blasting terrible techno and bearing revolving disco lights and hysterical drunk people using their money in the worst way possible - is this what we call status these days?? Can't they see they're embarrassing themselves and polluting everyone's ears, shrieking between disco thuds? They almost drown Bhak out too so he turns his own soundsystem up, something the hotel manager nearby doesn't like too much. His show is amazing, all energy and dragon fire breath resulting in a full magic hat at the end of it. <br /><br />A few days later I find that my flight to <span style="font-weight:bold;">London</span> is coinciding with the riots going on there in early August. Mia, who I'm staying with for the first night, assures me not to worry and meets me at Liverpool Street station before we catch a bus to her home suburb.. of <span style="font-weight:bold;">Tottenham</span>!! (one of the areas of unrest for those not in the London know). It's all quiet here on a Tuesday night however though, the streets eerily deserted and shops shut early just for safety's sake. <br /><br />She takes me around the city the next day and I'm pleasantly surprised to find that the riots haven't dampened London's spirit too much - we sit in <span style="font-weight:bold;">Hyde Park</span> drinking hot chocolate (she) and wine (me, the lush), and the sun is out and everyone is smiling and happy. <br /><br />I catch the tube right across town to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Vauxhall</span>, to visit my blue eyed Russian friend from India - 30 minutes from north to south all underground, it's quite amazing really - and the night that follows is huge: 3 of his friends are around playing music and it's an absolutely amazing evening. I'm at home straight away in this 5th floor apartment with a view of Battersea power station (from the Pink Floyd 'Animals' album cover) and a very cool and hyperactive cat chasing everything that moves in between songs... we sing everything we know from "Sweet Dreamas are made of this" to "Go Lassie go" to "Cum on Feel the Noize" and "Let it Be". Eclectic and so wonderful.<br /><br />I end up staying four nights, visiting other friends in between but always coming back for more music and beauty. On my last day there, I walk with my Russian to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Clapham</span>. We lie on the common there to sleep off our deli lunch (and cake - there is always cake where he is concerned) and I get a strange sensation that angels are beating their wings on us - it's all very soft and floaty and magical in my half conscious state and makes me wonder at the significance of this meeting. It just feels to me like there's something more to explore here... and I leave reluctantly to spend my last night in London in my Kiwi friend's dirty squat near King's Cross before jumping on a train to Brighton the following morning. Luke and Emma are there by now and have a house to themselves to sit for three weeks, so it's perfect. They assure me the busking is great and they turn out to be right, which is lucky as it's my sole income by now.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Brighton</span> is wonderful: stoney beach dotted with sunbathers and families, garish pier in which I discover the joys of the penny arcade, burned out memories of the old pier whose remains still stand rusting in the sea, fat seagulls eyeballing the salty vinegary chips on their way into tourist's mouths. AND the busking is better than good - it's possibly the best place I have ever played and I make 40 pounds in just over an hour in Hove, Brighton's neighbouring city (not really neighbouring, they're right next to each other and are pretty much the same thing. The city is known as 'Brighton and Hove') . I discover that Nick Cave, Paul McCartney and David Gilmour all apparently live in Hove, but try as I might I never see any of them ; ) Instead of rockstars, all the attention I get busking seems to be from the local madhatters who all seem to hang out on George Street in Hove all day long. One short man with a combover, too-high trousers and thick, thick glasses stoops along, periodically throwing pound coins into my case and spitting out such inspired advice as "not bad for a beginner" or "You're allright, but you're using too much vibrato". He starts to inch closer whenever I sing a Joni Mitchell / Dylan / Cohen number and knows all the words too, correcting me whenever I get them wrong. He comes back again and again, buying me some glucose tablets cause he thinks I look tired (!!Just tired of you, brother!!) and proclaims that he's going to write a song about me. It never appears and I never see him again in the weeks that follow, but I don't mind ; )<br /><br />A man in black known as Ben sketches me twice and tries to engage me in his philosophies about withcraft. A dude with a head injury and a backpack containign everything he currently owns tells me I've stolen his spot, although the long street is empty and there is plenty of room for other buskers (who all, by the way, adhere to an unspoken busker's etiquette of not playing too close to one another). On my final outing, a heavy set man swollen with alcohol shuffles along dragging a child's toy police scooter behind him and sits behind me, producing a small djimbe drum from the depths of his black coat and begins to play along with me, in time I might add! When he introduces himself as Keith Moon I know it's time to split, particularly because the police have approached him and he proudly shows off his new wheels (the toy police car) to them. As I'm packing up, another wild eyed, big haired oddball strolls up and lets me in on a little something behind his hand when he whispers to me that "that man behind you.. is not really a busker!!! Hes a BEGGAR!!!" as if it's the most amazing thing in the world. Thanks dude, and thanks Hove, you've been kind to me - seriously, it has been; there may be a large amount of mental illness there by the looks of things but they are all harmless and I feel very protected by the punters in the local cafes. <br /><br />Halfway through my stay there, our friend Ricketts drives us in his super cool 70's campervan to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Small World festival</span> about an hour out of Brighton - it's in the Kent countryside I think... Small World is a travelling festival that has a tent at bigger festivals such as Glastonbury and Bestival, and this is their own end of year knees-up. It's cooler than I ever imagined - reminds me of Luminate festival in New Zealand but in a much wilder way - these English know how to party!! Not that we Kiwis don't, just that we're not quite as...umm...outlandish (meant in the best possible way - I absolutely loved Small World and can't wait to go back one day). I love it all and meet many amazing movers and groovers there... all the 'streets' are given thoughtful names such as 'Harmony Terrace', and Small World is famous for having a mostly solar powered stage, so I'm quite at home with all the hippies. Other travelling tents are there too, 'Full Circle' sells good veggie tucker and has a hilarious sign that I have on facebook somewhere, advertising their "vegan wholegrain organic lesbian freetrade inner contemplatory probiotic ethical karmically cleansing recycled compostable alkalising carbon neutral shamanic" food in the best tongue-in-cheek way possible. Love it!<br /><br />I am lucky enough to get a slot on the main stage, thanks to my friend Luke and it's an honour to be part of this institution in a small way - the audience is so receptive even though I am nervous - still not used to miked gigs. The street is where I do my best, I reckon... I discover some incredible musical acts here - a Welsh band named 'Heal the Last Stand' who look like they're right out of the 60's, singing about peace and love and stuff, and doing the coolest cover version ever of 'Grease', only changing it to 'Peace is the word, is the word, is the word..' They are unbelievably cool (groovy, even!) and I'm an instant fan. <br /><br />We leave the four day festival reluctantly, although I feel I'll be back next summer somehow... it's just too good to miss! Highly recommended to all - lots of accordion jams around the bonfire, lots of playing dress-ups and other general playfulness. <br /><br />With Daisy (who owns the house we're sitting) due to come back from the States, we're all left without a home once again, all three global wanderers and all teachers too interestingly enough... I plan to head up to Scotland via a small stop in London to visit the blue-eyed Russian. It's a connection worth exploring, so I mail him to see if he'll be around for the two days I'm planning to stop over there. It's a plan I think might just work, although it seems that there are other things in store for me...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-86822530214550798812011-10-13T23:24:00.000-07:002011-10-14T05:17:59.331-07:00Early European days - Holland, Germany, Slovenia, Croatia, Italia (July/August)(Written from Vietnam three months later, monsoon rains abided but still glued to this internet chair)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">AMSTERDAM</span><br /><br />The usual hazards of cows and Punjabi laden jeeps have turned into trams and bicycles, all of which are operating on the wrong side of the road. I stay with Saskia and her mother in the nearby village of Aalsmeer and within hours of arriving am cruising the canals on her friend's boat and drinking local beer. I first met Saskia whilst busking in Budapest five years ago - she approached me and we ended up playing together before I moved to her much nicer guesthouse and we hung out for a few days, so it's great to see her again, and especially being a traveller herself, she knows what it's like to readjust to a place. Quite simply, I am loving the clean! And little things like there always being toilet paper in the bathroom, and an abundance of fresh salad vegetables that I don't have to worry about bacteria hiding in. <br /><br />I turn 32 on the 4th and after a typically Dutch breakfast of bread, cheese and Fruchtenhail (sugary fruit hail), head into the capital to do a spot of busking. But things have changed since I last played here five years ago (yes, it has been five years since I went anywhere in Europe. Once in New Zealand, it's hard to leave the pond, being so far away...) and it seems that busking is not allowed now! Someone tells me this whilst throwing me two euros during my first song ('Angel From Montgomery' by John Prine) and I thank him but decide to play the innocent tourist card if caught. <br /><br />Which I am, the following day, by two kindly horsedrawn policewomen, damnit. Oh well. I take the train to Utrecht to catch up with Annemiek and play for half an hour in the busy streets there. The busking, my living for the moment, seems to be going pretty well when the police don't catch me, te he! Although it's probably fine to do in Utrecht.. no-one bothers me anyway...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">GERMANY</span><br /><br />Visiting Doro's family in Hildesheim is always a treat - they are lovely and their house is simply amazing. We walk the sausage dog ("Daschund!" as Helgard would say, thinking Paula would be horrifed to hear herself described so) around the rivers and parks before heading to Bavaria the following day on a family holiday.<br /><br />Bavaria is all onion-headed churches and Jesuses on the cross to the untrained eye. Once I stay there a few days I get to know the Bavarian reservation and seeming unfriendliness - just another culture, probably the furthest possible one from India... but the landscapes are beautiful, and we stay in a family farmhouse close to a gorgeous swimmable lake and unwind as much as possible (unwind from the holiday?? Now there's a thought..) Every day around 3 pm we go for a family walk or drive and always find a place to eat cake and iced chocolate in - I protest at first, but when in Germany... ; ) Doro's folks don't want us to leave when we do, bound for three weeks in Slovenia / Croatia / Italia, but although the Bavarian nature is beautiful, we're excited for the unknown...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">LJUBLJANA, AGAIN</span><br /><br />... which begins in my favourite capital city in the world! I discovered this place five years back and fell in love with it, returning twice before I left Europe for good. Thankfully it is just as cool this time around. Amazing cafes, the Ljubljanska river, super chilled vibe.. we visit Metelkova Mesto on our first night, the famous squat-turned-fully functioning artist's community and get drunk on some very bad red wine as well as a bottle of Malibu that some Belgian dudes returned from a climbing holiday have in their bag. Who'd guess we were both professional teachers in our thirties??!! Not a soul...<br /><br />The busking in Ljubljana is difficult at first, due to the fact that there are so many others out there on the streets, but I do have an amazing solo busk one day where I play to the prime minister of Slovenia! I had just met Josip, a very Paulo Coelho looking fellow who I'd been talking to in between songs about life and the spiritual journey (NO rolling of the eyes please!) when a bit of a procession rocks up to where I'm playing, right by one of the famous bridges over the Ljubljanska. Josip's eyes widen and he tells me to play something special for the prime minister, but although I play 'Waiting on an Angel' by Ben Harper I don't think anyone cares too much: all of his cronies are too busy taking photos and protecting him from harm, as if any would come to him in this peaceful wee country?!?! Who knows though... anyway, it's still an absolute pleasure to play for him and the general public, and I do pretty well from it before I leave to meet the grumpy Doro who is fed up of drinking coffee by herself... we are planning to busk together but haven't quite got it sorted yet...<br /><br />That night we are walking home when yet another Belgian couple approaches, telling me they'd seen me singing today and could they buy us both a drink? I accept and end up having an amazing night with them and some locals, and even do an impromptu gig in the graffitti laden outdoor bar, borrowing a beautiful nylon strung number to do so. Three Irish girls are there too and it's one of those great traveller moments where everyone becomes instant friends - all of the three Irish girls are wearing green tee-shirts funnily enough, as is the Belgian girl whose fiancee has just proposed to me as well. Hilarious... they are staying in the same hostel as us so walk me home to creep into a darkened dorm with a sleeping Doro inside... <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">CROATIA - KORCULA AND DUBROVNIK</span><br /><br />Croatia is stunningly beautiful, and on the island of Korcula we meet an Italian couple who lead us to an incredible double room with a balcony, not a stone's throw from the beach opposite, in a house owned by a local woman who speaks only Croatian and Italian. We manage to communicate however, and end up staying there three days because of this room as well as the fact that busking here is a hit...<br /><br />I go out by myself at first and have a great night, meeting a bunch of Polish teenagers on holiday, one of whom plays 'Nothing Else Matters' for me to sing along to. It's a great moment... and the following night, Doro and I go out together after a quick harmony practise on the balcony. It's actually really amazing to play street music with another person - we work out some mean harmonies and get a great response from the crowd especially when we do our angelic Nirvana impressions, singing 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' and 'Lithium' in perfect harmony. Korcula is good for us; busking wise things just get better and better and by the third night we're raking in the kuna and drawing good audiences too (we always make sure we find a place where people can sit down and watch). I guess this is why Dubrovnik comes as such a disappointment...<br /><br />Sure, it is a beautiful city but, writing this two months later, I don't have many good memories of this place. It's money hungry and we can feel dollar signs in people's eyes. The beaches are filled with 'beautiful people', and although the water is clear and sparkling, I don't really rate it as a city. It's too soulless, and has no time or space for such scruffy looking buskers (sorry Doro, I'm speaking for myself here). It seems that playing on the street is near impossible - we have one good night on a bridge leading into the old town at night, but mostly people walk past us, blinded by the beauty of the white marbled city (yes, it is a stunner of a place, aesthetically at least). Relief comes when, after our first failed musical mission, we go to commiserate with a glass of wine at a bar we passed earlier, and end up being persuaded to play for a free bottle by a table of locals who'd seen us earlier. It's an amazing place - Du'Vino wine bar, run by an Australian who knows his stuff when it comes to wine. In fact, it's the best drop I've had in ages, and we return every night that we're there, doing two impromptu gigs there to an audience that gives a damn. It's a redemption of sorts, and I'm very grateful to meet both Sasha the owner and Kruno, a local street musician that actually makes a living off busking and selling CDs - he dresses up like a villager (?? a Village person?? Ha he'd be horrified to hear that...) and is amplified, as well as being sponsored by the Council to be there and he deserves it - he's got a great thing going on. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">ITALIA</span><br /><br />During the 8 hour ferry from Dubrovnik to Bari in the south of Italy, it strikes me that we have arrived in a new country before we even seen the land. Families are clustered together singing loud songs and speaking fervently to one another in a language very different from the Slavic tongues I have become used to. My travelling companion and I have a huge argument on the boat and to be honest, it's the first time I can argue with someone while all the while knowing it will be allright - I have known Doro for ten years and she is more like a sister. Anyway, we each stare at the sea and grump away to ourselves, and eventually it passes and we get off the boat to a new land.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Bari</span> is a sweet town, hot and cheap and friendly. We spend an evening and morning there before taking a train to Rome, and spend it eating gelato, ravioli, and hiding from the heat... <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Rome</span> is a trip. I'm too hot and bothered to properly enjoy it, and our hostel is the worst I've ever stayed in - broken air-con, outside noise,and inside noise from three drunken Spaniards who arrive at 3 am and proceed to giggle to each other whilst opening and closing every plastic bag they own. So, in our only full day in the city we spend much of it resting in the shade, avoiding the heat of the crowds and I don't actually end up seeing many 'sights' as such. I'm cool with this though. We busk once and it goes okay... someone who I'm assuming must have been a Kiwi hears our medley of Pokarekare Ana / Te Aroha and gives us a tenner. Sweet! And we meet a troupe of Spaniards all dressed up to the nines and wielding about 6 guitars between them. They're a university band from home who are going around the restaurants playing for customers and passing a hat around - this is where the money is, but both of us are too chicken to follow suit. Instead we make enough money to pay for our gelato habit and take the bus home, a bus which seems to be free, at least no-one ever asks us for tickets all the times we ride it and we never enquire. Oh well...<br /><br />We train on to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Siena</span>, an incredibly beautiful town which is a sight for tired Roman eyes. We LOVE it! Although, sick of noisy hostels (our age is hitting us, and it is a good thing) we have booked a B&B that although gorgeous, is run by some helluva temperamental Italian women, all 'Ciao!' and smiles one minute before rapping on our door in the morning barking at us to get up for breakfast! Hilarious really, although we don't think so at the time... Thankfully they are only there in the mornings, so we are left mostly in peace. <br /><br />The busking is great in Siena, and we play for hours, three nights in a row, until the police drive slowly past and give us the old finger wag before pointing at their watch to signal that it's after 11. Great times... Siena is so beautiful, all rustic stone and old temples. We discover an ancient chapel one day dedicated to Saint Catherine, a local saint who had her first sacred vision at 6 years old, in 1353. I sit alone on a wooden pew there, breathing in the ancient wooden-ness while a black nun in brilliant blue prays silently nearby. We differ in our religions but have the same god heart, and it's so, so beautiful. We are surrounded by friezes depicting life back then, and in the pictures I see local women tugging at each others skirts and whispering behind each others palms and can almost feel the petty quarrels they would have had back then, so similar to the ones we all have in our human lives now, and I feel that not much has changed really. Despite all of our technological advances, unless we really go inside ourselves, we can't really expect to evolve much on a human level. Wars are still going on, history is repeating itself. But I for one choose consciousness over disillusionment, so don't get down about it - I draw my hands together in prayer position, giving thanks to whatever god led us here today. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Verona</span>, Verona, home of Romeo and Juliet and a whole lot of beautiful buildings. Being two months later, this depiction is all far too brief and I feel I haven't yet done the beauty of Italy justice. Verona for me was the ultimate in crumbling beauty. My jaw was constantly dropping at every crumbling Veronese frieze and we played music outside the 'House of Juliet', historically where the Capulet family actually did live in times gone by, and now probably the biggest tourist hotspot, where thousands came every day to pose on 'Juliet's balcony', to get their photo taken with a gold statue of Venus (I think?) and to declare their love for someone on the graffitti wall, covered in grotesque hearts and arrows in red and blue marker. On our final night playing music there, a man comes out from one of the touristic shops selling synthetic love hearts and shapely red balloons and gifts us an embroidered card (red, of course) reading 'Gracias'... particularly poignant as it was our last night together before going our separate ways in Venice the next evening, and it still lives in my guitar case now. <br /><br />Yes... not 24 hours left together now, we train to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Venice</span>, our final stop before Doro flies home to Germany and I take the train up to Southern Austria to catch up with Bhak. We spend half a precious hour of our short day queuing up to stow our luggage in the train station for the day. It's damn expensive too, but I do a doubletake when the man who has just taken my pack returns, smiling and beckoning to me. I go with him to the back room, and can't quite work out what we means at first when he points towards a corner where moaning sounds are emanating. Then I realise they are actually coming from my pack! And I bend over laughing when I realise that somehow in the journey from my back to the back room, the portable tape recorder in my luggage has switched itself on, and my old Hindustani singing lessons are replaying themselves and there is NOTHING devotional about the way they sound! I can't quite feel the sacredness of the 'Om' right now, and I share a laugh with the porter before delving into my stuffed pack to rectify the situation. <br /><br />Yeah, we see Venice on this day, and it's as beautiful as I imagined, as well as super dooperly touristic and somewhat disillusioning in this sense. My best memories of Venice though are the three hour lunch we had together, two bottles of wine in the sun and our last big sisterly slurred conversation after a whole month together, and a rather tipsy boat ride back to the station to get our luggage and say our goodbyes. Quite simply it is an amazing last day, and we play together on the bridge to the busstop for old times sake, made about two euros (again from a Kiwi who heard our Maori songs)and waved goodbye.<br /><br />Alone again for the first time in a month, I board the train to Villach, hoping that Bhak would be there to pick me up from the station at 1 a.m (he was) and what kind of magic was waiting for me in Austria...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-10459636236124341852011-10-13T22:38:00.000-07:002011-10-13T23:23:17.990-07:00Back on the blog, and learning to bridge the worldsHmmm... I see that somehow over three months have passed since I've made an entry... how could this be, I wonder?? Although I know that it was Europe that did it...<br /><br />When in India one has so much more time to write, it seems... and now that I am back in Asia, swapping India for Vietnam (Ho Chi Minh / Saigon), and I seem to be stuck in this internet cafe while the monsoon buckets down in the street outside (very interesting - this is the first time it's hit and I haven't been trapped inside a hotel room. I'm interested to see that there are still motorbikes around, although the riders seem to be more often than not covered head to toe in some kind of blue plastic...), it seems that the time to write again has... arrived!<br /><br />So how shall I begin? I have no idea whether I'll be able to capture the events of the past three months now that they are well and truly in the past... but I might touch on a few things. It seems fitting to write about how I left India all those months ago (... three...) and how the world I was in started to change right in front of me.<br /><br /><br />Early July. I reluctantly leave the Bhagsu valley and all its nurturing late night jam sessions and take the usual shitty night bus to Delhi. Particularly shitty I remember as it leaked on a couple of Portuguese travellers I met there, and the drivers did nothing but laugh for the first hour and then begrudgingly sellotape up some cardboard... but what to do? This is India... <br /><br />Anyway, I had expected my one day in Delhi to be the usual hot, bored day of somehow surviving the humidity, catching up on sleep and late minute shopping. I never meet anyone in Delhi - why should this day be any different? But, ever since what I consider a definite 'soul-evolution', for want of a better word, in the Himalayas this year, it seemed that life just didn't work in the same way anymore. A bunch of Bhagsu-ites that were all flying out the following day were congregating in the aptly named 'Nirvana' cafe so we spent a good few hours reminiscing about the place, swapping a wee bit of gossip (tis true) and preparing ourselves for the culture change in front of us. Someone mentioned that like it or not, Europe (where most of us were headed) was going to knock this peace out of us eventually and from this conversation onwards I became determined not to let this happen. I mean, it's all inside of us, right? Surely we can't cling to the bosom of India forever... there comes a time when we have to step back into the world, and I chose to do so whole heartedly. <br /><br />Anyway, regardless of my determination to hold my peace, I couldn't argue that things were starting to change before we had even left India. It turned out that one of the Bhagsu-ites was on my flight so we shared a cab to the airport at around 2 in the blurry-eyed morning and actually had a great airport experience together. Normally something I do alone, like the last day in Delhi, my world was changing and I was finding I didn't need so much alone time anymore... anyway, there was a point where I realised that we were leaving India before we even left India so to speak... I'll just retrive my journal entry from the time in order to convey it better...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Your pending balance 340"</span><br />Oh, my final impressions of India.<br />I sit with Adam in the super bland "Costa Coffee" and drink the shittiest and most expensive chai I have EVER had! Just a teabag in water with some frothy milk and no masala to speak of. I am aware that we are about to re-enter the world of chains and brands, which modern India seems to be trying to emulate in the worst way possible. I want to take it by the scruff of its devotional neck and beg it not to change, but I know it will. I know there will always be the chai walla on the side of the road, which has been my reality for the past three months, and we joke about the unlikelihood of one of these guys setting up shop in the Delhi International airport, serving their sweet milky spiced chai out of little clay cups as a kind of Indian farewell, bit we both know it will never happen.. they would never afford the rent for starters! Such a shame. Airports are so soulless and culture-void... so bland, so monochromatic. <br /><br />And this world is where I am going to, but I am determined to hold my own in the midst of it. I sit and look at the fading henna on my hands - a chessboard pattern covers much of my left palm while vines grow up the fingertips. My right palm is much darker and here a small flower adorns the centre with lacey patterns emerging in bright henna orange all around it. I wonder what people in Europe will think of this... but I don't care. I am bound for another world... and although I welcome it, I know that it's gonna be a change that won't always come easy.Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-55377726081550060462011-07-07T14:01:00.000-07:002011-10-19T05:59:34.096-07:00Last days in BhagsuThe valley is filled with musicians and it seems I have been lucky enough to meet and play with some truly beautiful ones. Every night in my last week is filled with various jam sessions - huge tribal jams / dance offs at 'Sky Pie', casual relaxed Punjabi-lassi inspired jams at Roza cafe or small scale sessions at 'Sky HIGH', the latter of which often ends up turning large-scale much to the chagrin of the non-musos staying there...<br /><br />As stated, there are loads of musicians around, but I have a core crew in a few of them. Matt, a sitar player from Florida, is one of the first players I meet that I truly gel with. He is tall, curly haired and never to be seen without either his sitar or a guitar strapped to his back. I first meet Matt at Roza cafe on the full moon, or see him at least, playing with Vladi and Lapsang, a guitarist and flute player respectively. Their music is beautiful that night, but I remember being 'on a mission' to get to another full moon party - a musical evening at Shivam's house - and don't remember staying around too long despite the beauty wafting out of those instruments. As I leave I lament my evening's commitment and vow to make NO future plans unless I have to - it's very hard to walk away from such beauty.<br /><br />Anyway, I first play with Matt and Vlad a few nights after the full moon, at 'Roza'. Our first jam is actually quite a healing experience for me as I'd had a kind of a crazy evening prior to this, and nothing feels better than to sit and sing my heart out to their improvised licks. The three of us seem to run into each other a lot in the coming days - usually at 'Roza', and we sit and eat breakfast together and philosophise. I am quickly told the story of what happened after their legendary full moon jam and hear of Vlad falling down a cliff right after he warned the others not to get too close to the edge! Well, the others are laughing away so I feel free to join in - it is pretty funny... especially because his precious guitar was unharmed.<br /><br />Another wonderfully talented man I love playing with is Shyan, always armed with his array of flutes in various keys. Sometimes I try to mirror what he does on flute with my voice - our jams are always beautiful. Peter is another flute player, and Shreeti box player, and 'Halluci' player (an instrument that truly sounds like its name!)who travels with about twenty kilos of instruments, building them as he goes... ahhh, it's a good life we all lead... as we are all taking singing lessons from Manoj, a wonderful teacher based in Varanasi most of the year, the idea gets bandied about to all go and live there and study music together. WHY NOT??!! I'm currently entertaining this notion of moving to Varanasi in time for Christmas (after earning some money teaching somewhere first...) to study for three months or so. How amazing would it be though, to all live in a big house together, play music every day, in one of the craziest cities in the world?!<br /><br />So, it seems it's mostly men that I've been jamming with, although Uma joins us for a few nights, her freestyling lyrics an inspiration to me - totally free, she raps about being the queen of the world (making us all keel over in laughter), being limitless and ever-changing and sharing a house with some funky monkey junkies - actually, that last one was Peter and I, very funny... and Selina from South America joins us for my last couple of nights as well - a full power goddess woman who I totally connect with vocally. We harmonise together, and sometimes shriek a bit, and end up dancing to the music we're creating, letting our inner banshees out - hooray!! I am LOVING these musical nights...<br /><br />Although not everyone is. I must admit we get kind of carried away one night when it is raining and the sound of the monsoon covers our volume. There are dozens of people all crammed onto a verandah near 'Sky High' and by the time the rain dies down we have forgotten about the time, the djimbes have started up again and unfortunately we have to be told by a pretty upset neighbour whose sleep has been interrupted by our bangin'. I feel terrible about this, and wonder not for the first time what the locals think of us - we must seem to take over their beloved valley for up to six months of the year in high season. They have to put up with djimbes banging at unruly hours, mad trance parties, blissed out hippies climbing up and down the mountains all through the night... I mean, we have a pretty amazing life here in Bhagsu, but I think we should remember those that have lived here all their lives. Food for thought anyway...<br /><br />Actually, it's reasonably common for police to come and close things down anyway, something I found out on my final night - I had invited people to come and play at 'Marley cafe', but because of getting my hands hennaed by my lovely guesthouse maitre-dee, I was over an hour late so we didn't start playing until after ten o-clock, the official closing time around these parts. Sure, we were playing quietly (I wasn't going to take any chances after our 3 am finish a few nights before), but we were soon plunged into darkness when the cafe owner turned out all the lights and shushed everyone. Expecting to hear a simple conversation between a police officer and the owner, we were all shocked and horrified to hear the sound of someone being pretty heavily beaten up, just on the other side of the canvas covering. As soon as it was safe to leave we did, there being nothing we could do (after seeing my rickshaw driver get beat up by police in Delhi, I knew they wouldn't listen to us if we told them to stop). We later found out that it wasn't because of us, but rather that the police had been videoing someone smoking charas through a guesthouse window, and a worker had thought that they (the policeman) was a common thief. So, the worker hit the policeman, not knowing who they were, and a heavy beating and an arrest followed. We're all pretty bummed out by this time, me especially, having invited everyone to this cafe to play some music! But unfortunately this stuff happens all over India... we visit the next morning to see how things are, but who knows... who can win when facing the Indian police?!?<br /><br />Suprisingly, we do end up having one more beautiful jam for last night, all cramming into Dipender's room (he owns a guesthouse near 'Sky High), and even more suprisingly, we manage to keep it really quiet, and disturb nobody. For me it's a really nice warm up to my upcoming 'busking tour of Europe' as I play song after song for everyone towards the end of the night - Leonard Cohen, Simon and Garfunkel, Beatles... we all finally leave around 3 a.m, completely satisfied, completely happy...<br /><br />SO, I leave Bhagsu in the best possible place - completely inspired, and very creatively... I really feel like this bunch of musicians I will see again, for sure... I catch my night bus to Delhi reluctantly, but also knowing that all things must come to an end as well, and that there are bound to be many more beautiful experiences ahead of me in Europe, a land completely different to the one I have been living on for the past three months, but a canvas waiting to have new musical stories painted on. Life is changing for me now as I move to new lands, but not for the first time I say bring it on, sweet universe... bring it on indeed...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-57348813368659977002011-06-26T03:27:00.000-07:002011-10-19T06:02:04.396-07:00Bhagsu in the MonsoonThe monsoon has officially come to Bhagsu. For the past three day, I have awoken to thick foggy skies rather than my usual view of the lush green valley below. The first rain usually begins as I do my asanas on my small blue yoga mat in the upstairs room, and if I'm lucky, the sun will come out momentarily in an hour or two, giving people the opportunity to emerge from their various mountain hideouts (guesthouses/cafes).<br /><br />Actually, that's a lie. There is no regularity to the rain. It just comes. But for the past few days, it has stayed for longer, a pattern which is not likely to change for a while. <br /><br />Ridiculously, I have no raincoat or umbrella. Usually this is not a problem as I am loaded up with books to read when the rain comes and I'm still in my room, or if I'm outside I can duck into one of the many warm Bhagsu cafes with similarly unprepared travellers... Toady was the first day I got caught out, having braved the rain enough to run a few minutes to Roza cafe for breakfast. Luckily Sahil lent me his only-slightly-broken unmbrella to whip down the hill to my singing class, and I have been down here ever since, as today this water is just not ceasing. It's okay. I love it, and the fact that it makes us slow down and relllaaaax even more.<br /><br />For I have realised something. I've been here three weeks or even more now, and have only a few days left until I need to take my Delhi night bus and my plane to Amsterdam. What a change this will be... but anyway, back to my realisation. After three weeks here, and after four months on the road, I finally feel like I'm learning to truly leeeeet gooooo.... a deeper level of relaxation is coming in. Looking back, I've always had some kind of objective for my day, and certain 'things to achieve' so to speak. How liberating, then, to fnially let go and just BE. You'd think I would have realise this already, after four months away. How interesting then, how long it's taken me to transofrm my Western view. <br /><br />In 'the West' (generic term for countries not like India), we live our lives with such expectation - with goals, onjectives, attachments. Even our personal development is often laden with ideas of where we want to 'get to' or how we can make ourselves more of a person we want to be. A friend of mine told me yesterday "Why are you always 'on your way' somewhere? You need to calm down , girl. Everything is inside of you". How right he was. For me anyway, it's been highly liberating to just STOP and let life happen. I know I have the luxury of doing this at the moment - no kids, no responsibilities... so I'vwe decided to mike it, baby, for all it's worth, and ENJOOOOOYYYYY (Indian saying) even more.<br /><br />Right, enough lyrical waxing. Here's some of the cool stuff that's been going on in the Valley of late.<br /><br />Two beautiful jams, one two nights before in Roza cafe, and last night in 'Sky High' where a small circle of flute, singing, sitar, guitar and tabla turned into an even bigger circle of harmonies, spoons tapping on glasses and a rather hyperactive puppy wagging its tail and trying to chew everything (tabla and flute case, beer glass, everyone's feet) in sight. <br /><br />My amazing yoga / meditation practise. I've taken some classes, but mostly I just love practising in my room, holding my asanas long, long, long, and watching my mind get quieter and calmer. It's amazing. Pretty much impossible to put into words, so I'll leave it at that. <br /><br />Sometimes I wish I could stay longere her, but my visa is up, and Europe is calling. Soon it will be time to take to the streets with my guitar in hand and let my voice fund me for a while. I have much to take away with me. A lot has 'sunk in' for me here in this valley. Now it will be up to me to integrate it into a diferent enviornment and away from the nurturing land of India - my home, always...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-68499884520340735412011-06-16T01:15:00.000-07:002011-10-19T06:03:17.358-07:00Full Moon Eclipse in Upper BhagsuIt's midnight; the moon has another hour in which to disappear and I have as much time to write by its light. High in the Bhagsu Valley, various sounds emanate. Birds burning the midnight oil chirp quietly amongst themselves. The distant sounds of drumbeats echo across to my perch, mixing with the laughter of the late night cafe dwellers. The occasional whoop and moon howl are carried to me on the windless night, although this moon is gentle; there are no loud trance parties anywhere near us. I think others have traveled to Manali and the Parvati Valley for such occasions and I'm glad for the gentle peace that remains. Possibly it's the guesthouse I'm at; the two Frenchies, a Venezuelan and I are more content to sit and watch the moon before getting a reasonably early night, than to stay up all night jamming. A dog barks and I see the white patches of a cat quicken their pace on the lawn below. I want to stay up until I can write no more. <br /><br />I have just come from Shivam's full moon musical celebration, where a wonderful harmonium player jammed with various drummers and the orange clad baba from down the hill whose voice crescendoed as they sang some devotionally rockin bhajans while we sipped chai and lemon ginger honey. I joined in and felt my whole body vibrate with the sounds within and around me, although I knew none of the words. All the while, Shivam sat on his orange blanket, twisting his hands into various mudras and swaying his body devotionally, stopping occasionally to pay homage to the many portraits of his teacher that adorned the walls. <br /><br />Such are the contrasts in this valley - you can find anything you want really. On my walk to Shivam's, I was tempted to stay in Roza and be part of an impromptu sitar and flute concert - instead I drank one of their famous masala chais before trekking up, and up, and up. Others told me about a rooftop party somewhere to the left of me, while the more adventurous had opted to trek to Triund and sleep in a cave to see the eclipse from there.<br /><br />Back in the present moment, the moon is a crescent for a while before turning into an orange pac-man. There are no clouds around for him to eat though - by this time Federico has come home and is amazed to learn of the disappearing moon - we watch awefully (as opposed to awfully) from the steps below my room, wondering aloud whether or not the moon will reappear, and from which direction... <br /><br />At 1.15 I give up and make for my bed, happy to have watched the moon nearly disappear from view. I leave the tiny orange sliver to disappear completely and curl up in my puddle of blankets, asleep instantly in the small family house...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-81454741720436905992011-06-12T07:31:00.000-07:002011-10-19T06:05:54.123-07:00Mcleod Ganj sunset, and last night's gigI'm sitting in an internet cafe when all of a sudden a huuuuge commotion is occuring in the street outside... At first I am determined not to involve myself and continue tapping away at the typically sticky keyboard, but the sound increases and I wonder if someone's been hurt on the street outside. All of a sudden I find myself abandoning my chair and nosying it up with the locals lining the pavement. It always amuses me how people do this in Inda: how anyone's business is everyones...<br /><br />However, this time we have more cause for concern - some dude with an American accent is SHOUTING his head off... screaming and carrying on about the motorbikes on the road.. from what I glean it seems one has run over his foot, and a HUGE part of me sympathises even though he is making a huge scene and continue his tirade about India as he walks up and down the street. These roads ARE insane and have changed a lot in the five years since I've visited last, with taxis and rickshaws and vans and motorbikes jostling for space with pedestrians, cows, dogs and children. From the way the man is carrying on I had wondered if someone had been killed, but it seems everyone else is fine...<br /><br />I guess he has just expressed what I feel sometimes, albiet in an extreme way... weekends in both Bhagsu and McLeod are crazy, with many Punjabi weekenders competing for space here, their home state but a few hours away. Last night, from the serenity of Upper Bhagsu, where you have to walk up a steep road and then varying quantities of steep stone steps depending on which cafe you wish to frequent, a gentle Punjabi gentleman approached me asking if he could speak to me. I managed to swallow my inner cynic about what was going to follow and was pleasantly suprised at his genuine interest at why so many travellers come here... <br /><br />I told him that the magic of the hills should speak for itself, but upon reflection I guess that being only a weekender he wouldn't have time to envelop himself into the community up here. Last night this same community, out of which an AMAZING Arabic-esque reggae traveller band has formed, put on a concert at Horizon cafe. The place was PACKED despite the 150 rupee entry fee (first entry fee for a gig up there yet I heard, although it was worth ten times as much and I had no qualms about opening my wallet to support wonderful musicians like them).<br /><br />From their very first song they had wooed the crowd, actually even before they started they had the crowd wooed, with many of their friends filling the first two rows... they are 6 or 7 guys, I lost count, all beautiful both inside and out... the djimbe player reminds me of my friend Iain, and I want to show him a photo of him. They have the same brown smiling eyes and soul of a musician I think. The Israeli (I think???) singer has a white cloth wrapped around his dark hair. He closes his eyes and sings Arabic sounds to make ones soul swoon. Mine is unabashedly following suit on the dance floor. As is everyone elses! They play a slow song and we soon we all have our arms around each other, regardless of whether we know each other or not. It doesn't matter. I have my head on a strange man's shoulder at one stage and it all feels perfectly natural. <br /><br />The singer in the middle of the stage (three of them at least are singing...) is something of a Spanish / South American rapper/freestyler and he is AMAZING! Doo wopping away in a way only he knows how to do right now, COMPLETELY one with the music - as they ALL are. It's great! The tall Frenchie at the back plays the clarinet in a Middle Eastern style, while behind the stage a guy in white they just refer to as 'Bagi' is holding his arms out in a V to the crowd as if to bless them. I am digging his energy - I am also in white and am feeling the same things - LOVE for everyone. SNAP! The energy of the crowd lifts me and I wonder how we are ever going to let this band go. They play for over an hour, an hour and a half, I don't know... and only stop when the resturanteers concur with police rule about no live music after about 11 and they play their final song unplugged after much shushing of the crowd, who are COMPLETELy hyped up by now. The last song is beautiful, although we're not fooling any noise police with all our voices joining in for the simple but beautiful chorus: "Your eyes are the window to my soul..." I could cry, but I'm too ecstatic and overexcited to produce tears. <br /><br />Afterwards I meet and hug the guy I shared a shoulder with earlier, and there's talk of various afterparties at the waterfall or up the valley, as well as the invitation "EVERYONE COME TO MY HOUSE!!" from one rather beautiful dude (also in white). I'm a little bit ungrounded to say the least after all of this and retreat home, as I have realised lately that even though there are SO MANY beautiful people about, I am a loner after all and yearn to be 'home' in my beautiful space. Just when I thought I was sick of my own company it seems I wasn't and that there is much to be gained from silent time. The air is cool and I walk up the steps slowly, savouring the night. I won't forget the gig, and I'm sure there will be facebook photos from someone still able to be in control of their camera - my flailing limbs certainly weren't capable of capturing the moment in a frame other than that of my moving memory. <br /><br />I'm still awake at 3 a.m that night when the rains start, and I hear the whooping somewhere distantly down the valley of the waterfall trance partygoers. I open my curtains and stare out for a minute before curling deeper into my blanket, happy for peace after the party...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-10642039712618113482011-06-10T01:47:00.000-07:002011-06-10T02:22:44.618-07:00Dharamkot Dawn(Title and geographical note: Dharma Sala, where I'm staying, is a big town in the state of Himachal Pradesh that I never actually go into. Instead, a few kms up the valley lies an area called Mcleod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama as previously mentioned and refuge to many Tibetans illegally crossing the border. I have yet to research the reasons why this place got chosen for Tibetan settlement, but I don't blame them - it is rich with beauty. Bhag Su is a smaller area up from Mcleod Ganj, although both are pretty touristic now, so Dharamkot, another are even higher in the valley, is where a lot of travellers seek refuge from the hubbub of... other travellers! Just to orientate you...)<br /><br />6.30 a.m. On the road since 5 after waking, shaking, from possibly the most intense dream I've had in my LIFE! (death, earthquakes, knowing I needed to throw my body off a cliff for the survival of others. Holy crap, right? I spent breakfast discussing the finer nuances and symbols with similarly cosmic travellers, tee hee... new life, taking a leap of faith perhaps? As I'm doing, as best I can...)<br /><br />Anyway, at 5 the dawn was teasing the inky blue sky outside and it called me to be out in it rather than in my warm bed surrounded by nightmarish residue. I pack my bag and flip-flop out. Bhag Su was still sleeping, but after covering my nose in the open toilet section of road right outside my guesthouse entrance (EW, India...) I begin the slow climb up the valley. Even in its slumber I could sense the different energies of the various sections: Lower BhagSu with its upmarket hotels and German bakeries, and more traveller oriented Upper Bhag Su. I walk past 'Haifa cafe', 'Zion Cafe' and 'Reggae cafe' one after the other and take the windy mountain path up, where civilised concrete transformed into roughly hew granite steps. I pass the Agama and Siddartha yoga centres and wonder to myself where the heck this cultish Osho place I've heard about might well be... <br /><br />After paying my respects at a small white stone temple (all gods are one to me now - I worship all temples, mosques, cathedrals, synagogues. Mountains, waterfalls, big solid rocks like the one I am writing from), I see a girl I met yesterday, the tortoise shell of her pack keeping her head down as she hightails it to catch a bus to an organic cheese farm in Manali. It's 5.30, but I am wide awake, wish her well and walk on.<br /><br />"Free Palestina" is sprayed aside a stone shed wall, and a psychedelic van adorned in Hebrew scripture sits waiting for the day to begin. The birds around me are waking me at least - today I've beaten the birds! Unheard of...<br /><br />I'm kind of on a vague mission to find the Tushita meditation centre in Upper Dharamkot. The path winds up and occasionally forks into two - I choose instinctively and go up, up, up...<br /><br />A BEAUTIFUL elderly Tibetan man in the maroon robes of a monk walks by, seemingly astonished to see another soul at this hour. <br /><br />"Live here?" he asks, smiling a child-pure smile<br />"No. I live down. Today only walking" I speak back in the broken English that has become my every day speech.<br />"You journeying?" he enquires. I'm always journeying, I think!<br />"Yes, I go up," to which he shakes his head and laughs amusedly<br />"LIVING here?" I enquire back<br />He points to his right and replies "small house" and carries on with a twinkling eyed nod.<br /><br />Up I go. A stone lingam, like a cairn about 2 metres high has been lovingly built on the roadside. I photograph it and try to capture myself in the image as well. Me and Shiva, huh? Beautiful.<br /><br />It's 6 by this point and I can't find Tushita, beginning to feel tired and my Kapha laziness getting the better of me. so I justify to myself that I've still got to walk 4 hours uphill to Triund later today. The dogs are waking up and bark in choruses down below.<br /><br />Down I go. More and more I lose the present moment and start to dream, losing the path and almost walking into someone's home at one point. I try a second, third time and again lose myself, rolling my eyes out loud at my directionless self. Giving up, I cross country it and at one stage lay my hand on a rock for support only to find small brown maggot like creatures dead in a cluster beneath me. Ew, India, I think, although the Hindu in me sees their sacredness. I wipe my hand off grassily and move on, more carefully this time. <br /><br />These words are calling me to write them so I seek out a rock, climb aboard and get to the end of this sentence. <br /><br />It's 7. The early morning magic has changed to a gentle peace in these Tibetan hills. Always, the peace of the Dalai Lama pervades everything, although his Mcleod Ganj home is another world away down the hill.<br /><br />A crow cries, my eyes sag, and I'm hungry for banana porridge. I'm outta here...<br /><br />...(took me ages!)<br />... and now, scribing this down at 3 pm, I still haven't got to the village of Triund... perhaps tomorrow...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-4817206881422024962011-06-08T08:50:00.000-07:002011-10-19T06:14:54.176-07:00Beautiful Bhag SuSome kind of change has occurred in me over the last few days. Of course it's been influenced by the Himalayan aftermath, the book I'm reading ('Yogini - discovering the goddess within' by Shambhavi Chopra, a title with potential cheese factor but actually a beautiful account of one woman's journey with spirit), and also this beautiful land of Bhag Su.<br /><br />I've been rising pretty late - 9ish - after waking early at around 5.30/6 and drifting back into dreams. The last two days since I've recovered from my illness I've been doing my own yoga practise which has been beautiful actually. So, after my morning asanas and a wee spot of solo room dancing, I take to the streets of Bhag Su, ready to explore the hills. <br /><br />After breakfast in a typically stoned Shiva Moon cafe (the album they have been playing six times a day in every touristic place ever since my first visit in 2004, and probably since before that even...) I wander up the hill with the vague aim of finding my old guesthouse of 5 years ago, seeing whether or not Madhu still lived there, and then walking to Dharam Kot and checking out the Tushita meditation centre there. <br /><br />As I meander along, a small and humble white stone temple catches my eye and I tentatively ask a man washing dishes in the accompanying restaurant whether or not I can visit it and take a picture. He obliges and I enter, instantly feeling a deep gentle mountain peace there. I can see similarly small white stone temples across the Bhagsu valley - all beautiful and humble, my favourite kinds. I don't linger long however, as a soft rain has begun to fall - a daily occurrence here in the mountains which I love. So, I take shelter in this empty cafe, which I recognise as a place I used to frequent five years ago. <br /><br />Some things are better left unedited. I believe that this is one of them. Here is what came from my journal of the time as I sip my first masala chai of the day.<br /><br />***********************************************************************<br /><br />Nature is overwhelmingly beautiful.<br /><br />Thunder sounds in the distance, rain teases the tin roof of Sahil's famous halva cafe, the stones and greenery of the valley unbelievably alive. <br /><br />I have no desire to party with the early morning Upper Bhagsu stoners, but today I will take pleasure in the same beauties we all climb these stone steps for. <br /><br />This rain cleanses my being - I'm going out in it! (and I do...)<br /><br />There are two dogs, one on either side of me, perhaps rivalling for my attention. The black one is the healthier choice, although I eventually pat the mangy one too, knowing the tap to wash my hands is close and will give me another chance to dash out in the rain for a while. At one stage I have a hand on each of the dogs heads and the mangy one is LOVING it - closing his eyes, leaning into my touch and blissing out. The black one licks my arm in thanks, although I'd prefer he didn't, regardless of how clean he looks.<br /><br />This masala chai is gooood... lots of Kala mirch (black pepper) at the bottom. Oh yeah!<br /><br />Shee-ite the rain is pelting down now. I almost don't want to read my book it's so beautiful! Amazing! And I ask for someone to come and share this moment with me... <br /><br />The rain makes me cry, so I pull my shawl over my head for privacy and find a massive rock in the distance to focus on, like the one I found from my hotel balcony in Maneri two weeks ago - a rock in the midst of the Bhagirathi river, steady and stoic as the waters thrashed against it. I imagined this rock to be my mind, unflinching as all the thoughts cascaded overtop of it. Today I try to keep my focus on this Himachal stone as I wonder what to do with my big overflowing heart. SO, I plant my feet on the earth, or the concrete atop of the mountain, hold my pounamu in my left hand (I'm connecting so much more to this stone lately!) and breath deeply in, and out.<br /><br />I don't want the rain to finish, and as it ebbs, flows, dips and swells, thunder rumbles reassuringly, soothingly in the distance.<br /><br />I COULD WRITE FOR DAYS!<br /><br />In the valley, three brightly coloured salwar kameezs are kept dry under umbrellas as ladies in hot pink, aqua marine and orange tread carefully down the hill in the wet. Another white stone temple sits silently waiting for them, infused with nature's wise, peaceful power. <br /><br />My eyes are ANCIENT with longing for somebody to share this with. <br /><br />And then, just as soon as it begun, the rain stops. Immediately! It shimmers again for a few seconds. Is sucked into the soil. It stops fully, and I can hear the drum circle occurring a little lower in the valley - a world I feel so far away from right now but know I'll frequent again, at the right time.<br /><br />A stranger has sat down near me - the answer to my prayer? And I am suddenly shy.<br /><br />The wind speaks, and I try to clear my mind as the words come in.<br /><br /><br />*************<br /><br />What follows is a lovely, easy conversation with an Englishman whom I briefly referred to in my last entry about India and its contradictions. As well as this, we discuss teaching, theatre, the story of the Indian dogs (the black one is called Kalu and proves himself to be the king of the hill, barking at any goats or rival dogs that dare to walk past his perch, and the mangy looking one is actually both arthritic and epileptic - a sick wee creature hungry for a gentle human touch). I drink another masala chai and am informed that the paratha here is delicious if I'm so taken on my next visit. Which I will try, along with the halva, as there is no semolina in the valley today.<br /><br />About an hour after the rain has stopped, I leave the blissful cafe and walk down the hill, which in turn leads me to Madhu's house and there she is! Sitting on the porch with her new sister-in-law. She doesn't remember me at first, although as soon as I mention my friend Abbey's name, who I shared a room with for a few weeks here all those years ago, she lights up - she always did love Abbey... soon she is pulling out the photos Abbey sent her all those years ago and calling out for her papa to come and greet me - I have good memories of him teaching me Hindi back then, and of his father smoking pipe after pipe downstairs. Turns out that grandpapa is still there, smoking pipes downstairs, although out on a wood gathering mission (??) at the moment. I guess I'll see the plume rising from his pipe next time I visit...<br /><br />Back then, Madhu told us she was destined for spinsterhood, being the only girl of the family and bereft of a mother. Someone needed to look after papa-ji, so it was her duty to help arrange her brothers' marriages and then run the household, which she was doing so well even back then as a 16 year old! BUT it turns out that things have changed - elder brother has a wife now - Santosh, who I meet, a beautiful young girl who dutifully pulls her sari over her head when Papa-ji emerges. Because she now lives in her husband's father's father's home she is now technically capable of running the household, and papa tells me excitedly that Madhu is to be married in less than a monthm wondering aloud if I will be around for it! At present my visa finishes on my birthday, five days before the wedding and a plan quickly forms in my head to contact the relevant embassy and get an extension as I would dearly love to be part of this family's celebration. I take a photo of them for Abbey and promise to return with a photo of Abbey's young boy in New Zealand, less than a year old still. <br /><br />Madhu hasn't changed a bit, although she tells me she is much fatter now. Not that I really notice - her nature is just as sweet and she obviously deeply loves her nephew Ahshit, the light of everybody's life who is passed around for kisses and cuddles as I drink the sweet milky chai they offer me. After another rain storm it is time to go down the mountain, perhaps to finally get to Dharamkot this time?<br /><br />Seems not. As I walk down the hill I see Jesse, a Californian guitarist I first met at Sasson's chai shop in Pushkar, again in Rishikesh a week later and who has been travelling India on his Enfield for a few months now. And I meet my first Kiwi in a long long time, something of an outlaw in these parts, having not returned to New Zealand since 1970 and living in India for much of that time. Interesting dude, with henna red dreadlocks swept up sadhu style atop of whitish-grey undergrowth. It's so nice to meet another Kiwi, and as we both hail from small towns we swap our stories of growing up as weirdos in straight places. We sit for chai and Johnny joins us, a very interesting English dude studying Apache shamanism and soon to be running a workshop on such magical subjects which I'm keen to know more about. <br /><br />Soon Jesse returns with his guitar and we play a Bonnie Raitt tune - 'Angel From Montgomery', a very unusual first song to play together! We go on to sing 'The Passenger', 'Man Who Sold the World', 'Stir it Up', 'Little Wing', 'Knocking on Heaven's Door (a mixture of the Bob and Axl versions) and attempt 'Walk on the Wild Side' although neither of us knows the words. Dinner arrives at once and we are silent until the Shiva Moon album comes on again - my second listen in one day! Typical of these parts, but I don't mind; Prem Joshua's tunes are still beautiful all these years later, and so... FITTING for a traveller scene that I distinctively remember not thinking I was destined for earlier today. But OH how things change, and how I'm loving it - a beautiful looking Israeli dude is getting his hair dreadlocked by the guy who sells malas outside the restaurant and the flute player that joined us for a few numbers is sitting contentedly and crossleggedly on the floor. Our Malai Kofta, Palak Paneer, Israeli salad and butter naan are delicious, and I think to myself how nice it is to share a meal with others when usually I breakfast alone, reading and writing and musing on life. Well, today I've been living it and it feels GOOD!<br /><br />Although I love both worlds - walking the solo path and enjoying the splashes of community that come when I am most open to them. Today has been rich with both, and I'm SO grateful. My body aches but I document it all as usual, wondering where these words will lead me and what tomorrow will hold. Besides the early morning yoga class I commit myself to with Jesse's teacher. <br /><br />I'm exhausted, and want to make it down the BhagSu hill before too long so I'll sign off now and tread carefully in my slippery flip-flops back to the haven of my guesthouse. BLESSINGS xxxSharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-29360410052599922092011-06-08T04:09:00.000-07:002011-06-08T04:21:29.853-07:00Catching up - my final days in Rishikesh...These posts have come to me somewhat out of order ever since my world got rocked by the Himalayan trip a few weeks back - no biggie, but it's a challenge to all teh Virgo in my chart which loves order and linear chronology. ANYWAY, here's Rishikesh for ya, once again.<br /><br />After Himalaya, after we arrived back to Ishan hotel just before midnight on the 27th of May, life changed again. The weather was hot again. It was hard to move for all the Indian tourists (actually, that wasn't tooo different to certain treks we did up north, but mostly we were subject to lots of natural space and looong car journeys). And I had decided to stay in a 500 rupee a night room just because it was beautiful and I wanted a good view of Ganga - this would have been unthinkable to me a few years back!<br /><br />Here's what happened to me in my final week in Rishkesh: <br /><br />I fixed my guitar. For 50 rupees ($1.60??). Yeehah!<br /><br />I was tempted too much by Banoffee pie and the Ishan restaurant chocolate balls (which excited the giardia bacteria in my gut enough to come back and haunt me... urrggghhhh...)<br /><br />I met an amazing yoga teacher, Mukesh, recently out of Sivananda teaching camp and LOVED his classes. Slow, deep, healing.... I think he'll go far! And for only 100 rupees, they were an absolute steal....<br /><br />I met some Australians who loved my accent and welcomed me into their whiskey party, which I tried to enjoy although I truly despise whiskey.... had a jam with a lovely Canadian though who played a mean Bob Dylan tune and was more than happy for me to oblige with some Joni, tunes from his motherland!<br /><br />Met an Australian woman who gifted me with a Vedic meditation technique - pretty much similar to T.M in which the meditator focusses on a given mantra twice a day. To be honest, it's turned out to not really be my preferred form of meditation thus far, but she did take me through a beautiful puja ceremony and I'm grateful for the time she gave me.<br /><br />Said bye to my Russian / Ukranian whanau, which I've written about already but whose interactions I go over in my head every single day, not wanting to forget a single moment of my time with them. <br /><br />Caught a night bus here to Dharmasala with the two remaining Soviets - Dima and Lena - where we all stay happily in a small family guesthouse far far away from the upper Bhagsu parties... but that's another story....Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-24647198446738646582011-06-08T03:30:00.001-07:002011-06-08T04:07:40.904-07:00In love with India againOnly two days after my last post, I want to take back everything bad I ever said about India. Although it was all true! ha ha.... but, fresh from a great conversation with an Englishman in a small Himalayan cafe about the paradox of India, I'm willing to forgive it. For I have been reawakened to its beauty once more...<br /><br />Yes, certain things about this country annoy the hell out of me: men, rubbish, pollution, noise, bad toilet hygiene - I've said it all before. BUT what I failed to remember for a few weeks was the sheer DIVINITY of this land and the ancient, ancient traditions that pervade it. This is the land of ALL paradoxes, the most despicable and most pure, the sacred and profane, the dark and the light. Here's some examples.<br /><br />This is the land that pretty much invented silence - Vipassana meditation was brought here from Burma to be kept safe, while the Buddha achieved enlightenment at Bodhgaya. Some say Christ lived here in his 'lost years' (the next book on my list is 'Jesus lived in India' and many believe he is actually buried in Kashmir. The ancient tradition of yoga was born here. Many, many ancient traditions can be traced to these lands - I only wish I had more specific knowledge to share of them right now. I'm researching, I'm researching...<br /><br />Okay. Apparently in Vipassana centres, Indians are the hardest to shut up ("yes, yes" they say, and then continue on their conversation ignoring their vows of silence as soon as the teacher has walked a few meters away) - I can't vouch for this myself but go by the words of the dude I just met who has done many retreats. I can , however, speak from experience about the Char Dam yatra I just undertook, in which the roads to sacred temples were coated in donkey shit and I was deafened by the shouts of sherpas jostling for space with donkeys and locals fighting their way to the top. In Varanasi at puja, tourists literally scrapped to be in line to receive prasad. <br /><br />The Ganga. The most sacred body of water in India, believed to be able to heal any illness and help one escape the wheel of karma if they are lucky enough to have their ashes cast into it. This doesn't stop hundreds of people pissing and shitting into it, and even worse, throwing their rubbish and even empty beer bottles into it! (Recently I met some very drunk Australians who had been drinking illegal beer in Rishikesh. They had been with an Indian dude who got into a scuffle on the Lakshman Jhula bridge and to avoid drama they too threw their bottles of beer into the holy river! Oh well, when in India...) <br /><br />Aesthetics. Indians have created many beautiful temples and value their gods and goddesses beyond belief, offering them sweet fruits, fresh flowers and incense every chance they get. The Taj Mahal was built as a monument to love. Indian fabrics are stunning, shawls often gorgeously woven in intricate patterns. And yet, locals just do not care where they put their garbage. They throw it to the street, in the Ganga, outside their temples, spit in the gutters and shit in the alleyways. <br /><br />Cows. Worshipped as embodying 'sattva', the purity of love and light, they rule the school here in India. Rickshaws edge around them, tourist buses stop in the street for them and if one is to kick one of them they face jail time. Yet, they are chained up with ropes less than a metre long to family fences and forced to feed on discarded plastic in the streets so that it swells in their bellies and makes them sick. <br /><br />Weddings - sacred and holy Sanskrit rituals, locals talk over the priests throughout, calling to relatives across the room or temple. <br /><br />Sex - this is the land that spawned the Kama Sutra, and yet many couples will never see each other completely naked with sex being a five minute affair. Yes, I'm generalising and am highly cynical about this, having talked to many unhappy couples and too many women chained to the household. <br /><br />Love - they are OBSESSED with it and seem to live in this dreamland of romance, whereas in reality they will meet their marriage partner only once or twice before they marry (if they're lucky) and only get to know them slowly over the years. A beautiful concept if their stars are aligned as they believe, but often not working so well in modern society with its Bollywood emphasis on 'love at first sight'.<br /><br />Compassion - beggars and sadhus are fed every day for free at certain temples, while policemen bribe passers by and once bet up my Delhi rickshaw driver in front of my face. <br /><br />I could go on. Basically, the only way I'm ever going to accept India is if I accept that I'll never understand its contradictions. In short, the people are quite happy with the paradoxes they live with. I'm not always, but I will do my best to accept them, because I can't reject India after all that it's given me. <br /><br />I met a wonderfully refreshing American guy, Sean, back in Varanasi. He was hardcore - travelling around India on his motorbike, sleeping on the roadsides on top of his money belt and even drinking from the holy Ganga at Varanasi. He seemed to have a pretty good handle on things actually, and tried to explain it to me in that Hindus believe everything to be sacred - there is no in between. That the Ganga is believed to have the power to diffuse all pollution and darkness. That even rubbish is sacred, so there is no need to hide it like we do in our clean Western societies. That many people. living and surviving on the streets, live out their family dramas in the midst of everyone else. One person's business is anybody's in India, as I know all too well, with many curious males faces crowding around me whenever I try to secure a rickshaw or taxi ride. Some even help me bargain over the price, bless their nosy hearts!<br /><br />Contradiction central. But I'll forgive it, for there is still many, many sacred spots to uncover in this land. I feel like I'm only getting started now, and although I may never do another multi-month stint here like I have done up till now, I will definitely come back to visit some specific sacred sites, like Almora, Kashmir, Gangotri once again (got to reach Gaumuhk this time!), and Vrindavan. So much still to discover! The possibilities are endless...<br /><br />xxxxxxxxxxSharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-90111647480551840162011-06-06T06:40:00.000-07:002011-06-06T07:23:41.545-07:00India's loss of innocenceCaution: the following views of the author are not indicative of anything other than a general frustration at how India has changed for her, and are probably highly effected by the fact she travels alone and thus has to endure many stares from unenlightened (am I allowed to say that? cause I'm gonna...)Indian men. Anyway, here's my rant.<br /><br />I used to love India. Somehow all the stuff that frustrates me so much now just went over the top of my head - I overlooked the rubbish. I LOVED the families on the trains! I entered into the same old conversations about my education, family and marital history willingly and practised my Hindi every chance I got. So what changed? Well, I'm getting closer to realising it, but it has to do with a loss of innocence. <br /><br />I always saw India as such an innocent country, which is why I could laugh indulgently at the overexcited young men jumping out of their skins to talk to a white chick, or put up with middle aged men on the train looking out for me like over-protective fathers. But, with five years away from this country of contradictions, this innocence is slowly but surely disappearing.<br /><br />As I walked to this internet cafe tonight, I saw yet another stupid slogan on a t-shirt hugging the figure of a suave young buck. What did it say? 'Girlfriends are like groceries - they come with expiry dates'. Along with 'God created women - his only mistake', these must seem so hilarious to the men wearing them, although the boy wearing the latter shirt, way back in Varanasi two months ago, had no idea what it meant. Sweet young Guru, a skinny long haired hippy-in-training and called Guru because he was the Guru of joints, just shrugged when I tried to explain how ridiculous it was. <br /><br />Yeah, I'm aware I'm being over-precious about this. But after being requested to 'give me one fuck' by a particularly despicable young cretin a few weeks ago on the banks of the sacred Ganga (at 10 a.m one sunny morning!!) I'm appalled at how crass the young men have become. To my memory. India always deplored swearing and such language - others have asked in other ways for example, like 'Do you want to make relations with me?" I mean, that's almost even more ridiculous but at least it's a bit more polite!!! And it annoys me doubly because I know how little freedom women have here; how they are chained to the house most of the time and forced to wear whatever clothes her husband's family decides she should wear. So any little hint of misogynism such as these t-shirts and I'm on it like a fiery eyed feminist. <br /><br />Then there's the so-called 'holy-towns'. I was offered drugs and/or alcohol every single night I was in the holy town of Pushkar, which also bans meat and eggs due to it being the sole place to house a Brahma temple. The young men there seem to think it the thing to do to drink, and I tell you what, they are terrible at it... after one Kingfisher they are loud and obnoxious, full of bromance with their arms wrapped around each other and subject to such behaviour as ripping their shirts off in public or whooping in excitement to the 'I'm a Barbie girl' song. I'd laugh, but it's just too annoying, particularly cause they think they are sure to score in their oh-so-attractive inebriated state.<br /><br />Even Rishikesh sells beer and basically whatever else you want in Tapovan, a small village just out of Lakshman Jhula. And look, I'm not saying I'll never join in - I actually tried to drink a glass of whiskey and soda the other night because I'd met some reggae playing Australians that were loving my accent and the night was ripe for a party - but I don't think I'll ever develop a taste for whiskey, urrgghhh....<br /><br />And meat. India was always mostly vegetarian but it seems even this is changing. There is more chicken on the menu now than ever before, and eggs, which were always banned in Rishikesh, are everywhere. Not that I'd eat eggs from Indian chickens, whose lives are equally as bad as battery hens from developed countries. Crammed into tiny cages, they have no room to move around and sit on top of each other until the moment they pop their pale yellow yolked eggs. Gross.<br /><br />SO, can we call these Western influences? Possibly. I definitely think the internet has a lot to do with it - I heard somewhere that 50% of everything on the internet is some form of pornography! That's just madness, and I don't even want to think about what that's done to Indian mens' view of Western women. And I don't think I'll travel in this country alone again - certainly not for an extended period of time. Even in beautiful Bhag Su from where I write it is Indian tourist season and there are endless sets of eyes and seemingly innocent 'Namastes' which I just ignore now. I used to think this was rude, but now I don't care. Somehow my lifetime of being nice has changed in just a few months because in India it just gets you into situations you'd rather not be in. Sure, I still pose for the odd photograph with complete strangers, especially where there are cute kids involved, but I feel more than okay about saying NO and walking away as well. Damn it!<br /><br />Okay, rant over. I actually have plenty of happy and wonderful experiences to write about next time, but such things are always better once expressed, don't you agree? It's dinner time, and as my stomach bug is slowly but surely passing I may even branch out tonight in search of a salad... hopefully these are not famous last words....Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-88268389158476896292011-06-05T07:13:00.000-07:002011-06-05T23:33:16.229-07:00Himalaya - the fifth and final...ON THE EIGHT DAY...<br /><br />We awoke early as usual, none of us having got much sleep over the past few nights what with the wedding excitement and all. Oh well! On we were to go... I had decided to join the majority for the 14 km trek to Kedarnath as I'd heard that the Shiva lingam up there was simply exquisite. I was slightly worried about my ankle, which had continued to hurt in the night but I strapped it up as best I could and resigned myself to the fact that I could rent a horse if things got too dire...<br /><br />The roads were packed and any last minute hopes of a helicopter ride to our destination instead were quashed as we realised they were well booked up for days in advance. Bummer - I would have been quite happy to pay 7000 rupees to fly there in style, as I was anticipating the track was to be like the one to Yamonotri - full of donkey shit and tooo many pilgrims.<br /><br />Yeah, the roads... PACKED!! We ended up being stuck in traffic for 5 km before the actual beginning of the trek, so decided to just start anyway, strapping our overnight bags on and expertly dodging the lines of cars, tourist busses, jeeps and taxis which were all lined up for what seemed like kilometres ahead of us. Our cars caught up with us a few times but needless to say, we reached the beginning point of the track much later than originally planned.<br /><br />So... I prepared myself. Got my scarf and wrapped it to cover as much of my face as possible to protect me not only from the sun but from the fumes of manure already rising in steaming piles from the dirty concrete. Gena led us through the market place, calling "Chalo Chalo chalo!!" and "Side side side!!" just like a true Indian, but as he was setting a charging pace we soon tailed off into smaller groups.<br /><br />The first few kilometres would have been okay if one had not needed to breathe in. We were all retching from the absolutely disgusting stench of murky black piles of shit, mud and water - I swear, the worst smell of my life and ten times worse than the Yamonotri trek, although the track was slightly less crowded. I told myself I'd walk as much as possible before renting a horse, mostly because I disagreed with their ill treatment. I swore that when I got one (and getting one was inevitable as my ankle wasn't so flash), I'd Reiki it all the way to the top and speak soothingly to the beast, bloody hippy... well, it was either that or be carried by a man much smaller than me squashed into a ball on a basket on his back, or on a litter looking like a ridiculous queen, so I chose the four legged option. At least they were stronger...<br /><br />Vlad fell into line with me and after 5 kms we decided that the track was just too smelly and shitty to continue on foot much longer, and eventually found two horses being led down by their master. I managed to swallow my guilt and let the poor thing carry me for about 5 kms, where we stopped for our staple paratha and to buy some "horse khanna" of Parle-G biscuits. Mmm, I love those biscuits, and so did the horses, their snouts fighting to gobble them up.<br /><br />We got off with about 4 kms to go and although I felt better ethically, we immediately regretted letting go of our mules! What followed was a beautiful walk though, as we took a shortcut over a field in sight of snowy mountains, both of us feeling the altitude by this point. At one point when we stopped, we were approached by a bent and wizened old man who took a liking to Vlad's many earrings. I always thought my Hindi was pretty reasonable, but reasoned that this man must have been speaking some local dialect cause I understood almost nothing of what he said, Vlad even less! It was lovely though - taking photos of the two of them and showing the man his own image, who responded with the usual Indian head wobble.<br /><br />Eventually we reached our destination, and were probably the last to arrive as almost everyone else had opted for horses on that day also - guess the tiredness was starting to show... After a quick check in to our hotel, it was off to the magnificent Kedarnath Shiva lingam, and WOW....<br /><br />5000 years of stone work stood at this height of 3,581 metres above sea level (I'm trying to find out the height of the actual temple but can't seem to find it anywhere on google) and it was UNBELIEVABLY stunning. There was no chance of us getting inside for hours, with pilgrims queuing, clutching their bags of sweets and coconuts to break for puja, so we had to be content with just wandering around and around the massive structure. Devotional music blared from speakers somewhere, and I remember a completely ancient feeling.... this was such a sacred place... with the Himalayas showing off their snowy white peaks behind us and the air cool and crisp on our reddened cheeks. In the temple grounds themselves were hundreds of babas all of who had done the sacred pilgrimage and were begging for alms, or expensive blankets depending on who they came across. Some of them weren't so content with the ten and twenty rupees I doled out, which always pisses me off - I mean, talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth! I sat with some babas for a while before I quickly twigged that their intentions were probably not so pure, all offering me a toke on their chillums which I politely declined. Nandi sat curled up outside as usual, staring devotedly up at his master Shiva, and he was shiny with recent puja - butter oil, curd, ghee, sandalwood paste had all been rubbed into his stone coat making him a multi coloured bull. He was beautiful. Ash smeared Naga Babas tried to convince me to part with large sums of cash, or buy them some chapati, a wish I was much more likely to oblige than the former. After wandering in a holy daze for a while, and meditating with Irina outside who was even more spellbound, I realise I'd lost everyone and knowing my terrible sense of direction, quickened my pace to try to retrace my steps as the sun was setting in the mountainous sky. I found some of the boys in a menu-less dhaba, all of us wrapped up as much as possible with glassy eyes from the cold. After a quick warming masala chai (oh how I love these simple things...) I tried to get an early night in recuperation for the trek down the next day.<br /><br />Ohhh, such wishful thinking my child... for the room that Vitaly and I were sharing was right next to the road, and various unenlightened pilgrims had obviously lost their friend Ashish and decided to knock on our door very loudly every hour and bellow his name from 1 a.m till about 4. It was either that or they were trying to get rid of some Hashish, although I think it was the former. I opened the door twice, first to a young beshawled girl and then to a skinny young man who simply gave a nod in apology and stepped backwards. Oh how I wish he'd understood what I said in English - being assertive certainly wasn't a problem for me at 4 in the morning as I hissed and spat at him from the half open door. No wonder he backed off as soon as possible.<br /><br />When we were woken at about 6.30 again I let Vitaly do the honours this time, and a good thing because it was only one of our crew checking that he'd set his alarm. Unfortunately Vitaly didn't speak more than a few words of English, for if he did I would have known to get up and join them all on a trek to a beautiful crystal clear lake... such are the perils of being in a language minority where certain instructions are lost in translation, but I suppose my body needed the extra hours of sleep... I woke up anyway and did a solo trek to the temple, wondering if I could possibly get inside this time but no, the lines were even longer. I think the most popular time for puja was at 4 a.m and on my return, I met my darling Irina who had to leave early to catch her flight from Delhi the following day. She had tried and tried to get inside but to no avail, and her forehead was smeared in shiny red paste. I knew how important this temple had been to her so shared in her disappointment not to be able to get inside, even with the help of a kindly priest! It seems no-one took to line jumping though, and they had kicked up enough fuss that she had had to turn back. I was happy to get another chance to say goodbye, as she left early with Chandan in order to get her taxi, then a bus, then another bus, then a hotel in Rishikesh and then a taxi back to Delhi before a 4 a.m flight. What a journey! But what a way to finish a trip to this crazy and wonderful country.... I hope to meet her in Moscow one day...<br /><br />My friends returned a few hours later and I tried to swallow my envy at what I'd missed out on - it was okay... the world was filled with beautiful places and I'm lucky enough to come from a country that is teeming with them. So that was that. We left quickly and all seemed to tear down that hill, sometimes one handedly to leave the other one free to cover our faces form the stench. Vlad and Gena and I stopped for a beautiful swim in the Mandakini river after taking lots of short cuts, me scrambling to keep up with my slightly impractical running shoes rather than boots. Next time, I'll make sure I have boots... next time...<br /><br />It began to pour for the last kilometre. We were mostly separated by this point and I for one was charging, taking the weight on my thighs and hamstrings as I careered down the slopes doing my best not to trip in the shit - a worst nightmare! By the time we all had reached the bottom (funny how that 14 km distance only took a couple of hours at most?) it was bucketing down. How funny we must have looked with our long faces and multi coloured raincoats over the humps of our packs. Thank goodness Chandan and Mahesh thought to hail down a jeep for us, and amazingly enough we squeezed all twelve of (some had stayed behind in Okkimot, including the newly wedded couple) into the jeep, leaving just enough space for the driver and hoping our sweet smiles would placate any policemen. There was no room for awkwardness here, and I squeezed between the two Vitalys in the back side seat, resting my arms around both of their necks, our knees taking the weight of Sergei's pack. Luckily we reached our own cars soon enough which had been gridlocked in the pilgrims rush. As we drove I did a swift change of clothes in the back and it wasn't long before we were back in Okkimot. Actually, it probably was a few hours, but time is relative in India - after stopping for some (extremely oily) okra and rice I was content to be in a warm car with Bollywood music blaring as usual out of the crappy little speakers...<br /><br />I checked into my ashram alone this time, only discovering later how absolutely filthy the room was. I did manage to get to their arti this time around though (the wedding had prevented Irina and I attending last time), a beautiful small affair of songs and prayers to their Calcutta based teacher who had set up ashrams and schools around India to provide free education and spiritual guidance to many. Beautiful... Back in the hotel cafe, one of our drivers was doubling as a waiter. They had organised amongst themselves some great menu options for us - fresh Russian salad, potato, and the same delicious rice pudding we had enjoyed two nights before at the wedding. A truly sweet gesture, and my stomach was happy by the time I crawled off to ignore the dirty state of my room... shudder...<br /><br />THE TENTH DAY - ANOTHER LOOONG DRIVE BEFORE WE REACH THE MOUNTAIN PARADISE OF BADRINATH<br /><br />I was used to rising early at this point and was even perky as I swallowed my chai and Parle-G. As Irina had left, I had the backseat of the small car to myself and my i-pod in my ears as I left Chandan and our driver Balveer to do the talking amongst themselves today. Not much of interest happened to be honest, except a pretty nice hilltop breakfast in which we pulled out plastic chairs and table to a flat grassy plain and sat eating our curd and paratha to the sound of birdsong and the occasional tourist bus honk - can't really get away from this unfortunately.... I was aware that within a few days this journey would come to an end so was quietly trying to enjoy everyone's presence as much as possible... and tried to create mental pictures of Lena's yellow shirt and shoes (very cool shoes...), Kolya's love of tea drinking, Gari and Zuhara's quietly newly wed bliss...<br /><br />We drove on.... and unfortunately, the small car I was in started to pack in. We ended up leaving it with driver Balveer in a small town to be fixed overnight as I squeezed into the backseat of another air-con mobile, not really designed for three in a row! But anyway, we did what needed to be done, and besides a lunch stop at a terrible restaurant that didn't know good service from bad, and told us certain items were off the menu half an hour after we'd ordered them, we simply drove most of the day, or waited for the mountain roads to open. Some of the passes were pretty treacherous so I was happy to wait rather than to be punted off the sides of those massive cliffs...<br /><br />We got to Badrinath when it was already dark and the power still out in the ashram (much cleaner this time thankfully!), and I did a quick solo mission to the famous Vishnu temple (again, queues of 2 kilometres making it impossible to get inside) and tried unsuccessfully to source some sunglasses to replace my broken Rayban ripoffs. And then simply slept...<br /><br />Morning came, the crisp mountain air keeping us fresh. We drove to the Chinese border and after buying chocolate at the 'last Indian tea stall', set off on a beautiful mountain path. The others all managed to reach the waterfall but I was sluggish and not quite warm enough, and struggling with the altitude again so instead had a beautiful solo walk, finding various rocks to meditate on and watching donkeys scrabble through the snow. Again, I was realising that it's about the journey, not the destination and I was happy with my limits on this final morning after a massive ten days of Himalayan beauty.<br /><br />The chai and chocolate were good back at the 'last post' tea stand, and we enjoyed our last stop for a while, none of us looking forward to the long drive back to Rishikesh that day - a massive journey! But, most of the group had flights to catch from Delhi in a couple of days so our options were limited... it was road or bust, I'm afraid...<br /><br />Another day in the car.... I was thankful for my i-pod and actually enjoyed the journey for the most part, especially as the sun went down and I could hang out the window and let the breeze wash my face. My small car broke down AGAIN only a few kilometres from Rishikesh, and most of the nearest car were asleep as I crawled in for the last leg, leaving Chandan and Balveer to do the walking / towing / mechanic calling.<br /><br />And then, at 11.30 pm, after a massive day of driving, we were back at Ishan hotel, where it had all begun... along with my exhaustion I felt a strange sense of loss, as everyone made for the nearest bed... my Himalayan holiday had come to an end, and as usual my heart was still firmly with this group I'd been living with for the past eleven days....<br /><br />Two days later, Mahesh organised a beautiful last meeting for us, with a deliciously iced cake reading 'Happy Himalayas Tour 2011'. A gorgeous gesture, and as everyone stood and spoke one by one around the table, I soon gave up asking for translations as by the amount of times the words 'Spicybar' (Russian for thank you) was repeated I could get a strong sense of what was being said. Beautiful people, beautiful moments... I have tried to capture them in words, but they will live on in my heart for a long long time... I can't rememebr what I said at that table, but i knew it didn't do justice to what I really felt... never mind...<br /><br />Dima, Lena and I were the only ones to stay on in Rishikesh for a few days, so we waved the others off as they made for Delhi at around 4 pm the following day. Vitaly (one of them) simply put his hand on my heart and drew mine to his, and I knew I was able to be understood. A sweet, sweet man, that one. Sergei tried it on one last time to much laughter, Gari and Zuhara had their last glasses of mosambi juice, and I'm SURE Gena and Vlad had plastic bags full of mangoes stuffed into their car for the road too. We stood for our final group photos, with various Indian tourists jumping in at the sides and trying to shake our hands. I blew kisses to the cars, and then, they were gone...<br /><br />I'm finishing this blog almost a week after the fact but still with the same sense of loss. I'll always be grateful to Mahesh in particular for inviting me along at the last minute at a time where I'd been feeling particularly lonely and out of sorts with travelling. I had no idea that being with a group of non-English speaking Russians / Ukrainians was exactly what my soul needed at the time, but now I'm all the wiser... Having finally left the heat of Rishikesh, I'm ready for the next adventure in some equally beautiful Himachal Pradesh mountains, but I must say that if I ever get an opportunity like this again, I'll dive straight in... although next time with better shoes. And maybe less paratha. xxxxxxx<br />Posted by Sharona79 at 5:43 AMSharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-33631469064198647392011-06-04T00:14:00.000-07:002011-06-05T23:10:36.704-07:00Himalaya the fourthDAY SEVEN - ONTO OKKIMOT FOR A RUSSIAN / INDIAN WEDDING!<br /><br />As planned, we rose at 6... or at least some of us did. But I must say that most of the hold-up today was caused by the usual time it took to load the bags onto the roof racks, wait for our chai to arrive and eat cold chapatis - we'd breakfast properly a couple of hours down the track.<br /><br />We drove... and drove... and drove.... today was the longest drive yet, as we were on a mission to reach Okkimot by 6 pm so the wedding celebrations could begin. Zuhara and Gari had decided to tie the knot Indian style and our organisers Mahesh and Chandan were bending over backwards trying to make it the best day possible for them. I shared a car with Chandan, and I don't think he spent more than a few minutes off his phone that day, in between organising wedding food in advance and checking the beauty parlour booking. Unfortunately for him and the rest of us, Indian roads aren't the most predictable things to navigate and time correctly...<br /><br />Breakfast was supposed to be a rushed affair, but somehow when there were 16 of us things always took longer than expected! My paratha was particularly good that morning I remember, and accompanied by others mango and banana offerings. Back in the car, it was HOT HOT HOT and Irina and I squirmed at the lack of air-con unlike the other cars, but I suppose that was a perk they had pre-paid for and we, joining at the last minute, didn't have much choice or right to complain. Nothing of interest happened until we stopped for lunch at around 2 in 'Srinagar', not the capital of Kashmir obviously but a town with the same name. We had begun to split up into smaller groups to ease the burden on the restaurateurs, and I ate with Ksenia, Dima #2 (two Dimas, two Vitalys) and Julia in a quiet, clean family restaurant in which they were pleased to have their best meal in the north of India yet. Used to clean, fresh, unspicy food these three were struggling a bit, but here with boiled eggs, plain white bread, white rice, fresh salad and paneer, they were in lunch heaven. <br /><br />Then we drove... and drove.. and drove again... stopping to pick up vegetables for the evening's feast, the back of our car quickly becoming heavy with cucumbers and tomatoes as well as fresh flowers. Irina and I stopped to buy some pretty bangles and rose water, having heard the rumour that all women would be in full sari and excited, being quite feminine creatures and keen to dress up later on...<br /><br />We FINALLY reached our Okkimot hotel and checked in, Irina and I sharing what turned out to be a shockingly dirty ashram room across the road as prices were too high for us in the hotel of the others. Here we showered with hot buckets ('real' showers a complete luxury in these parts...) and awaited more instructions of the evening. As we had arrived two hours late, things were a bit ad-hoc and there was no time to find saris for all of us (except the blushing bride of course, who looked amazing in a rusty orange shimmering number and full bridal makeup). The groom, Gari was waiting smilingly in his glittering raiment of wedding attire - seemingly unphased by all the excitement. As soon as Irina and I had crossed the road pretty much, we were all taken downstairs again to dance with the wedding band as the horse showed up to walk Gari a few hundred metres down the road in wedding procession. A few of us were coerced into dancing with the band, and I wrapped my shawl protectively around myself, aware of the local eyes boring into these strange white faces. But they were friendly, and loving it! It wasn't every day after all that they were able to witness an Indian marriage between two foreigners! Most of them I knew just thought all the Hindu rites were normal for us - not having left their village, they assumed that everyone would either be Muslim, Hindu or Christian and it wouldn't have occured to them that this was not normal wedding procedure for us...<br /><br />As the temple was further away than just a few hundred metres, Gari soon got off the horse and we were all bundled into our cars to reach the sacred temple. Instructed not to take photos of the lingam itself, we didn't need to be convinced - this night was about Zuhara and Gari, who were both glowing and beautiful, and shimmering in all their Indian glitter.<br /><br />I've been to a few Indian weddings before, but never one as beautiful as this - this was the first one I'd been to in a proper temple as well. Conducted all in Sanskrit besides each participant being asked for their name, it wouldn't have made a difference to Zuhara who knew but a few words of English and was just beaming and glowing. I gave up trying to capture their beauty in photographs, especially due to the low light, and contented myself with just watching the ceremony. They garlanded each other with flowers (we had all been garlanded earlier also...), threw rice, touched sandalwood paste to their foreheads and walked traditionally around the sacred fire seven times. This moment made me laugh inside as it was so typically Indian! Such a beautiful moment you'd want to savour, you'd think? But the priest was like " walk faster.. faster..." and the couple were somewhat herded around and around the small fire that had been lit a few minutes earlier by a man that shimmied down to the hollow below and got thrown a lighter from someone in order to do the honours. As usual, locals were talking loudly, not so much oblivious to the sacredness of the moment but rather accepting that in India everything is sacred and thinking that talking loudly wouldn't take anything away from the experience... <br /><br />When it was all over we ventured outside to dance around the happy couple once more, who were stealing a few kisses here and there - all closed mouth, as it was a temple after all!! Everyone around us was so happy and supportive, and I soon forgot my frustration with being elbowed earlier. After half an hour or dancing and waving money above the heads of the musicians for good luck, we went back to our hotel and were served an incredible feast which had been cooked by our drivers over the past two hours. We were honoured - piles of beautiful pulao, palak paneer, a beautiful potato curry for the Russians... and a delicious rice pudding. We were all happy for the couple, who had been taken to their honeymoon suite all adorned in multicoloured streamers, but also exhausted and aware that tomorrow we were to embark on a 14 km trek up to Kedarnath and its sacred Shiva temple. My ankle was hurting and I wasn't sure if I could hack the pace to be honest, but I did my best to put all thoughts aside and enjoy the moment. <br /><br />Back in the dirty ashram cell, I curled up on my bed covered in my own shawls, trying not to think about potential bedbugs and managed to get a few hours sleep before my dawn decision of whether or not to walk...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-80650842399643427152011-06-03T23:41:00.000-07:002011-06-05T23:02:07.016-07:00Himalaya Part 3...DAY SIX - GANGOTRI, HARSIL AND MANERI<br /><br />After two days of hiking it was nice to wake up a little later this morning and potter around a bit. Today turned out to be one of my favourites of the entire trip because of the variety of things of our day. First, we visited the beautiful Gangotri temple together - some of us had already ventured there the previous night for Arti (sunrise/sunset fire and prayer ceremony), but it was nice to go all together as a group. For me anyway - even though I mostly travel alone, I'm such a community person and I just love it when everyone is together! <br /><br />Today was all about WATER for me - the falls at Gangotri were unbelievably powerful, and this temple on the shore of the rushing water was music to my ears. The stones felt good under barefeet as I tiptoed down to release some flowers into the crystal Ganga. When we walked over a small footbridge and moved closer to the source of the roaring water, I was stuck for ten minutes meditating with the spray touching my face every so often. It was beautiful. And what I've said about being able to communicate without words stands true once more, as when I was meditating silently, Sergei climbed up beside me and just sat there peacefully before kissing me on the cheek and leaving. Beautiful, plain and simple. I felt like words were no longer necessary - everyone was moved by the same power of nature, and didn't need to speak. I didn't even WANT to speak actually - what use are words when one has been humbled by such majesty?<br /><br />After driving a few hours (with me feeling the effect of those waterfalls and needing to stop to pee every half hour!) we came to a magical village by the name of Harsil, a Tibetan township where locals sold their wooden toys and woven blankets, and lived in quaint little huts surrounded by Himalayan majesty. We all fell in love with the place, especially the temple there... completely unassuming, I would have missed it if Gena had not opened the heavy door and said "Come inside" in his halting English. We walked around the stupa and stepped inside the prayer room with its ancient smell of old paper and musty faith... none of us spoke and we all knew to ban the flash on our cameras, once we realised it was okay to take photos at all. Without a doubt, it was the most beautiful Buddhist temple I've ever set foot inside - very quiet, beyond peaceful, and humble. I left the temple and silently sat with some friends, each of us in our own silence. I could feel my own heart beating and got a sense that we were made of the same stuff here, know what I mean? And when I left I couldn't walk slowly enough, not wanting to leave this ancient peace behind... <br /><br />But things must move on, and I soon quickened my pace to catch the others, knowing I'd never forget it and that even though photographs wouldn't even begin to capture it, at least they'd be a trigger point for my memories of that time. We ate lunch in a dhaba whose owners had been having a sleepy day up until the moment that the 16 of us walked in demanding food! Sometimes I winced at the authority in our voices when placing an order, and the frustration when it didn't appear within ten minutes. Our guides did their best to help them, with one of our drivers zipping around the tables taking orders himself and checking in on the kitchen staff as much as he could... pretty awesome really, considering how far away it was from his job description!<br /><br />The remainder of the day was spent in the car until we reached our hotel in a beautiful river side place called Maneri at around 6 p.m - early! It was a beautiful hotel actually, and there was excitement in the air because tomorrow two of our party were to be wed Indian style, and all women were to get their hands hennaed to high heaven in time for the celebrations. I ate a slow dinner (like, one plate of rice cooked at a time kind of slow!) with Gena, Vlad and Dima and we explored the menu to pass the time. At one stage we erupted into fits of laughter at the 'Snakes' menu and joked about ordering "2 cobras on the side', Indians not being known for their attention to typos in menus. <br /><br />Our food took ages but in hindsight it was nice to sit and enjoy the company of these men before heading off to be the first girl to get hennaed - I don't know why they missed out the bride to be, but there you have it! I must admit she wasn't the most efficient henna-stylist, as it took 40 minutes to do 3/4 sides of my two hands, with her husband regularly bursting into our room (half-dressed Irina wasn't too impressed...) and our guide Chandan zipping around with his usual frantic energy stealing my scissors and trying to keep everybody happy... my henna was finished by 10.30 but there was still 7 other women to go! Somehow they found another woman to help out on the chain line, but instead of getting an early night I revelled in skipping from room to room and comparing my henna with others. Ksenia took things into her own hands and did one of her arms herself - a fine artist actually! And she even gave Chandan a temporary 'Cheburushska' tattoo - this had been an in-joke for quite a few days now.. Cheburushka is a 70's/80's Soviet cartoon bear ( I think - a bear is the closest animal to describe him anyway...) who they all loved as children, and in mine and Chandan's enthusiasm to learn some Russian words, we somehow learned 'Cheburushska' first, as well as 'Ura!' (a cry of glory which we used often whilst trekking)... I suppose it would be like a non-English speaker learning the name of Winnie the Pooh or something - anyway, it was a funny moment and Chandan still has a photo of his glistening Cheburushska waiting to dry...<br /><br />Even though I'd already eaten, I went downstairs to join some others for a late night Russian salad (tomato, cucumber and onion, although I hate raw onions so the others always ate mine for me) and Vitaly revelled in feeding me salad as my hands were still drying and I was unable to feed myself. It was beautiful and I felt like a princess - I must say that Russian men are rather good at making one feel like a princess - as he gently wrapped tomato and cucumber inside strips of chapati, added salt, pepper and paprika and fed it to me in little bites. <br /><br />All up it was 1 am before we got to bed - even the thought of a 6 am wake up call not deterring me from enjoying this night with my friends. An AMAZING day from start to finish... my heart bursting once more. I slept little but was ready in the morning to go ONWARDS once more.Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-82612647427339963872011-06-01T08:07:00.000-07:002011-06-05T22:52:38.207-07:00Journey to the HImalayas part twoDAY THREE - A LONG CAR RIDE TO GANGOTRI<br /><br />Irina and I had barely slept again the previous night, and probably weren't the nicest people to be around that morning. Personally, I struggle with sharing rooms with people I don't know too well, and had spent the past two nights lying awake in a strange bed waiting for sleep to come and claim me. I hoped that the Himalayan air we would breathe that night would help, as we were to get closer and closer to the mountains as the days went on.<br /><br />We left at around 6 a.m as we had a pretty long drive ahead of us. From memory I think we drove / slept for the first couple of hours before finding a dhaba we deemed worthy of breakfast - limited up here to either aloo paratha or Maggi masala noodles. Luckily I grew to love paratha and curry on this trip, and we would seek out fruit stores to ply our diets with the fibre from mangoes and bananas, just for a bit of added variety...<br /><br />After another few LONG hours of driving we came to Uttarkashi, home of a sacred Shiva temple marking the place where his trident fell to earth. A priest tried to explain to us how locals had tried to dig into the earth around it but were never able to get to the source of the trident - some say it goes kilometres deep into the earth. It was a beautiful temple, and although the concrete was baking hot I walked barefoot twice around the outskirts, getting my forehead plastered with sandalwood paste as I did so.<br /><br />I was gradually realising that not knowing a language didn't really have to be a drawback and began to notice one of the young men in the group giving me a lot of attention and doing all he could to practise his English, in phrases such as ... "one kiss?" or "do you love me?". He was seriously funny, and for once I didn't mind the attention - I usually hate stuff like this because it feels so false, but one look at his earnest face just made me erupt into fits of laughter. Sergei, I won't forget you, and if I ever learn Ukranian, you'll be the first one I write to!<br /><br />It was late in the evening before we reached our destination, winding slowly through beautiful valleys and craggy mountain-scaped roads as we did so. The scenery was stunning, and the sharp cut of the mountain air made me realise how ill-equipped I was for the next day's 14 km trek to Buveshwar. Luckily, the stores were prepared for those like me, and I bargained over a cheap fleece, a pair of woollen socks and borrowed a jacket and hat from our guide Chandan. I was sorted!<br /><br />DAY FOUR - THE BEAUTIFUL 14 TREK UP THE MOUNTAIN<br /><br />Not being much of a mountaineer, I woke earlier than necessary and mentally prepared myself for the day ahead. I ate delicious banana porridge accompanied by piping hot ginger tea, and joined the others at their hotel upstairs (being a late addition, I had to do all my own hotel bookings). I tell you what though, it must be bloody hard to organise a group of 16 people... although we planned to meet every morning at around 6 / 6.30, we always set off at least half an hour later. <br /><br />Natalia and I led the pack up the hill, pacing it slowly and stopping every few minutes to try to capture the beautiful mountain scenery with our digital cameras. Impossible really, but it didn't stop us trying... The first few kilometres were cool and beautiful in the fresh early morning air and I was feeling pretty good after 5 kms. Once we stopped to cross a bridge (Gena and Vlad waiting there to help everyone over - Soviet men are such gentlemen) and eat some fruit and nuts, I was pretty positive really. The next 4 kms until our lunch stop though, were more challenging.<br /><br />I walked alone mostly, although the road was safe and stable and other groups were in sight. As I got closer to a beautiful waterfall and saw men in various states of undress in the freezing cold water, I knew I'd arrived at our lunch spot... there was no mistaking our group! Apart from Sergei almost killing himself with a rock-balancing yoga pose gone wrong, we were all pretty good. Chandan pulled a leaking plastic bag of cold subji (vegetable curry) out of Vlad's pack and we found a suitable tree trunk to use as a table. Lunch consisted of subji and rice spooned onto these chapatis and rolled up and eaten burrito style. Delicious. But food always tastes better when you've earned it, right??<br /><br />Then, the last 5 kms almost did me in... I didn't realise how much the altitude was affecting me ( I just checked online, and our destination for the night was 3792 metres above sea level)... in retrospect, I should have taken it much slower than I did but our group was full of yogis who were setting a pretty mean pace. There was a point when we came to a small foot bridge, easy at any other time of the day, but I just froze and could only get over it, embarrassingly, with Chandan and Gena on either side of me. It crossed my mind that perhaps I had drowned in a past life or something, as this irrational fear of bridges wasn't usually something that affected me, but then again the mighty Himalayas and being at such great heights bring things out of us. I was emotional by this point but didn't want to admit it to myself, instead struggling on, stopping when I absolutely needed to to try to steady my breathing which was becoming tight, and trying my asthma inhaler to no avail.<br /><br />Until, when we were crossing one of the most dangerous parts of the pass, with rock slides liable to happen to any given moment, my system just decided to pack it in, and my semi-rational mind spied a rock to collapse on as the pressure in my chest and head manifested in great heaving sobs. I'm not sure that many of my crew knew quite what to do with me until Gena reached my spot. The leader and organiser of the tour from Kiev, I don't know what I would have done without him today as he used his limited English to tell me to "breath up.. down.. up.. down" and poured preciously cool water down my back and over my face. He made me sit with my head between my knees and checked the whites of my eyes, and while others were urging me to find a safer spot a few hundred metres down the track away from potential rockslides, he insisted I stay put and kept an eye on the mountain himself. I will try not to overdramatise this - I know many people have altitude attacks and he just did what any decent human being with a bit of knowledge of mountaineering would do - but it did mean a lot to me and still does, particularly because he kept checking on me at half hour intervals, even after we'd reached our destination (whoops of joy from all around at that point!). And as I sat on a plastic chair, trying to take in my white-grey surroundings of snow and sludge and nurse the pain in my head at the same time, he knelt again and asked me the same question again: "How are you?". This time, I wasn't going to pretend I was okay - I knew that all the emotions I had experienced over the day had now eventuated in sheer exhaustion and a kind of post-crying headache. I also knew it was time for a hot cup of masala chai, a blanket and some conversation with my wonderful Russian friends who I somehow felt much closer to atop of this mountain.<br /><br />Ksenia got one of chefs to boil some potatoes for us in their skins, which we ate Russian style, peeling the skins off carefully and adding salt, pepper and paprika to taste. Someone - Kolya, I think - brought out a block of delicious Russian chocolate - mmmm - and we all tried his disgusting mouth curdling herbal tea. Vlad and Gena had their usual plastic bag full of mangoes to share and Kolya (again - a man who values his specialty food!) had some amazingly sweet honey comb from Russia. Everyone around me always made sure to offer their food to me first - a generosity that kept me warm in that freezing restaurant. My heart was expanding by the day, and surely filled with so much more oxygen than before! Today really marked a change for me on this trip - a reaching of something deeper... a connection of the hearts... but I had little time to ponder over this as my body desperately needed sleep, so I crawled into my bed in the makeshift dorm room of a tent, dubious about whether it would be warm enough. Sleeping in a hat and all my clothes though with two heavy blankets over me, I was amazed at how much warmth it would hold, and drifted off eventually to the even sound of Soviet breathing around me...<br /><br />DAY FIVE - GOIN' DOWN...<br /><br />Most of our group had awoken that morning at 6 to walk to Goumurk, which is a sacred sacred place - the source of Mother Ganga. I would have loved to have joined them to be honest, but thought better of it due to yesterday's performance, so slept in and cherished the extra hours in a now warm bed before waking to warm tomato soup and more potatoes (about all they had up at that makeshift Himalayan cafe...)<br /><br />Everyone arrived back within a couple of hours and after eating we prepared for a leisurely walk down the mountain. I was feeling fresh and swear I bounded down that hill, no longer too exhausted to appreciate her beauty and even finding time to stop for a chat with John, an English guy we'd met with his feet in a bucket of hot water the previous night after he'd got back from the gruelling Tapovan trek. He was perched upon a rock above a waterfall finishing his copy of 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance' and we chatted for about half an hour with the most beautiful soundtrack in the world in our ears. I ended up reaching Gangotri again at around 5 pm, glad to take my shoes off and let my blisters breathe and order Shahi paneer and what turned out to be the worst lassi in the world! Just yoghurt in a bit of water basically! Doh - never mind...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4460962243503935174.post-50995629278156078472011-05-31T03:14:00.000-07:002011-06-05T22:39:41.778-07:00Journey to the Himalayas, part one...On the 16th of May 2011, the moon was full, although hiding in the cloudy Rishikesh sky. Not long before midnight, I had a hankering to sit beneath the murky night anyway and eat cake on my balcony. As I took the few flights down to the kitchen, hotel manager Mahesh asked me if I wanted to join him and 15 Russian / Ukranian yogis on a ten day pilgrimage into the Himlayas. Known as Char Dam, this pilgrimage visits four sacred sites around the Uttarakhand province. We would leave in 8 hours or so, and at first I dismissed the invitation, thinking only about how unprepared I was (no jacket, one pair of skinny socks, only running shoes). But, after watching the Ganga float by, silent as usual, and recognizing that I was kind of stagnating in the Rishikesh heat, I decided to do it. To take a risk, pack my bags and jump aboard. Why not? <br /><br />But of course I was nervous. Usually travelling alone, I avoid packaged tours, particularly ones where I would be the only one not speaking Russian! I barely slept that night but woke anyway at 6 to meet my makeshift family for the next ten days over breakfast.<br /><br />ON THE FIRST DAY, WE DRIVE FROM RISHIKESH TO BARKOT, FRESH AND EXCITED...<br /><br />Luckily, I had another girl sharing my car who had also come in at the last minute. She was not part of the tour group but happened to be Russian also although spoke very good English, so our first few hours in the car passed easily as we shared our travel stories and philosophies. After stopping at a beautiful temple a few hours out of Rishikesh to wash the crystal Shiva lingam, eat some prasad and feed the rest of it to the monkeys, we drove a few more hours to 'Kempty Falls', a popular tourist destination for Indian families. Based around a waterfall and a man-made lake in which tug boats rode around and around in mindless circles, we elbowed our way through the crowdloads of people and were overwhelmed at the colours dancing in front of us - various shacks were renting out day-glo pink, green, blue and orange plastic tubes to float inside by the hour. The air was thick with excited shrieks as fully clothed Indian girls and turbanned Sikhs pushed each other overboard repeatedly. A few of the more adventurous dived into the falls, although I stayed dry for the moment and searched for a hat to shield my pale, pale skin from the sun. <br /><br />In a dhaba deemed respectable enough by our guides, we shared our first meal together, and I began to get to know some of my fellow travellers and tried to remember their unfamiliar names - I'd taught a Natalia and a Sergei before, and my friends have a son called Kolya, so they were easy. I had worked with an Xenia and was familiar with the names Dimitry and Vlad, but others like Vitaly, Zuhara and Gennadiy took longer to memorise. But HEY, I'm a teacher who is faced with memorising 150 new names at the beginning of every school year,so as usual managed to fake it for a few days until I had it sorted.<br /><br />My favourite moment of the day, and possibly one of my favourites of the whole tour in hindsight, came late in the day after a looong day of driving in a non air-conditioned car. We stopped at a beautiful place whose name I've since forgotten, only remembering that the Yamuna river was flowing, and instantly appealing. Some locals told us there was no way to get down to the river bank but we persisted, and wove our way through the mud and sludge down to her gushing waters. It was here that I began to get a sense of Russian / Ukrainian enthusiasm as most of the men stripped down and dove straight in. They would go on to do this at the drop of a hat many times over the next week or so, bless 'em... I joined in eventually, unable to resist her refreshing waters, although did so fully clothed because quite frankly I could do without the stares of the locals. Simply to be immersed in this body of water was incredible - the current was strong and I clung to a rock for stability as the current washed from me the grime of the day, my paisley Indian clothes swirling and merging with the patterns around me... I felt the power of the river and wondered if any temple on earth could compare to how good this water made me feel...<br /><br />In Barkot, our first guesthouse of the trip was garishly pink and purple, and typically overpriced for a region that can only open for business for half of the year due to weather conditions. We were dubious about the state of their kitchen but in fact they managed to turn out some pretty decent kai - and I met more of my crew around the long table as we whet our appetites on lady fingers, dhal, potato (a Russian staple we weren't to be a day without!) and chapati.<br /><br />DAY TWO - WE WALK 6 KMS THROUGH A THRONG OF PILGRIMS AND DONKEY POO, AND BACK DOWN AGAIN<br /><br />We woke early, despite the 1 a.m noise from a busload of Indian tourists who had arrived late and VERY LOUDLY at our hotel! Very typical of India, and one of the things I struggle with the most - the noise and lack of sensitivity to light sleepers such as myself. But what to do?? We were off to Yamonotri that day, which involved a 6 km trek up to a temple dedicated to the goddess Yamuna, the same river I was so taken by the previous day, and would trek the same path down again after bathing in the hot springs at the summit. I must admit that I wasn't prepared for quite the amount of people that were on this track - it was PACKED! And really put into perspective the preciousness of New Zealanders when I hear people complaining that our tracks are too busy - there were literally thousands and thousands of pilgrims here this day... all walking / being carried by horse or on sherpas' backs to visit this holy place. Madness!<br /><br />In the carpark we were accosted by various porters / sherpas / donkey hench-men all offering their services to us at an inflated price. After a typical breakfast of paratha and curry though, we were fit and ready to walk the 6 kms - a walk which was not hard, especially considering that at times the track would be too busy to even move! At one stage I was almost crushed for about ten minutes behind a group from Mumbai as the track became too narrow for a two way system. Various cries of "single line! single line!" as well as the usual "chalo chalo chalo!" (Hindi for 'go,damn you!') were heard from all around, but I wasn't phased at this point because a lovely man in a woollen hat behind me had began to sing a Ganesha bhajan and everyone around him joined in. I was LOVING it! and even enjoyed the usual 'which country are you coming from' questions - it seemed that today was a day to make friends with all these families from all around India, excited about doing this pilgrimage to four sacred sites...<br /><br />Although, by the end of 6 kms I was kind of tired of the shit covered slopes, of the yells and cries as porters tried to avoid donkeys and vice versa, and basic lack of respect for each other and the environment and I was happy to find my Russian / Ukrainian friends up top. I went in excitedly to the ladies bath, but was somewhat uninspired by the dirty looking hot water inside a concrete tub.... sure, it was natural, but it had also bathed thousands of other pilgrims that day... I went in anyway after managing to fight my way through the crowd of women swimming super close to the steps - it's not that it was even that deep beyond the entrance, but Indians are notoriously lacking in confidence when it comes to water, most of them 'not knowing how to do swimming' as they say. So I had half a pool to myself because of their insistence on crowding the entrance to the water. A few minutes of breaststroke was enough for me before we went to a freezing waterfall nearby, with the intention of bathing in Chandra waters (moon) after our Sooria (sun) experience. I must admit that I'm not quite as staunch as those Soviet blokes, who were soon in their underpants again and diving into the freezing waters. I stuck my feet in and it took me five minutes to thaw out... upon reflection, I wish that I had just jumped in actually, but what to do... life is not about regret!<br /><br />We returned to our same hotel before sundown, so had time to eat and drink the usual copious amounts of chai before our evening meeting about the following day's events... we were to be in the car for most of the day, another situation we were sure to get used to as the kilometres were many and the roads in India, well, they weren't so good...Sharona79http://www.blogger.com/profile/16548846672652451838noreply@blogger.com0