Monday, November 29, 2010

The Beaches of North Goa


After everyone in our little group recovered from their ailments in beautiful Palolem, we all hopped in a taxi and took a trip 2.5 hours to Anjuna, in North Goa.  We have spent the last five nights literally beach hopping from one town to another, never sleeping in the same place twice.  Every Wednesday, Anjuna is home to an enormous flea market where you can find anything Indian “souvenier-ish” that you could possibly dream of taking home with you.  It was marked as a “must not miss” in our Lonely Planet (it is simply referred to as the LP on the travel circuit), and it is one of the events that Missy and I have been talking about since our plane ride to India.  Both of us have an appreciation for antiques and digging through bins of junk for that one golden gem, so we had looked forward to the flea market with great anticipation.  The place was another world.  Anjuna, as it turns out, is home to people I like to call “real hippies”.  The Westerners that have planted roots in Anjuna are people who were hippies in the ‘60s.  It’s like trying to picture your parents running around in gypsy skirts and pigtails, selling handmade quilted vests.  The flea market was a ball of a time; we had the opportunity to listen to live music as the sun went down over the Arabian Sea, dig through fairly inexpensive trinkets, and admire old Indian artifacts.  I was definitely in my element at the flea market, but as for the rest of Anjuna, the vibe really threw me off.  Anjuna is lined with beach shack restaurants that play trance music and flash red and white lights that remind me of a haunted house on Halloween.  I would not know this for a fact, but it seems one cannot truly enjoy the beach bars and restaurants here, unless you partake in large amounts of illegal drug activity.  And, judging from the offers we received by simply strolling down the beach, I do not think that would have been difficult to achieve.  I thought I had seen it all in India, but Anjuna beach offered something else.  The combination of wealthy Indian tourists, Westerners, cows, goats, wild dogs, and then weird hippy trance parties was a little too much for Michelle, Missy, and I after our glorious time in peaceful Palolem.  So, in the morning, we woke up, jammed our belongings in our backpacks, and headed for Baga Beach.

We had heard mixed reviews from other travelers about Baga Beach.  Some told us to avoid it all together as it was so crowded that you could literally not see the sand; and others proclaimed it an essential stop for a fun night out.  To be honest, we hadn’t been “out” since sharing beers with our train station friends in Darjeeling.  What better place to spend American Thanksgiving!?  We decided to honor the American holiday by spending our day eating our way through Baga.  In all reality, this really is not that different than any other day, but today we had an excuse to be especially excited about the prospect of mealtime.  We started at a delightful place called Lilla’s Café, where for breakfast we consumed sandwiches, slushes, and an assortment of cakes.  After two hours of lingering around the baked goods counter, we decided to head out and see what the infamous Baga beach really had to offer.  DEAR GOD.  It was like Miami on steroids, minus Cubans, plus Indians.  There were thousands of Indian tourists crammed into any space that was possible to fit a body.  We were immediately swarmed by people offering us beach chairs, boat rides, free beer, anything to get us to spend money at their beach shack as opposed to the other four thousand.  The ten minutes we spent on the surface of Baga beach was more than enough for all of us.  So, what did we do instead?  We went back to our hotel, put on our swimsuits, and slipped undetected into the pool area at the hotel across the way from where we were staying.  As our families at home were gathering around candlelit dinners, eating turkey, and guzzling copious amounts of wine, the three of us illegally confiscated the best seats available at the nicest pool on the block.  (It should be noted, that with Michelle’s arrival, also came a new vigor and mentality for Missy and I.  We were no longer budget travelers, but spoiled vacationers.)  After wasting the day away like true vagabonds, we made our way to another dining facility for our second round of Thanksgiving deserts.  As we gracefully shoved crepes with ice cream into our mouths, we made an executive decision to get dressed up, go to a nice dinner, and then see what the Baga nightlife was all about.  You cannot possibly understand what a treat this was for Missy and I.  We have literally been wearing the same four things every day for 2.5 months.  I did not even know myself with jewelry around my neck and mascara on my eyelashes.  Missy kept saying, “I don’t even recognize you!”  (That does not say much for my all-natural look.)  Our Thanksgiving dinner was nothing short of fabulous.  We headed to a beautiful restaurant called J &K’s, where we closed the place down with two bottles of red wine and fifteen courses of food.  The closest I could come to my mom’s Thanksgiving dinner was grilled pomfret fish and mashed potatoes.  It wasn’t turkey, but it was scrumptious.  Before our meal, we all went around the table to share what we were thankful for in 2010, and then we toasted to a healthy and happy 2011.  Although I missed my family immensely, it was a love-filled and happy Thanksgiving Day, thanks to two indescribably wonderful friends.  We ended our night in Baga’s “clubbing district”, where we spent a total of 45 minutes dancing to the lyrical genius of Miley Cyrus and Justin Beiber; a perfect end to a perfect Thanksgiving.

Although we had an epic 24 hours in Baga, we were ready to move on.  The next stop on our North Goa beach tour was in the town of Candolim.  Michelle decided that for her last evening with us, she wanted to treat the group to a fancy hotel room.  Her hotel of choice was tucked into a quiet neighborhood, ten minutes from the beach, and it looked and felt like a room from an old French movie.  The bathroom in our suite was larger than most of the hostels Missy and I have stayed in on this trip.  In fact, the bathtub in the bathroom was larger than most of the rooms we have stayed in on this trip.  Jackpot!  We spent the morning checking out the upscale surroundings in the neighborhood.  We made our way towards the beach, where we stumbled upon the fancy Taj Resort.  Since we had already made a hobby out of using the amenities at hotels in which we were not staying, we decided to go in and have a peek.  We had to fill out paperwork and have our bags checked just to get through the main gate.  I made a beeline for the spa, where I spoiled myself by getting a $30 haircut and head massage.  Makeup, fancy hotels, and spa treatments…I really do not know who I have become in Goa.  We spent much of the rest of the afternoon lounging in our fancy French style room, reading books, playing with the free Wifi, and napping.  We ended our day with a taxi trip to the town of Old Goa, a city which in its hay day, had been compared to prominent cities like Lisbon.  For some reason, Missy had high expectations for Old Goa; expecting it to be a sort of Charleston nestled in the South of India.  It was sad to see the poor state that it is in now.  Besides two churches and a small museum, there is not a lot to be seen in Old Goa; much to Missy’s disappointment.  The evening ended with the three of us lounging in our pajamas in our hotel room, watching the VH1 special featuring J-Lo’s personal narrative about her career.  We were all so engrossed with the story of J-Lo’s life, that someone could have easily entered our room, walked directly in front of the television, and stolen all of our belongings.  We almost ate our dinner off the floor of our hotel room so that we could finish the program, but we realized how ridiculous that would be of us; plus, we all know she marries Marc Anthony and has weird looking twin babies.  

Our last day with Michelle was spent parked on a beach with books in hand.  It was such a treat having Michelle with us for our week in Goa; she was a splendid traveling companion and she brought out the classiness in us that we forgot existed.  We will miss her immensely for the remainder of the trip.  Now, I know most of my blog posts thus far contain some sort of description about horrific Indian transportation.  But, the encounter I am about to describe has definitely been our worst.  I swear.  On our last day in Candolim, and exactly one hour before our sleeper train was scheduled to depart for Kerala, we decided to check what station our train was actually leaving from.  We assumed, in true Missy and Alysa fashion, that our train would depart from the closest station to us in North Goa.  This was, of course, not the case.  In a frantic wave of nonsensical movements, we managed to flag down a taxi driver, explain to him in our best Hinglish that our train was leaving from South Goa in exactly one hour, and then demand from him whether or not we could possibly make it.  One phone call later, and with two vehicle changes, Missy and I found ourselves sitting in the fastest car in India.  Our driver claimed that he could get us to our station in 45 minutes; a trip that had taken us 90 minutes just four days earlier.  I asked him if his seatbelts might actually work for once, but he burst into a cackle of laughter.  During the ride, my hands went numb, and I was very close to writing a note to my loved ones, containing my final thoughts of this life, and taping it to my body.  On several occasions, Missy and I closed our eyes, grabbed hold of the door handles, and braced for a head on collision.  The trip was truly horrific, but the man did get us to the train with ten minutes to spare; which we used to buy Kit-Kat bars from a local vendor.  In hindsight, we definitely should not have tried to make the train.  Lesson learned.  We are off to spend ten days in beautiful Kerala.  Only two weeks left on our Indian adventure…

Thursday, November 25, 2010

The Beaches of South Goa


Do I start this post with my raving review of the beaches of South Goa or do I go straight to the drama that has so splendidly struck our group this week?  Since drama tends to keep people reading, I will start with the juice.  First of all, Michelle has joined us for a short holiday and we all spent a whirlwind 24 hours in Mumbai, and are all getting along swimmingly.  She has been such a trooper powering through her jetlag and keeping up with our conjoined energy, which I like to call our “travel ADD”, where we run around a new city from sunrise to sundown often without sitting down once.  When Missy and I first got to India, we slept for a straight 16 hours without moving, so koodos to Michelle.  However, our little travel clan has been hit by a dose of “Indian stomach aliens”.  For the past week, Missy had not been feeling 100%.  Some days she could literally not keep any food down, and others she had no appetite.  Whatever was causing her suffering got a lot worse one evening and we awoke the next morning to a very pale, feverish, almost lifeless Missy.  After trying to flush her fever with hot tea, boiled rice water, cold rags, and other home remedies, we decided we should pay a visit to the local hospital.  I mean, the poor girl was lying in the pitch black of our beach hut, on a rock hard bed, underneath a mosquito net.  It was like being sick on Survivor.  Plus, we are in a foreign country, eating foreign food, and I have never seen Missy so completely miserable.  So, we all piled in an auto rickshaw and took a field trip down the road to our first Indian hospital.  The place looked like a dormitory and was completely empty aside from a few nurses, but it still took us about 45 minutes to check Missy in and get her to a room.  After they saw that she had a valid passport, traveler’s insurance, and a money belt full of rupees, the group of nurses disappeared for 30 minutes to “prepare her room”.  After 20 minutes we started to joke that they must be wallpapering it or putting on a fresh coat of paint.  For the love of god, the girl cannot even stand up by herself.  Despite the wait, the staff was very attentive and accommodating to our every need.  After seven different nurses checked Missy’s temperature, took her blood pressure, and asked her the same questions about her age and nationality, despite the fact that they had seen her passport, the doctor came in for his examination.  He decided it would be best if Missy stayed at the hospital for 24 hours, hooked up to an IV of fluids and antibiotics.  Now, before you grow concerned or go feeling sorry for Missy, please note that her hospital room was the nicest accommodations we have experienced in India, and she had a tv with over 80 channels, including HBO.  I was extremely close to asking the doctor to hook me up to an IV for the night as well.  


The next morning, Michelle and I walked to the hospital to pay our sick friend a visit.  We took with us what every sick girl in India would want; handpicked flowers from the resort next door, a t-shirt with a picture of Ghandi’s face on it, and a bright orange beach frisbee.  (I should go into business creating care packages).  Upon our arrival, we learned that Missy spent the evening sleeping, watching “Sex and the City”, hanging with “the girls” on the ward, and eating Ritz crackers.  LUCKY!!!  I was so happy to see she was back to her old self and that her Indian stomach alien had shed itself from her system.  They discharged her that afternoon, and we successfully crossed “visit an Indian hospital” off of our bucket list.  Welcome back Missy!

To celebrate Missy’s victorious return, we decided to rent ocean kayaks the next morning.  We made it about 15 minutes in our vessels before Michelle got seasick and had to turn around.  Five minutes later, dark storm clouds moved in on all sides of us, and Missy and I paddled like bats out of hell back to the shore.  So, needless to say, kayaks were an epic fail.  But, more importantly, Michelle never seemed to recover from her motion sickness.  She spent the entire rest of the day in bed or hugging our beach hut latrine.  NOT GOOD.  So, I made my second trip in 24 hours to the medical store, with new symptoms and a new sick person.  Good thing Indian drugs at the pharmacy cost less than a pack of gum.  My pharmacy friend skeptically gave me new pills and instructions and I was on my way.  After a stressful 48 hours, I am happy to report that everyone seems to have recovered quite nicely.  Both Missy and Michelle are healthy and happy, and I am crossing my fingers that I will manage to steer clear of any Indian stomach aliens.  I am extremely grateful that there were three of us traveling together this past week, and have no idea how solo travelers cope with falling ill abroad.  Here’s to hoping we remain healthy for our last 2.5 weeks in India!


Despite the setbacks mentioned above, we somehow had an excellent time in Southern Goa.  We stayed for four nights at Bhakti Khuri, a small beach camp and yoga retreat nestled in the woods of Palolem Beach.  Most of the guests at Bhakti Khuri were there for a six week yoga course to get their teaching certification.  In other words, there were about 15 girls running around in spandex, reading yoga books, eating rabbit food, and trading stories about their plans to open their very own yoga studios.  Eavesdropping on them provided us much entertainment, as it reminded me very much of sorority rush from college.  On a side note, I do realize that not every person that gets their yoga certification is a blonde bimbo.  I have much respect for the practice of yoga and those who have taken it as a hobby in their lives.  We were nice to the yoga girls, but we still ate our french fries and swore off spandex shorts.  A television network could make a small fortune filming a reality show at an Indian yoga certification course.  I would call it Yoga Wars.  




From Bhakti Khuri, it was a five minute walk to Palolem Beach.  The three of us were so thrilled the first time we set foot on Palolem.  It is a short stretch of beautiful beach in a cove of the Arabian Sea, covered in bright colored beach huts.  What gives Palolem the most character are the thousands of palm trees that cluster on its shore and lean at a 45 degree angle towards the ocean.  The place is the perfect setting for a Dr. Suess book.  Restaurants and beach bars line the strip, and they all compete to attract visitors to their beach chairs and umbrellas.  One can get hour long massages anywhere for $8, have fresh fruit sliced and served to you by “the fruit man” without having to move, and pedicures right from your beach chair.  HEAVEN!  The one potential drawback (depends on how you see it) of this beach are the dozens of Indian women who parade up and down the beaches with jewelry, scarves, and other trinkets for sale.  These ladies are business savvy!  On our first day at the beach, they could see the bliss on our faces and smell our naivety.  I also think they look for the palest people to prey on as they are probably the newest to the beach, and the three of us were so pale that we had light reflecting off of our skin.  These women swarmed us like flies to a dirty cow.  “Hello friends…you look my shop?  Bracelets good price!”  One woman sat down with us for 15 minutes telling us how her family makes all the bracelets by hand and that all the money she makes goes to her four children.  Naturally, I bought a bangle from her to do my part, only to see the same bracelet in 150 store fronts in town the next day.  Either she was yanking my chain or her family that supposedly creates these bracelets is 1,000 people large.  We were extremely duped.  Unfortunately or fortunately, again it depends on how you see it; these ladies are part of the charm of Palolem Beach.  Whether their work is honest or not, they work from sun up to well past sun down trying to support their families by selling cheap crap that tourists purchase because they are on vacation and just want to buy shiny things.  I cannot understand how these women bare the heat.  I could not be on the beach from 12pm to 3pm without being in the ocean because otherwise, the sun would quite literally scorch my skin off my body.  But, these ladies were dressed in female Indian garb from head to toe, relentlessly approaching the same tourists up and down the beach all day long.  I do admit that it could be exasperating at times, but we did our best to humor them.  One young woman told us that she has been working this beach for five years, but has never actually been in the ocean.  She said that every day that they work, they long to take a dip in the Arabian Sea because of the heat, but they are not allowed.  They cannot wear their sarees in the ocean, and they cannot wear anything besides a saree on the beach.  It is a vicious cycle.  Please note that she was telling us this story as we were wearing bikinis, getting pedicures, and sipping pina coladas.  It felt wrong at times.  Oh to be an Indian woman…



One of the highlights of our stay in Palolem, was an Indian cooking class Michelle and I decided to take one fine evening.  No other tourists showed up, so we had the entire three hours (and all the food) to ourselves.  We learned how to make Goan Curry, Paneer Masala, handmade chapattis, and lentils.  I think our teacher, Rahul, was more entertained than anyone.  The poor guy tried so hard to be professional, but we just were not cooperating.  At one point, I whipped out my Bollywood movie dance impersonation, which apparently is more humorous than ridden with talent.  Afterwards, at several points throughout the evening, Rahul would start laughing randomly and then would say, “Sorry, I was just thinking of your dance…”.  He gave us our own notebooks so that we could write down all the recipes and recreate our masterpieces again at home.  My friends in Washington DC are so lucky to have me move there after this excursion!  Our chapatis were constructed so wonderfully, that Rahul called us the Chapati Masters; and the Paneer Masala Michelle made was so scrumptious that he actually ate with us at the end of the class.  I doubt he does that with any of his other students.


Our time in Southern Goa was blissful, and Palolem is an extremely beautiful beach.  However, everywhere we turned, there were beach huts being constructed to make room for more visitors.  Sadly, I have a feeling if we went back in five years, the place just wouldn’t we the same.  So, if you need a vacation, go now!  We landed yesterday in Anjuna, in Northern Goa, to experience the infamous “Wednesday Flea Market”.  I am currently writing this post outside of our room at our guesthouse, while talking jibberish to the three year old British kid in the room next door.  We somehow understand each other.  I will end this post by saying: Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends and family!  We are off to find comfort food…

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Drinking Tea in Darjeeling

It has been a while since I have updated the ole blog, but I have been busy interacting with my friend, India.  Since my last post, Missy and I have spent a week in and around Darjeeling, 30 quick hours in Calcutta, and of course, about 48 hours on trains, buses, or in sketchy looking vans.  That’s just how we roll here in India.  I was recently speaking with my wonderful mother on Skype and she asked, “Why in the hell would you voluntarily take a 33 hour train from Calcutta to Mumbai, if you could just take a domestic flight?”  The lady has a point.  However, where is the fun in that?  Plus, some of the most beautiful sights in India can be seen through the train window.  So, I am currently on a 33 hour train ride from the very Eastern part of India to the very Western part of India, listening to my “Christmas Time” playlist on my Ipod.  Why is this you might ask?  Well, the other day, I was speaking to my boyfriend on my Indian cell phone, which is really more like a walkie-talkie than anything, and he exclaimed, “Lys…they are already playing Christmas commercials on tv and Christmas music on the radio here!”  That’s when it hit me that, where I come from, they are gearing up for the holidays.  So, I thought it was only fair that I get to listen to John Williams’s version of White Christmas over and over until I feel the Christmas spirit.  In case you were wondering; yes, that is the version of White Christmas that can be heard in one of the greatest American films of all time, Home Alone.  The nice old Indian man sitting next to me is very intrigued by the picture of Kevin McCallister that keeps popping up on my Ipod screen each time I hit repeat.  Anyways, I am sitting here on my way to Mumbai, as Missy sleeps next to me since she is currently suffering from the Delhi Belly (it happens), and I have just finished a wonderful and well balanced meal of popcorn, M&Ms, fried potatoes and a Pepsi.  I’m on vacation!  We are headed to Mumbai so that we can meet my dear friend, Michelle, who has come to India for a brief holiday from real life.  We are going to whisk her away to the Southern beaches of Goa because she deserves a vacation and well, we just want to go.  Below is a post I wrote a few days ago about our adventurous week in Darjeeling.  Warning…this is a long one! 

When and if you should ever have the urge to view a map of India, Darjeeling just looks awkwardly situated.  In other words, the place is difficult to visit without a little hustle and bustle.  In that case, it is a good thing that after traveling India for two months now, Missy and I are equipped for the old proverbial “bump in the road”.  To get to Darjeeling, we endured an uninterrupted string of what I like to call “transportationomics”.  It all started with the 12 hour train delay experienced by the “Varanasi train station crew” mentioned in the previous post; then a 16 hour train ride; followed by a three hour jeep ride up the mountain at 4:30am, in which four of us were shoved across one row of seats; a two mile walk to Alice Villa Hotel; and finally a three hour wait at a café for a room to open up for us.  Just to make sure you fully understand the sitch-e-ation, Missy and I left on the evening of November 7 for the train station in Varanasi and were finally able to settle into our establishment in Darjeeling on the afternoon of November 9.  I cannot explain to you in words how glorious my first shower in Darjeeling felt.  I mean…it was almost emotional.  

To be perfectly frank, my initial impression of Darjeeling was one of mild disappointment; but to be fair, I was crabby from extreme drowsiness, embarrassingly filthy from the “transportationomics” mentioned above, and running on very little food consumption.  I was utterly shocked at the congestion, commercialization and noise in a city that I was expecting to be quiet, serene and peaceful.  I would almost go so far to say that I was annoyed with the amount of Indians who inhabited their own country.  Are Indians really populating their country at such a massive rate that even the most remote hill stations are turning into mosh pits of people?  For the love of god, someone tell them to slow down the baby making.  (To the credit of Darjeeling, one positive observation I made immediately upon arrival was the absolute absence of a single cow…praise Buddah!!!)  However, after spending three precious days of my existence in the town of Darjeeling, it rapidly grew on me.  

First of all, Missy and I have the “Varanasi train station crew" to thank for hours of entertainment.  Well…we should really thank the ingenious human being who finally realized the lucrative potential of opening a pub for travelers somewhere in India.  Joey’s Pub became our evening sanctuary and the only reason Missy and I stayed up past our usual bedtime of 9:00pm.  Joey’s is seriously the first drinking establishment I have come across in over six weeks, and I was immediately buzzed just from the scent of beer.  One evening we even stayed out until 11:00pm; only to be lightly scolded by the owner of our hotel, who was waiting up for us by the gate upon our return.  Missy and I were buzzed AND getting in trouble for coming home late…it was like being a senior in high school all over again.  REBELS!!!  Anyways, the combination of drinking beer for the first time in months and having three sarcastic English traveling friends regale us with stories in their posh UK accents was truly special.  (On another side note, it really is a mystery to me why my parents did not try harder to raise my brother and I with English accents…it is one of life’s greatest travesties and setbacks).  Anyways, the five of us spent hours trying to “out funny” each other over a few brews, with tales from our Indian travel experiences.  For those of you who faithfully read this blog, you can attest to the fact that Missy and I have accumulated enough ridiculous stories from the last two months of our lives to have really held our own in this group.  However, Craig and Jennifer from Birmingham (England not Alabama people) take the cake for giving the group the biggest laughs.  I especially appreciated one of Craig’s animated rants, after reading a story in his trusted Lonely Plant, about a city in India that experienced a recent outbreak of the plague in the late ‘90s.  The plague as in…the disease that can be referred to in Shakespeare plays or fifth grade history text books.  After Craig had consumed about five beers, he exclaimed in his best English accent: “I know it’s not supposed to be funny, but……..THE PLAGUE!.......IT’S A MEDIEVAL DISEASE FOR GODS SAKE!......WHAT PLACE ON EARTH COULD POSSIBLY STILL GET THE PLAGUE!?”.  It was indescribably funny at the time and Missy and I laughed about it for the next 36 hours.  I could honestly write a short novel recalling the conversations had amongst the “Varanasi train station crew”, but I will save that for a rainy day.  I would just like to thank the powers that be for throwing the five of us together for a few days.  Craig, Jennifer, and Jenny; if you are reading this, we love you.


Now, beer and funny English people were obviously not the only reasons for my heightened enthusiasm about Darjeeling.  The real credit goes to the incredibly harmonious and painfully friendly community created by the Indian, Tibetan, and Nepali citizens of this great town.  I have never seen so many people of varying descents and religions coexist so beautifully.  It really made for a warm and fuzzy experience.  I especially have a soft spot in my heart for the dozens of chubby Tibetan children and old Nepali grandpas that populate this hill station.  I can’t decide which ones I like to stare at more.  All the children in this town look like the little Boy Scout from the animated phenomenon and Pixar movie, UP.  It took all my strength not to pinch their pink cheeks or kidnap one of them as a souvenir.  Could you imagine that conversation at customs upon my return to the United States?  “Uhhh yes sir…I am carrying a couple of wool blankets, some Indian spices, and one 150 pound Tibetan child”.  Amazing.

Lastly, I credit Darjeeling’s massive appeal to the mountainous terrain that creates its outer layers.  One morning, all the members of the “Varanasi train station crew” jumped in a jeep at 4:30am and were shuttled to the top of Tiger Hill to catch the sun rising over Khangchendzonga.  This is the third highest peak in the entire world and its name literally means something like “big snowy peak”…creativity at its finest.  From the top of Tiger Hill, besides battling 5,000 Indian citizens to be in the front of the line, we could see the peaks of Everest, Lhotse, Makalu, Kabru, and Janu.  It was truly spectacular.  It was one of the times on this trip that the hair on my arms actually stood up; one of those moments where the appreciation of taking in such a sight was overwhelming.  The pictures do not even come close to doing this image justice, but you can’t blame us for trying…



The rest of our time in the commercial section of Darjeeling was spent eating at Sonam’s kitchen, the only place downtown to get coffee instead of tea and a breakfast sandwich that will change your life; listening to local citizens sing into a microphone in the middle of town square, known as Chowrasta; and doing massive amounts of souvenir shopping.  I mean MASSIVE amounts of shopping.  All I can say is that our families and friends are extremely lucky to know us at this time in our lives.  Missy and I had to buy an enormous (and eco-friendly) bag to hold all of the trinkets we picked up in Darjeeling.  We are the only backpackers I know who have a backpack AND a carry on.  Don’t worry people; we plan on shoving said bag into a locker in Mumbai for three weeks before we head south to beach country.  We will be backpacking in style again soon enough.  

Now…onto the good stuff…like drinking true Darjeeling tea, experiencing the remote beauty offered by the tea farms on the far outskirts of the informal state of Gorkhaland, and living under the roof of a Nepali family at Makaibari Tea Estates.

What is Gorkhaland, you might be asking yourself?  I will tell you.  It is the name of the state people in this part of India have appointed for themselves.  The inhabitants of this section of the country, who admittedly have an extremely different culture and lifestyle from the rest of the state of Bengal, would like the Indian government to recognize this by giving them their own state; which they have decided to call, Gorkhaland.  I mean, if I was a map maker in charge of giving territories their labels and titles, I could not possibly think of a better name than Gorkhaland.  It sounds like somewhere Darth Vader would set up shop.  Anyways, to make their point known, the citizens of Gorkhaland have painted the word on every single shop and stall from one border to another; just in case you forgot that they no longer associate themselves with the state of Bengal.  One quiet afternoon in the town of Kursheong, Missy and I stumbled upon a very peaceful and organized line of picketers yelling over and over again; “We want Gorkhaland.  Gorkhaland.  Gorkhaland!”  I say why not just give it to them India?

 

After spending a few days in town, Missy and I fled to the countryside.  We had booked two nights at the infamous Makaibari Tea Estates.  Darjeeling is responsible for supplying India with 25% of its tea…and Indians drink A LOT of tea.  Makaibari is the only tea estate in the world that offers bioorganic tea, and many of you have probably tasted tea from these hills if you have ever had the brand Tazo.  Anyhoooooo, our experience at Makaibari was extremely authentic and blissfully tranquil.  The estate employs over 600 workers, and is home to many of them.  In late October, a reporter for the Washington Post wrote an article about Indian homestays, and she claimed that Makaibari was the best money she has ever spent in India (and it was not much money at all); and I could not agree with her more.  We were able to stay with a Nepali family in their home, drink as much tea as we wanted, eat three freshly prepared meals every day, participate in a formal tea tasting, and forever meander through the endless acres of beautiful tea plantations.  All this for about $15 a day…RIDICULOUS!  I do have to confess that after drinking tea for 48 hours, all I could think about was slamming an extra-large vanilla latte as soon as possible.  I think I even dreamt one night at the homestay that I went tubing down a river of frappuccino.  It is safe to declare that I am a coffee girl through and through.  Nevertheless, I do enjoy a nice healthy cup of Indian tea.


The authenticity of the home stay experience at Makaibari was something that truly caught me off guard.  The property is not at all geared towards tourists, and the family we stayed with did not alter their daily habits, lifestyle, or chores for us at all.  We really got to experience what a day in the life of a tea farming family is like in India.  Our host mother spoke very little English, but the enormous smile she wore at all hours of the day was enough for me.  She made us feel so welcome in her home without having to carry on hours of conversation.  Her husband is a mountain trekking guide in India and Nepal, and one of the most respected members of the Makaibari community.  Their seven year old son, Sonam, goes to a Christian English school, and watches more TV than any American child I have ever known.  I mean the kid lives at the bottom of a mountain, on acres and acres of tea farms, and he spent his entire Saturday afternoon watching Power Rangers.  To each his own I guess.  Also crammed into this single story home is their nephew, who studies at the local university; one set of Sonam’s grandparents; and who knows who else.  Honestly, different people were coming in and out of that tiny house the entire time we were there, and I could not keep track of them all.  My favorite family member by a landslide was Grandma.  I did not hear her utter a real single word the entire time we were in her home, but she ran around the house like crazy cooking, cleaning, and scolding her grandson.  She was about four feet tall, 90 pounds, and could put away more rice than any human being I have ever seen.  Seriously, watching Grandma eat rice was an adventure of its own.  I have no idea where she stored it all, but before every meal, Missy and I would place bets for how many trips to the rice cooker grandma would make.  The one occasion I interacted directly with Grandma, was when I tried to roll my own Tibetan momo (dumpling), and it ended up looking instead, like a doughnut hole.  She took one look at the thing, then at me, and then she burst into a giggle fit.  The realization that I made grandma laugh that hard almost brought tears to my eyes out of pride.  VICTORY!  

 

As Missy and I spent three hours sitting at the kitchen table with our host family; I helping to make homemade Tibetan momos, and Missy singing Christian school hymns with Sonam from his school book; I could not help but feel extremely gratified about our decision to stay in India for our entire trip, rather than try and cram in Southeast Asia.  It’s crazy to think that one month ago I was sleeping on a camel blanket in the Thar Desert and taking in the sight of the Taj Mahal; that currently, I was kneading dough with a Nepali family in the middle of the Darjeeling mountains; and in two weeks I would be lying on a beach and cruising the backwaters of Southern India on a house boat.  I am so very grateful for this experience. 

The actual beauty of the tea plantations is really hard to describe here.  You can literally view rows and rows of tea bushes, up and down the hillsides, for miles on end.  As we strolled through the tea gardens, we were able to stop and watch the female workers pick leaves and place them into baskets they wore on their backs.  Their colorful outfits stood out so pleasantly against the greenery of the tea gardens.  During one of our strolls, we were lucky enough to run into our host mom working in the tea fields with a large group of women.  Naturally, Missy and I invited ourselves to join them on their morning break, and were able to carry two baskets of freshly picked tea up a steep hill in the traditional manner of carrying tea; by placing the straw handle across your head.  Apparently foreign tourists do not usually partake in such an activity, because these fifteen to twenty women thought the sight of two white girls carrying tea baskets up a hill was the most hysterical thing they have ever witnessed.  I thought our host mom, who happened to be five months pregnant, was actually going to pee her pants from laughing so hard.  Needless to say, it was a fun 60 minutes.
If you should ever have the opportunity to travel extensively through India, I would say that Makaibari is a must do.  Mr. Banjaree, the owner and chief operator of the estate is a well-educated, lively fellow; whose humanitarian goals and efforts are quite impressive.  He conducted our formal tea tasting, and after spending just fifteen minutes in his presence, I deduced that he must dissolve caffeine pills into every cup of tea he drinks.  He was like an Indian Willy Wonka shuttling us through his land of tea and happiness. 





After spending about a week in Darjeeling, we were ready to head to our next stop; Calcutta.  In true “Missy and Alysa” fashion, we waited until the last minute to catch the three hour van ride down the mountain to the train station, and had to nearly risk our lives to make our train.  If my mother had seen the way we were barreling down the mountain, without seatbelts, on the edge of a cliff, in a scary white van that would never pass inspection in the United States, she would have surely disowned me.  However, had our driver not driven like a bat out of hell, we would have been stuck at another train station for the night and I am not really sure if we would have survived it.  After all, like so many Indians have preached to us, “The only driving rule in India is that there are no rules!”  It’s true.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Happy Diwali from Varanasi!

Since my last interaction with this forum, Missy and I have been up to our usual act of galavanting around this great country, getting ourselves into interesting situations.  Of course, this sort of behavior in turn, provides me with the material I am able to so haphazardly provide here on Gypsyjuice.  In 72 hours, we have taken a 15 hour, horribly over packed sleeper train from Rishikesh to Varanasi; experienced the Hindu celebration of Diwali; witnessed the beauty and despair of the burning ghats; felt our first real inkling of near exasperation brought on by the copious amounts of filth, hassling from vendors, and inappropriate gestures from men that all presented themselves to us in this particular city as this particular time; devoured the entirety of Greg Mortensen’s second novel, Stones into Schools, which left me completely dumbfounded and moved to tears; listened to beautiful Indian classical sitar and tabla music for a whopping $2; and fell victim to a 12 hour long train delay last night, which left us sleeping on a tarp on the ground outside the train station.  Yup…life in this neck of the woods is quite entertaining and I would not have it any other way at the present moment.  

                                                            (Cricket game on the ghat)

I will first address our train excursion from Rishikesh to Varanasi, which just so happened to take place on the eve of Diwali, the most celebrated holiday on the Hindu calendar.  In other words, everyone in this overpopulated country was traveling that evening…and I mean everyone.  To paint a clear picture, there were hundreds of Indians sleeping, while sitting up, on the floors of the train cars and in the spaces between each car, which happen to house the restrooms and sinks.  At 3:00am, I woke up with an urgent need to visit the little girls room (which is really just a hole in the floor that leads directly to the train tracks), but when I looked down from my ceiling bunk, I saw that the only way to reach the restroom feasibly would be to quite literally crowd surf.  After a very brief internal pep talk, I peeled myself from my “bed”, stepped on several innocent peoples’ hands and faces, probably severed a few limbs on the way; and was eventually able to reach the bathroom with little trauma inflicted.   Thanks to Tibetan brown bread and peanut butter, an endless source of excellent and cheap reading material, and just overall awesome attitudes, Missy and I have gotten quite good at the actual “travel part” of traveling.  If I may be so bold to declare, we are true descendants of Into the Wild.

What is Diwali all about?  From the outside, it looks like a disheveled, chaotic, mess of countless people, vibrant colors, small street fires, and temple celebrations.  However, once you see past the insanity, there lies a deeply inspiring Hindu faith, an unreal sense of Indian culture, and a side of India I have not yet truly seen: the party people.  What struck me most were the very distinct differences between the Hindu New Year celebration and Christmas, what I would deem as the Catholic New Year celebration.  For me, Christmas Eve as a child boasted an intimate family gathering at my grandparents’ home, a letter writing session to Santa, followed by an 8pm bed time.  As I looked around me at 8pm on Diwali, there were goats roaming the streets wearing men’s button-up shirts, Indian music blasting on every street, and very young children who had hardly learned to walk were running around setting off what looked like miniature NASA rockets.  We saw one old woman’s hair almost catch on fire due to a two year playing unsupervised with a sparkler.  Experiencing Diwali in Varanasi, the oldest and most spiritual Hindu city that exists on earth, was a cross between standing in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve and being caught in a real life game of toddler laser tag.  Needless to say, we had fun.  I am considering putting in a formal request to my family to incorporate explosives into our Christmas Eve traditions this year.  I think there is a time slot available right before we all sit down to eat caramel popcorn balls, drink spiked fruit punch, and watch six hours of the action packed Christmas thriller, Moses.  


The main reason so many Indian pilgrims and International travelers visit the city of Varanasi is not because many believe it to be one of the oldest cities in the world, or because of the romantic gondola rides that can be taken down the Ganges River for a mere 50 rupees; but for the deeply moving showcases of spirituality, sadness, and humility witnessed at the burning ghats.  Hindus from all over the country bring their deceased loved ones to Varanasi, to cremate them in the very public fires along the Ganges River.  It is believed that in doing so, these souls go straight to the sky.  The reason for this belief involves a long, interesting story having to do with a certain king and the god Shiva, and you can Google this story at your own leisure if you would like to educate yourself further, because I cannot recall the details at the present moment.  I was extremely apprehensive about visiting the burning ghats.  First of all, I have never in my life witnessed a cremation before and I had no idea how it would make me feel.  Secondly, in my culture, this is a very private practice reserved for close family and friends.  And lastly, it felt extremely foreign and intrusive to be witnessing such an event.  However, after speaking with several Indians regarding the ancient practice, I learned that in India, the ceremony at the burning ghats in Varanasi is one of the greatest gifts you can bestow on a family member.  The combination of the heartfelt loss that was painstakingly visible on the faces of each family member and the presence of a calm celebration in light of the soul moving on from this life was extremely powerful.  


As for feeling utterly exasperated from the Diwali crowds, relentless heckling from street vendors, and the filth that results from a lack of garbage cans and cow poop that happens to be EVERYWHERE; let’s just say that this is the first time we have really felt at wits end in India, which is highly commendable given the fact that we have been here for two months.  On a side note, on our last day in Varanasi, as Missy snoozed on a cushion on a restaurant terrace, I spent a good 45 minutes watching a very slow moving, old man walk up and down the main ghat, collecting cow droppings in a bag, and then turning them into cow dung patties, which he stacked in rows.  He did this all day…with his bare hands.  I realize that Indians can make use of the cow droppings as fuel for fires, but at the time I was watching him thinking: “What in the Sam hill is that crazy old man doing?”


Missy and I both just finished reading Greg Mortenson’s, Stones into Schools. His first novel, Three Cups of Tea, which relayed his seriously inspiring story of how his life changed after stumbling upon a remote Pakistani village, after a failed attempt at climbing K2, was an International phenomenon.  This simple and ordinary man has single handedly launched a powerful initiative within the U.S. to promote the dire need for female education in war torn countries.  The 130+ schools that his NGO has miraculously built in Pakistan and Afghanistan, even in Taliban infested areas; has been one of the largest movements in combating long-term threats from militant Islamic groups to date.  He and his colleagues have dedicated their lives to the reality that the education of children is a vital part of not only stabilizing war torn countries, but eventually turning them into peaceful, prospering nations.  His collaboration with the most remote villages of Pakistan and Afghanistan, as well as his work with U.S. armed forces truly is awe-inspiring.  I finished the novel feeling extremely proud of our soldiers for the work they are doing in these communities.  So much of the American media is focused on the exorbitant funds our government spends every day on weapons and machinery, but tends to overlook the importance of highlighting the positive impacts our soldiers are having on Afghan communities, for the American public.  Greg Mortenson really focuses on the changes our soldiers are making on a daily basis through interaction and education.  My apologies for the sermon, but this is what happens when I connect with a novel.  

For the past few weeks Missy and I have been keeping our eyes and ears open for a fortune teller.  It’s just one of those odd practices that seemed incredibly enticing at the time.  So, you can imagine our excitement when a crazy old man (there seems to be a lot of those in Varanasi) walked right up to us and announced that for 300 rupees he could look at our hands and faces, and tell each of us our fortunes.  We negotiated the price to 50% off, and followed the man to his secret lair, which was really just a seat on the most crowded place on the Ganges River.  After ten minutes of hocus pocus talk, I learned that I will be married at the age of 29, have a son when I am 32, and a daughter when I am 36.  On January 7 of next year, I will begin the golden period of my life…our friend did not elaborate as to what this means, but it sounds good to me.  Also, he told me to be careful of any boyfriends because they could be using me for my money or as a fling, and not my heart.  This was amusing to me since: 1) I am currently squandering a chunk of my savings in India, and 2) I recently started dating my best friend and childhood sweetheart again.  I’ll have to look into these speculations further when I get home (insert wink face here).  The best part of our fortunes is that Missy and I will each live to be at least 85, so we have many trips ahead of us!


And finally, probably the most local experience we have had to date; sleeping on the ground outside the Varanasi train station.  Upon arrival to the station yesterday evening, we quickly stumbled upon “the other white people” that were quizzically meandering around the place, trying to figure out where to go.  We quickly united and formed a cohesive traveling dream team.  After inquiring about our train several times, I began to feel like I was back in an American airport dealing with Delta Airlines, and actually experienced a severe case of déjà vu.  “One hour delay”.  “Two hour delay”.  “Your train will not come until 4:00 am”.  “Your train will come at 7:30am”.  At 9:00am this morning, we boarded the train that was scheduled to depart at 10:00pm last night.  So, what did we do with 11 hours of free time?  We bought a tarp for 10 rupees, spread it on the ground, polished off a bag of Ritz crackers, and had a little sleepover picnic with hundreds of Indians and several dozen cows outside of the train station.  I would like to say we slept under the stars, but the dust was so heavy in Varanasi, that you could barely see a streetlight.  This morning I brushed my teeth in the parking lot and peed in a hole in the floor, just like everyone else.  Like I said in a previous post, we are survivors, Missy and I.

At the present moment, we are on another long and arduous train journey to Darjeeling, one of our most anticipated stops.  After a 16 hour train ride, we are going to rent a van with our new train station friends; Jennifer, Jenny, and Craig from England; and eventually get to Darjeeling sometime this week.  We will spend three nights in town admiring the beauty of the mountains and tea plantations, and then we are off to spend two nights at Makaibari Tea Estates, an Indian home stay 90 minutes from Darjeeling.  The Washington Post just printed an excellent write up on Makaibari, and apparently all of our meals are homemade and we pick our own tea leaves for our morning tea.  A nice travel agent in Varanasi declared to us one day; “When you are in Darjeeling, you will think you are in heaven.”  I’ll take two please…

p.s. - For pretty pictures of our adventures, check out Missy's blog: http://heremethere.wordpress.com/.  The pictures on my blog serve simply as illustrations.  I do not have the knack, nor the artistic talent for picture taking that Missy possesses.  They are fantastic!

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Riding Trains in the Deserts of India (Video Special)

Missy and I have had quite a bit of downtime here in Luxman Jhulla.  The other day, we took the ole' laptop to a rooftop cafe, where we sipped on fresh mango juice and watched all of the videos we have been creating throughout our excursions the last two months.  This is the first time we have viewed many of these video memories, and we were barreled over on the floor laughing.  I am not sure our Israeli friends at the neighboring tables really appreciated our immature giggle fit, but hopefully they are over it by now.  Who knew we were so hilarious?  The below videos should have made the blog weeks ago, but they amuse me so much that I thought we could debut them here.  These nicely summarize our train trip in the desert that I mentioned in a previous post.  Maire, if you are reading this (which you better be), watching these videos made me miss having you with us even more.  Thank you for hours of entertainment!

We are finally getting our acts together to leave this evening on the overnight train to Varanasi.  I am mentally preparing myself for the chaos of the city life again.  Also, this entire country is gearing up for Deepavali (or Diwali), the Hindu New Year celebration.  Missy won't shutup about how much she wants to get some sparklers.  We will see what we can do to make her happy.  God Speed.

 



Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Ashramites





 
If you happened to have read the post prior to this one, you would have learned that I went into the ashram experience with a bit of a biased opinion.  Before walking into the doors last Tuesday, I made a pact with myself that I would remain completely open-minded throughout the entire experience and try and remain as unbiased as possible.  Again, I grew up in the Western world where the opinion of yoga, meditation, and the ashram life can often times be pegged as “a bit weird and crazy”.  Well, I can tell you that the experience that I had at Phool Chatti Ashram in Luxman Jhulla, India was nothing but positive and perhaps life changing.  Let’s start at the beginning…


Missy and I had been discussing the possibility of staying a few nights at an ashram, you know, just to get the experience.  When we arrived in Luxman Jhulla, we quickly realized that there were hundreds of ashrams to choose from, some often times resembling Alcatraz.  Scary.  How were we supposed to choose one and how do we ensure that we actually get something out of it?  Luckily, the following day, we ran into a young woman on the street whom we had met a few weeks back, while traveling to Manali.  She was literally glowing and seemed to be stuck in a supreme state of peace.  “You are so sparkly…what got into you!?”  “Oh…I just spent a week at an introductory yoga and meditation course at an ashram nestled along the Ganges River, away from the hustle and bustle of the town.”  And that folks, is how we found our ashram…or how our ashram found us, I should say.  

So, on Tuesday, Missy and I saddled up our bags, hopped in a Jeep, and headed for an ashram adventure.  I was immediately smitten upon arrival.  The courtyard was immaculately clean and serene, and you could hear the rapids from the Ganges River from anywhere in the ashram.  After further inspection, we discovered an enormous garden in the rear (typing the word “rear” still makes me giggle) of the ashram, where you could find roses, fresh fruits and vegetables, aloe vera, and hundreds of other flora and fauna.  We later learned that Phool Chatti literally translates to “the place that you stay that is a garden”, so yeah, that makes great sense.  Also, many of the fruits, vegetables, and spices that we ate all week came straight from the garden.  Now, you just don’t get that sort of treatment at the Hilton.  Anyways, after the place passed our physical inspection requirements, we went to the office.  (Yes, we had physical ashram requirements).  In the office, we were greeted not only by the most amazing couches from the '80s that exist to this day, but also by Lalita Ji, one of the spiritual leaders of the ashram, who would be in charge of all of our yoga and meditation classes for the week.  She was a gem of a woman.  Lalita Ji first came to this ashram when she was 17 years old, and has been living there for twenty one years.  Twenty one years…living the ashram life.  Mindboggling.  She is an extremely simple woman, who owns about two outfits, has a stellar sense of humor when it comes to Westerners, and answered all of our questions with either a very decisive “yes” or “no”.  So, after little inquiry, each of us handed her $100 for our week long stay and were shown to our room. 

The rest of that first day was spent meeting our fellow “ashramites”, getting oriented with the Phool Chatti grounds, and learning the schedule we would be following for the next seven days.  An American man, whom we were told to call Randy Ji, gave us the low down on the ashram rules and regulations, and we quickly learned that he was the one we were to go to for anything not related to yoga or meditation.  Randy Ji is a no bullshit kind of guy from the Midwest, and he spends three months a year living at Phool Chatti, three months a year living at an ashram in the South of India, and six months a year living in California.  We tried hard to figure out what his story was throughout the course of the week, but we never really did discover how Randy Ji came to practice this sort of lifestyle.  Anyways, once we completed orientation I decidedly announced to Missy: “You know…this sounds like it’s going to be A LOT like girl scout camp.”  We learned that we would be spending the first 7.5 hours of each day in complete silence, would be eating our meals in silence on the floor of the mess hall, and would start each new daily activity by aggregating ourselves in the courtyard after a gong was rung.  The first two thoughts that came to my mind were: “Holy shit I have to sit Indian style for the duration of every meal” and “We are JUST like the Von Trap kids from The Sound of Music”.  First of all, I seriously despise sitting Indian style.  I cannot physically get my left knee to bend and stay in that position, and I find the entire act of sitting that way completely inconvenient.  If it were up to me, I would eat all my meals sitting in a big pink plastic intertube.  And, secondly, we were NOT like the Von Trap kids at all.  If you looked around the ashramite crew, you could quickly generalize that we all looked like a bunch of vagabond pirate people.  I mean, to fit in in this crowd, you would simply put on the baggiest pair of pants you could find, wear 100 bracelets on each arm, and stop brushing your hair.  It’s glorious.   

Anyways, as ashramite pirate people, we would be following the below schedule on a daily basis for one week:

5:30 – Gong wake up call
6:00 – Meditation
6:30 – Nasal cleansing (We filled a tube with warm salt water and stuck in one nostril as the water spilled out the other nostril.  I was horrified at first, but that little contraption seriously clears out your sinuses).
7:00 – Hatha Yoga
9:00 – Breakfast of porridge and fresh fruit
10:00 – Karma Yoga (Cleaning the ashram)
10:30 – Nature walk
12:30 –Indian Lunch
1:00 – Two hours of free time
3:00 – Discussions regarding the 8 Limb of Yoga
4:00 – Ashtanga Yoga
6:00 – Temple ceremony
6:30 – Music and mantra chanting
7:30 – Indian Dinner
8:30 – Meditation
9:00 – BED
                                                                        (Yoga Hall)

Each time we changed activities in the list above, the gong was rung, and keep in mind that we could not speak until after lunch.  At first it was difficult, but by the end of the week I was really appreciating the silence.  It makes you realize how much time we spend every day in mindless, pointless conversation, just because we feel like we should be talking.  I am going to make it a point in my life moving forward, to try and not to say something unless it is necessary or value-added, or unless someone says something seriously stupid and I need to let them know.

Meal time was an experience.  We sat in four rows on the ground (in indian style may I remind you again).  We used the same dish, spoon, and cup at every meal, which we cleaned ourselves in the kitchen.  Sweet little Indian boys would run around with buckets of food and ladel rice, dal, chapattis, yogurt, and vegetables onto our plates, over and over again until we waved our hands at them signaling that we were full.  Then we would all go outside and drink chai and compare how many chapattis we each ate at that particular meal.  To be clear, the food was seriously delicious and healthy.  I miss it already.  I have been out of the ashram for 24 hours and have already consumed a nutella and banana crepe, a plate of french fries, and a chocolate milk shake.  It had to be done.


Where I really struggled was with the meditation practices.  I already had a biased opinion that meditation was for crazy people, but I was starting to see the light.  I have been reading The Tibetan Book on Living and Dying, which is a wonderful book explaining the beliefs behind the almost "utopia-esque" society that Tibetans had managed to build before the Chinese Government invaded their country and destroyed nearly all of their culture, but that is for another post.  Anyways, through reading the novel, I am learning about the benefits of practicing meditation and why until now, it has been rejected by Westerners.  I realize that I was raised in a society where any mention of “God” will send people spiraling into a fit of either awkwardness or rage.  It is my opinion, in a general sense, that Westerners try and avoid getting themselves into any discussions having to do with spirituality, Divine Presence, or really even faith.  That also goes for church or temple going Christians, Lutherans, Jews, etc.  No one wants to talk about it.  No one is encouraged to talk about it.  There are probably people reading this now who are already angry because I have typed “God” twice (now three times) in a public forum.  I mean, when is the last time you announced at a dinner party: “tonight I want each of you to explain where you think we came from and then tell us why or why not you think God exists.”  In our culture, I would call that dinner party suicide. 

To set my beliefs straight here, I was raised as a Catholic.  My mom did an excellent job trying her best to instill spirituality into her children.  I am not presently a practicing Catholic, although I would like to reintroduce spiritual practice back into my life.  I believe that there is something greater than us that exists; call it God, Brahma, Shiva, Jesus, Divine Presence, etc., my opinion is that there is something greater than human life.  Now, I happened to be born into a Catholic family rather than a Hindu family, so that what was I was taught was “correct”, but again it is my personal belief that in general, religion is a means to worshiping the fact that as humans, we are given a gift by a “Greater Existence” of a short life on this earth.  It brings me comfort in believing this and drives me to be a better person, so that is why I believe it.  But anyways, I have never liked discussing the topic of spirituality for all of the reasons mentioned above.  Therefore, when it came time to meditate, my mind and body rejected the act.  When I was supposed to be searching for “the space between my thoughts”, I found myself thinking about the remainder of our trip, my 2011 goals, and the fact that I shouldn’t be thinking about anything if I wanted to meditate.  Also, when Randy Ji spoke during the meditations, he sounded exactly like Kevin Spacey, so various movies continued to pop in my head.  During the week at the ashram, I never really achieved a meditative state, but I certainly found a new appreciation and understanding for the act.  In this day and age of noise and meaningless tasks, people meditate to find a greater truth to life other than Facebook, our workaholic culture, and the act of acquiring the nicest material possessions.  So, next time I see someone sitting quietly in a park with their eyes closed, rather than snicker, I will smile.

The yoga was grade A.  I can now do a head stand on my own and bend myself into a pretzel.  Also, when we were all doing advanced moves, there was a real sense of "people helping people" in the class.  "Oh you can't touch your toes?  Let me just sit on your back like this for you..."

As for the mantra chanting and singing, I again want to remind you that I went into the experience open minded, and tried to appreciate the Hindu custom.  And, let’s be honest here people, if someone hands me a tambourine to shake at my leisure for thirty minutes, I am pretty much lost in my own world of entertainment.  So, I participated every single day with enthusiasm.  On the last night, we took the guitars, drums, and singing to the beach, where we sat around a huge bonfire.  All of the ashramites had to separate into groups according to the country where we were born, and pick a song to sing in front of everyone.  Now, as the Americans, we had the largest group, so people were expecting big things.  Our group was extremely diverse and we came up with all sorts of crazy ideas.  In the end, we really represented the United States of America appropriately.  While every other country carefully chose and sang a heartfelt or patriotic song with a lot of emotion, the Americans came up with “We Will Rock You”… how appropriate.

On our last day, we all dressed in white and Lalita Ji held a closing ceremony around a small fire on the ashram balcony.  We all made offerings to Ganesha, the god of good fortune, and wrote a vice on a piece of paper that we wanted to throw into the fire.  This way, we could rid our lives of this vice.  Missy said I couldn’t write down “my big thighs” and throw that into the fire, so I reached deep into my soul for something more appropriate.  In summary, the brief introductory period I had to the ashram life was surprisingly inspiring and very special.  It made me really think about my life, my family, and my future in a way I have always been afraid to embrace.  I met an amazing group of people of all age ranges, countries, and walks of life, and I was a bit nostalgic to leave on the last day.  But, most importantly, I had hours of silent time to analyze the inevitable question, “Who am I?”


9 Americans, 3 Swedes, 6 Israelis, 1 German, 1 English, 1 Aussie, 2 Canadian, 2 French Canadian, 1 Mexican, 2 Dutch, 2 South Africans: