Taking the footpath around the oxen shed of the family home; we head down to the small green space that divides the five homes of the village. A 5ft fire blazes in the centre. Age old faces are illuminated, the sparkle of their eyes and deep set wrinkles are licked by the orange light.
Around them, eight boisterous children, ranging from 4 to 11, skip around the fire edge. They dance and sing for Shiva beneath red bowed pigtails and worn slippers. Their red tikas glow under the fire light.
As we near the clearing they set upon us; clambering our backs and tugging our shoulders. Taking turns on our backs, they squeal as we jump and swing their feather bodies through the air.
We join the collection of time worn bodies. The flames roast the outer layers of our flesh.
Up until today we have heard many legends about Shiva Raatri, "Everybody tokes; you have too cos Shiva's a toker - ha ha!" "Everyone, I Mean EVERYONE has bhang. Old, young, male, female, everyone!"
We were informed that the marijuana is toked, eaten, drunk and absorbed via every method of consumption. The twit feels he has stumbled across his own personal paradise of a bank holiday. Our wanderings through the neighbouring villages brought jovial encounters. "Hello Mr", they hailed the twit, "you smoke marijuana?", "Of course, its shiva raatri! - Have you?". The three gangly lads nodded enthusiastically, arms draped over each others shoulders, "I feel...interesting", considered the tall lad with combed back hair.
So, entering the gathering of extreme young and old, we were unsure of the practices of this particular shiva raatri celebration. Where the old folks smiling through a haze of bhang? Or were they as straight as the fresh mountain morning?
The bearded one leaned over to our host, "Is it ok to smoke?", "Of course - its shiva raatri!" "And Gonzo too?" Krishna leaned over to look me in the face, "No problem, you can smoke too, it is fine"; he turned back to the twit, "Have you got papers?"
"Yes I do".
"Then I will get some marijuana".
Krishna turned, and with a flourish; lightly stepped over the pebbled rocks that collected upon the steepest inclines of the path.
The twit and I cast glances about ourselves. The children had stopped skipping and were peppered among the squatting elderly. One of the women had captivated the audience. Her weather beaten face blazed in the red hot flicker. She gesticulated wildly above her head as a flurry of syllables streamed from her tongue. We watched en rapt. In a final wild emphasis, she waved her arms back and forth across her cloaked head before the river of sound dried up.
Before the ensuing silence could fully impregnate the air, the most ancient of the men took up the debate. The company each gazed into the fire as the old men bellowed to the air. As conversation followed it dawned that a conservative ritual of respect was at play. Each ensuing speaker was given his space to tell his piece. Speech followed speech as the family members listened at length. After, the next speaker would begin. Some stressed syllables with earnest fire while others freely floated phonetics so the party members chuckled.
As the eight and last elder finished, I turned to observe Krishna had returned and was involved in the speeches; a concentrated furrow through his brow.
The twit caught the direction of my gaze and jumped at finding the shadow cast across him belonged to Krishna.
"What are they talking about?" The twit whispered under the speech flow.
"Oh, they talk about the role of men and women in the house. She say she do this and he should do this. He say he does this and this and she doesn't do this, you know?"
The twit chuckled, "same all over the world".
The ubiquity of human nature.
Krishna plonked a weighty black bag before the twits lap, "Here, use this for the making".
The twit peeled back the bag to find half an ounce of grass. "Make four or five" Krishna gestured to the group, "Then everyone can share".
"With tobacco?"
"No, no, no tobacco".
The twit rolled the first and I lit up. Still wary of my last encounter with pure green tokes (Pokhara, Lakeside, I had wound up spending the best part of the night with my head strategically positioned over a bucket), I inhaled lightly twice before passing to the illuminated man beside me. His eyes sparkled with his hands held in a negative gesture. I stretched my arm to enter the attention sphere of the wind cracked face beside him. He shook his head at my offering.
I turned to the left and surveyed my options. The twit was engrossed in rolling. Krishna was puffing at a conical construction; as was the only other man of fatherhood age; also called Krishna.
My last option was the other side of the fire where a gaggle of old and young women giggled and elbowed one another.
Feeling red eyed and hazy, I gathered myself and made way to them. The first, the kind eyed mother of the three neighbouring toddlers laughed no as I made my offering.
The second woman, unknown to me, wore a magenta shawl around her face's deep set pathways. I held out the smoke. She brought forward two wily fingertips and plucked it from my grasp. 'At last' I thought, 'I've gotten rid of it!' Relief turned to dismay as she examined the item, gestured to he fire and handed it straight back.
Dammit. Looks like there was going to be no luck this side either.
I hopped back to the twit and took my place in the ring of fire watchers. "No one will take it" I muttered.
"Ah what?" The twit opened his palm, "I've got two more here - whose gonna smoke em?"
"I don't know what to do with it"
"Smoke it"
Flashbacks of my pastel lemon regurgitations shuddered through me, "Nah...but what I can do, is roll a cigarette with a roach - and they won't know the difference - mwa ha!'
Feeling pleased I'd found a way to subvert the 'women in villages don't smoke' rule, I set to work.
As I was rolling my tobacco laden Shiva tribute, Krishna grabbed a fistful of marijuana bud and threw it on the fire. The twit and I double took - open mouthed. "Its for Shiva" Krishna explained. The twit looked to me, shock permeating the whites of his eyes, "Never, ever would that happen in England".
Feeling slow and a little stupid, the twit and I sat back and surveyed the scene. We felt like two sociology students watching a Nepali culture documentary on senso-vision. Puffing on my Shiva tribute cigarette, I fell into a light trance as the flames warmed me and the alien talk of this close knit community washed over me. The gent on my right leaned his patterned hat forwards and hailed Krishna while gesturing his hat to me.
"What did he say?" Asked the twit.
"Oh, he say, is she smoking it all? Does it stay with her?"
The twit leaned to me, "You better pass it".
Befuddled, I do so. The twit shrugged, bemusement splashed across his face.
We return to our documentary observations. The village community continued as if two white people who could barely utter a word of Nepali were a common place event at Shiva Raatri. Laughter peeled across the mountain air. The children skipped circles, regaling the adults to stop being dull, stop being old and to dance by the flames for Shiva.
One of the elder ladies approached the twit with a cup. He nodded and thanked 'Danubad'. Tilting the cup over his lips, momentary confusion washed over his face. He cried falling back with laughter, "there's not even a drink in here!" Laughing also, I looked up to see the woman, draped in blankets, bent over double with laughter. The twit reached in, plucked a sweet ball from the cup, and offered me mine. We sat crunching the sugary dust, "Hang on," I said, "We're the only ones eating these. Are you sure that one was for me?"
"Yeah, definitely, she gestured to both of us".
So the Nepali hospitality continued. A slightly sweet meal, made from millet, was cooked upon the fire in honour of Shiva. The twit and I were presented with a dish each, while the village shared dishes among groups of three and four. We felt humbled.
The ancient man to our right had scooped his grandson into his lap. No older than a year, the young boy fought to keep his big brown eyes open. His grandfather sang a lilting lullaby as the boy struggled against his might against inevitable sleep.
The melody swam to fill our heads. We swayed to its rhythm. Music will share thoughts and feelings where language cannot. All around us, the adults fussed over the vibrant young ones. Nepali villages are a children's world. The Nepali elders shower their children with timeless affection and attention. Perhaps such dotage infects you with a touch of the energy abundant in childhood. Each day spent soaking up every second of the daylight hours. Regarding sleep as the enemy that must be conquered. Fighting for every minute of life that can be squeezed from the day.
The twit and I are not so ready for battle. Red eyes drooping, we stand to leave. "Namaste" calls the twit, "Suber raatri" I add.
"Not suber raatri", the blanket laden grandma calls, "Shiva raatri!"
"Shiva raatri!" calls the elder crowd, and for just one second, their time worn faces are pebbled with the exuberance of youth.
Friday, 6 March 2009
VARANASI JUNGLE
We stumble from our sleeper train ragged from a weeks hard travel. The Varanasi welcome committee awaits us. "Rickshaw sir";"Hotel Madam";"I know good price sir - SIR!". The committee circle us like buzzards in view of a fleshy carcass. We attempt to navigate the contradictory directions to the tourist office provided by the Rough Guide and the local sign posts.
Baffled and wandering a narrow side street; a rickshaw pulls up in front of us and out leaps a gangly Englishman and his beautiful blonde American girlfriend. "What you looking for mate? The Ghats". "No, we wanted to find the Government Tourist Office". The Englishman produced a map and succinct instructions, "Don't believe anything that anyone says. I know that Indians are normally on the make but I've never seen anything like this. Its a whole new level. They will blatantly lie to you to get your money. Seriously, never seen anything like it". We thanked him as still shaking his head, he bounced back to his rickshaw and waved us goodbye.
We negotiated a rickshaw; and once at the tourist office, booked a room at a lodge and waited for our lift. Our lodge was situated just by the golden temple; the manager of the internet cafe next door had some words on the subject;"The temple, it is made of pure gold. Gold was pure back then. Today nothing is pure; the whole world over. If you buy gold today it is watered down just to make more money. Back when gold was pure; people only cared about respect and friendship. Today people water down all because they care only for the money it will bring them".
I would come to take his words with far greater brevity than I thought possible.
Two days later, I dropped off the twit for a surprise tabular lesson at the Ganga Fuji restaurant. The owner halted me upon my exit. The owner is a jolly bear of a man and half the reason why we returned to the tourist hot spot more than once. He halts me in the door way; "How much do he say the teacher make you pay?"
"150 an hour"
"150?"
"150 an hour. Do two hours for 300. Do I get a good price?"
"Yes, yes, this price is fine."
"And then afterwards, I will get a palm reading".
The bear straightened up, his face drawn stern, "where do you go?"
"Behind the dolphin restaurant".
His frown intensified, "Be careful, be very careful. There are men around here who are not very good. People bring to him and get big commission. There is one man back there, big large man".
-oh shit, that sounds like my guy.
"Some things he tells you are true. But he offers to make Buddha beads and say prayers or your troubles. He charges you many thousands of rupees for this. But he lie, he does not do it. I tell you this because I have good feeling for you. You come back to my restaurant. Do not pay more than a thousand rupees."
-Dammit. I agreed two thousand. Let me explain why I was willing to pay twenty five quid for the reading. I don't actually believe that a holy man can tell me my future. I believe that only we can understand how to exercise our free will in the paths that carry us. I had been upon the Ganges at dawn and whirled up by the romance of Varanasi city. I was asked if I wanted to visit a holy man who read fortunes for money that went to his ashram. I didn't care whether he could read my future or not - I was up for the crack. To say that a holy man read my palm in Varanasi - while I used funds to support a charity.
"Be careful! Be very careful", he emphasized.
"I tell you something", I replied. "I'm actually a skeptical person. I would not buy Buddha beads, I don't hold much faith that the prayers of someone I do not know would help me.
He nodded, concern crowding his eyes. "You know what, my family can read. They make for you for 800 rupees."
Hmmm. Perhaps thats not concern gathering around his corneas.
"And then afterwards", I interjected, "we come for special birthday lassie for my husband".
The bear cheered. If there was one thing he could be trusted for - it was preparing the finest tasting special lassies in Varanasi. "Namaste - and be careful".
I turned into the backlanes. An ominous swell filled my chest. My initial reaction to the guru had been to say no; but curiosity and romance had won the day. In this city built on faith, reality shimmers like light through a prism. Its coloured spectrum shards slip over your fingertips.
I searched the winding lanes; built up ancient and skyward; with bizarre shop fronts selling chai, multi-coloured silks, glass glint bracelets and rusty brown spices. I was searching for the spice shop of Visnu. Dancing in the narrow lanes two nights before; he had laughed as if the joy of the world sprang from him. Twice since; we had been scheduled to meet him. Both times proved elusive.
I made my way down the hurried alleys. Upon the third he sprang from my right, "Good morning my friend; I waited for you at half nine".
"I'm so sorry. We took a morning boat trip on the Ganges. Then we were so tired, we closed our eyes for two minutes, and the next thing we knew it had been two hours."
"Would you like to come in for some tea?"
"Sure", I slipped off my shoes.
"And don't say sorry madam".
"But I am sorry, thats why I came to see you".
A few minutes later he returned with some chai. I glanced around his threadbare shop, wondering how he caught the eye of passers when surrounded by rivals multi-glittered offerings. "This is not special chai' this is not what my mama make. When your friend; er..your husband come, then I call my mama to bring best chai, so I can make happy birthday".
He showed me his notebooks. Messages from customers. A common tool employed by the Indian merchant. Word of mouth testimony tends to foster trust.
Then he pulls out his necklaces, "You see, I have a nice necklace"; he drags a string of circular dark wood beads across the floor. "You like to buy?"
His face lowers at the expression of entire non-interest on my face. In Varanasi everyone has something to sell. After two days, conversations are conducted merely to time how long it will be until the item for sale is offered.
"So you get boat. Did hotel take you?"
I nod.
"What did you pay?"
"80 rupees each. Is that a good price?"
"Good price. Next time you go I get 100 for the both of you".
His face has fallen. Counting the lost commissions, if only he had got to us sooner.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Why not?" he shrugged.
"The holy man. Behind the dolphin hotel. Is he a good man?"
"Did someone take you there?"
"Yes. Is he a good man?"
"When did they take you there?"
"Last night. Did they get a commission?"
"Yes", Visnu nods imperceptibly, "he is good". He looks solemly to the cows strolling up the stones.
"Tell me this. Does he own an ashram?"
"You want to go to ashram? I can take you."
"No, I want to know if the holy man has an ashram".
"Yes," he barely nods again, "he is good. He has an ashram. Don't pay more than 1000. This is a good price".
The light of his face has truly emptied. My analysis is torn. Does he know I'm being taken advantage of - or is he pondering the finances he has lost from not taking us first?
I feel the same as yesterday, when we relented to the silk merchants and made small purchases. The discrepancy of the stories, "Oh silk has been in our family for seven generations" says one. "Our business has run for 42 years, three generations of our family" says the other. All the promises of no commission are as worthy as the dust that collects between the cobbles of Varanasi's streets.
For anyone considering a visit to the holy man behind the dolphin restaurant, please remember this. As we arrived, a middle aged Chinese man was rushing back to see him with $600 clutched in his fists. The man, whose wife and himself had been declared infertile, had just been informed by the holy man that if he donated enough money to the prayers in his ashram, then they would be blessed with a child. The same holy man can be found frequenting first class hotels, and business class flights across India and Nepal. I know the latter because he told me.
In this holy city; I am seen purely as a walking cash pot. No trust. Not right now. Our tour guide this morning tells us afloat the holy water of the Ganges, "I take no commission, I want to be your friend. Friendship only". Five minutes later, "What time you come to my house? I show you perfume my mama like. If you like, you buy".
As I leave Visnu's shop, he points to the silk stall directly opposite, "See this scarf, the colours are special to Varanasi, if you like, you can ask me. I get you good price".
The man is directly across the street. Why can't I get a good price myself?
I'm saturated with being shown products I might want to buy. Its a free market jungle in Varanasi.
Baffled and wandering a narrow side street; a rickshaw pulls up in front of us and out leaps a gangly Englishman and his beautiful blonde American girlfriend. "What you looking for mate? The Ghats". "No, we wanted to find the Government Tourist Office". The Englishman produced a map and succinct instructions, "Don't believe anything that anyone says. I know that Indians are normally on the make but I've never seen anything like this. Its a whole new level. They will blatantly lie to you to get your money. Seriously, never seen anything like it". We thanked him as still shaking his head, he bounced back to his rickshaw and waved us goodbye.
We negotiated a rickshaw; and once at the tourist office, booked a room at a lodge and waited for our lift. Our lodge was situated just by the golden temple; the manager of the internet cafe next door had some words on the subject;"The temple, it is made of pure gold. Gold was pure back then. Today nothing is pure; the whole world over. If you buy gold today it is watered down just to make more money. Back when gold was pure; people only cared about respect and friendship. Today people water down all because they care only for the money it will bring them".
I would come to take his words with far greater brevity than I thought possible.
Two days later, I dropped off the twit for a surprise tabular lesson at the Ganga Fuji restaurant. The owner halted me upon my exit. The owner is a jolly bear of a man and half the reason why we returned to the tourist hot spot more than once. He halts me in the door way; "How much do he say the teacher make you pay?"
"150 an hour"
"150?"
"150 an hour. Do two hours for 300. Do I get a good price?"
"Yes, yes, this price is fine."
"And then afterwards, I will get a palm reading".
The bear straightened up, his face drawn stern, "where do you go?"
"Behind the dolphin restaurant".
His frown intensified, "Be careful, be very careful. There are men around here who are not very good. People bring to him and get big commission. There is one man back there, big large man".
-oh shit, that sounds like my guy.
"Some things he tells you are true. But he offers to make Buddha beads and say prayers or your troubles. He charges you many thousands of rupees for this. But he lie, he does not do it. I tell you this because I have good feeling for you. You come back to my restaurant. Do not pay more than a thousand rupees."
-Dammit. I agreed two thousand. Let me explain why I was willing to pay twenty five quid for the reading. I don't actually believe that a holy man can tell me my future. I believe that only we can understand how to exercise our free will in the paths that carry us. I had been upon the Ganges at dawn and whirled up by the romance of Varanasi city. I was asked if I wanted to visit a holy man who read fortunes for money that went to his ashram. I didn't care whether he could read my future or not - I was up for the crack. To say that a holy man read my palm in Varanasi - while I used funds to support a charity.
"Be careful! Be very careful", he emphasized.
"I tell you something", I replied. "I'm actually a skeptical person. I would not buy Buddha beads, I don't hold much faith that the prayers of someone I do not know would help me.
He nodded, concern crowding his eyes. "You know what, my family can read. They make for you for 800 rupees."
Hmmm. Perhaps thats not concern gathering around his corneas.
"And then afterwards", I interjected, "we come for special birthday lassie for my husband".
The bear cheered. If there was one thing he could be trusted for - it was preparing the finest tasting special lassies in Varanasi. "Namaste - and be careful".
I turned into the backlanes. An ominous swell filled my chest. My initial reaction to the guru had been to say no; but curiosity and romance had won the day. In this city built on faith, reality shimmers like light through a prism. Its coloured spectrum shards slip over your fingertips.
I searched the winding lanes; built up ancient and skyward; with bizarre shop fronts selling chai, multi-coloured silks, glass glint bracelets and rusty brown spices. I was searching for the spice shop of Visnu. Dancing in the narrow lanes two nights before; he had laughed as if the joy of the world sprang from him. Twice since; we had been scheduled to meet him. Both times proved elusive.
I made my way down the hurried alleys. Upon the third he sprang from my right, "Good morning my friend; I waited for you at half nine".
"I'm so sorry. We took a morning boat trip on the Ganges. Then we were so tired, we closed our eyes for two minutes, and the next thing we knew it had been two hours."
"Would you like to come in for some tea?"
"Sure", I slipped off my shoes.
"And don't say sorry madam".
"But I am sorry, thats why I came to see you".
A few minutes later he returned with some chai. I glanced around his threadbare shop, wondering how he caught the eye of passers when surrounded by rivals multi-glittered offerings. "This is not special chai' this is not what my mama make. When your friend; er..your husband come, then I call my mama to bring best chai, so I can make happy birthday".
He showed me his notebooks. Messages from customers. A common tool employed by the Indian merchant. Word of mouth testimony tends to foster trust.
Then he pulls out his necklaces, "You see, I have a nice necklace"; he drags a string of circular dark wood beads across the floor. "You like to buy?"
His face lowers at the expression of entire non-interest on my face. In Varanasi everyone has something to sell. After two days, conversations are conducted merely to time how long it will be until the item for sale is offered.
"So you get boat. Did hotel take you?"
I nod.
"What did you pay?"
"80 rupees each. Is that a good price?"
"Good price. Next time you go I get 100 for the both of you".
His face has fallen. Counting the lost commissions, if only he had got to us sooner.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Why not?" he shrugged.
"The holy man. Behind the dolphin hotel. Is he a good man?"
"Did someone take you there?"
"Yes. Is he a good man?"
"When did they take you there?"
"Last night. Did they get a commission?"
"Yes", Visnu nods imperceptibly, "he is good". He looks solemly to the cows strolling up the stones.
"Tell me this. Does he own an ashram?"
"You want to go to ashram? I can take you."
"No, I want to know if the holy man has an ashram".
"Yes," he barely nods again, "he is good. He has an ashram. Don't pay more than 1000. This is a good price".
The light of his face has truly emptied. My analysis is torn. Does he know I'm being taken advantage of - or is he pondering the finances he has lost from not taking us first?
I feel the same as yesterday, when we relented to the silk merchants and made small purchases. The discrepancy of the stories, "Oh silk has been in our family for seven generations" says one. "Our business has run for 42 years, three generations of our family" says the other. All the promises of no commission are as worthy as the dust that collects between the cobbles of Varanasi's streets.
For anyone considering a visit to the holy man behind the dolphin restaurant, please remember this. As we arrived, a middle aged Chinese man was rushing back to see him with $600 clutched in his fists. The man, whose wife and himself had been declared infertile, had just been informed by the holy man that if he donated enough money to the prayers in his ashram, then they would be blessed with a child. The same holy man can be found frequenting first class hotels, and business class flights across India and Nepal. I know the latter because he told me.
In this holy city; I am seen purely as a walking cash pot. No trust. Not right now. Our tour guide this morning tells us afloat the holy water of the Ganges, "I take no commission, I want to be your friend. Friendship only". Five minutes later, "What time you come to my house? I show you perfume my mama like. If you like, you buy".
As I leave Visnu's shop, he points to the silk stall directly opposite, "See this scarf, the colours are special to Varanasi, if you like, you can ask me. I get you good price".
The man is directly across the street. Why can't I get a good price myself?
I'm saturated with being shown products I might want to buy. Its a free market jungle in Varanasi.
Lonely planet bitches
Five of us congregate the tree hut of Lonely Planet's best pick for Kumily. The twit and I reel off our latest adventures to our new found friends; one wiry grey gentleman who has followed the old overland hippy trail to find us here - and a plump, young fresh faced couple from Norfolk. "We travelled down the mountain from Kannur on THE most hectic bus journey ever - honestly; we were crammed in this single bus for four hours. There was only one bus that day because the road is so bad. And then everyone closed the windows because the road was so dusty. There was No air - NO AIR! I actually passed out it was that bad.
"Then we went to the most god awful tourist attraction we have ever seen. Lots of local wild animals in cardboard box cages so that the tourists can view at their leisure. Real nice - yeah. So we head straight out of Kannur to Kochi. The place is like a holiday park. A meal costs the same as a room and you can't find any decent local cuisine for shit. If you want to eat western at inflated prices, well you're quids in.
"Oh - and then we got a houseboat for twenty four hours on the back waters. You've not done it yet? Seriously don't bother - biggest tourist trap that we've fallen in yet. They drank our beers, tried to pass us their cheap shit - and charge us! Drove for about one hour down the backwaters - moored up for the night - then took us straight back in the morning. Honestly, you can see far more of the backwaters on the ferry from Kottyam to Alleppey - absolutely beautiful and will cost you only ten rupees."
Our story has been sounding the same for a while. We seemed to have hopped from tourist trap to tourist trap with a couple that can't relinquish their cutlery. Once we had joined forces, an in-group/out-group situation placed exponential hindrances on cultural interactions. Indian differences become further marked to the four English guys. The lonely planet leaves a false trail of not quite reality. After a fortnight I begin to question my purpose. Life has become diluted hedonism. Our day is about eating meals in the tourist restaurants and not getting ripped off by rickshaw drivers. I've lost meaning.
Days are vacuous. We consider our heroes of the beat generation and ponder the difference. When Jack Keroac traversed the road across America; Ginsberg the trail to Varanasi - there were no tourist guides; no microcosm parody cultures. Life was harder when the road was hobo. Nights were cold and rides were hitched.
Today it would be possible to travel the length and breadth of Asia without once having to eat local cuisine.
I wonder if this is the month syndrome. I've been living like I'm on holiday, and the time to hitch up my bags never arrives. It dawns that I'm not going home, that I'm a traveller now. And I can't help but ask, what for? Whats the purpose if your feet never touch down on land that hasn't been bastardised by western tourism? The time arrives to resolve it. Can I find meaning? Is this search for meaning a result of conditioning from my goal orientated culture? Is it superfluous? Or exactly what I need to keep my feet moving forward?
Our company in the tree house share the complaints. "It creates tourist traps"; "Prices get ridiculous"; "it causes untempered development".
We want to throw it away, and yet, we do not seem able too. We promise ourselves that we will find another way around the next country. We promise we will let go of the security blanket.
"Then we went to the most god awful tourist attraction we have ever seen. Lots of local wild animals in cardboard box cages so that the tourists can view at their leisure. Real nice - yeah. So we head straight out of Kannur to Kochi. The place is like a holiday park. A meal costs the same as a room and you can't find any decent local cuisine for shit. If you want to eat western at inflated prices, well you're quids in.
"Oh - and then we got a houseboat for twenty four hours on the back waters. You've not done it yet? Seriously don't bother - biggest tourist trap that we've fallen in yet. They drank our beers, tried to pass us their cheap shit - and charge us! Drove for about one hour down the backwaters - moored up for the night - then took us straight back in the morning. Honestly, you can see far more of the backwaters on the ferry from Kottyam to Alleppey - absolutely beautiful and will cost you only ten rupees."
Our story has been sounding the same for a while. We seemed to have hopped from tourist trap to tourist trap with a couple that can't relinquish their cutlery. Once we had joined forces, an in-group/out-group situation placed exponential hindrances on cultural interactions. Indian differences become further marked to the four English guys. The lonely planet leaves a false trail of not quite reality. After a fortnight I begin to question my purpose. Life has become diluted hedonism. Our day is about eating meals in the tourist restaurants and not getting ripped off by rickshaw drivers. I've lost meaning.
Days are vacuous. We consider our heroes of the beat generation and ponder the difference. When Jack Keroac traversed the road across America; Ginsberg the trail to Varanasi - there were no tourist guides; no microcosm parody cultures. Life was harder when the road was hobo. Nights were cold and rides were hitched.
Today it would be possible to travel the length and breadth of Asia without once having to eat local cuisine.
I wonder if this is the month syndrome. I've been living like I'm on holiday, and the time to hitch up my bags never arrives. It dawns that I'm not going home, that I'm a traveller now. And I can't help but ask, what for? Whats the purpose if your feet never touch down on land that hasn't been bastardised by western tourism? The time arrives to resolve it. Can I find meaning? Is this search for meaning a result of conditioning from my goal orientated culture? Is it superfluous? Or exactly what I need to keep my feet moving forward?
Our company in the tree house share the complaints. "It creates tourist traps"; "Prices get ridiculous"; "it causes untempered development".
We want to throw it away, and yet, we do not seem able too. We promise ourselves that we will find another way around the next country. We promise we will let go of the security blanket.
Trains, planes and health and safety legislation.
I'm standing in the doorway of the blue train hurtling from Kannur to Kochi. The wind rushing from the open space pulls my hair in a stream from my face. I watch Southern India rush by. The sparkling river running beneath the open bridge. Just audible are the claps of women slapping saris on stone. They stand in the shade of mud brick homes that line the tracks. A bull dips it's head and sniffs the white down f its neighbouring goose. Children line the tracks, ready to cross with over sized bicycles. A lady in glinting yellow wanders the solitary line of the one way track.
Villagers wave to the white girl leaning from the second sleeper class coach.
Freedom requires chaos; requires the absence of infrastructure and legislation that would disallow my leaning out the speeding train. Legislation forbids the giddy thrill of boisterous winds ripping through my hair. Injury is my responsibility alone. Requirements for self protection of well being brings the rush of life closer to the pores. Watching the wooden slats blur below I contemplate how one tiny slip could bring my death - and I have never felt so alive.
Villagers wave to the white girl leaning from the second sleeper class coach.
Freedom requires chaos; requires the absence of infrastructure and legislation that would disallow my leaning out the speeding train. Legislation forbids the giddy thrill of boisterous winds ripping through my hair. Injury is my responsibility alone. Requirements for self protection of well being brings the rush of life closer to the pores. Watching the wooden slats blur below I contemplate how one tiny slip could bring my death - and I have never felt so alive.
Sree Muth Temple
The Kannur temple where the Keralan's re-enact Shiva's two reincarnations hustles with the Hindu faithful every dawn and dusk.
The descent to the temple leads down a myriad shaded walkways. Bedecked on both sides of the walk are arrays of garish stalls. Under neon strip lighting; lurid bangles and plastic inflatables are sold alongside framed deities, gurus and Bollywood heroes. The sweet aroma of popcorn permeates the air.
Inside the temple, crowds gather to witness the second reincarnation of Shiva. Young men; dressed in white robes tied at the waist, climb ladders to light cotton rags dipped in mustard oil. The flames illuminate an elven wooden house at the far end of the temple. Three golden lamps illuminate the back doorway. They dominate the space with flickering gold and yellow extending far above the tallest heads. Worshippers hold their hands aloft the flames; gathering heat energy and charging their eyes.
It is the moment for Shiva's dance. The men and women are segregated from the centre of the temple. Ushers motion for the crowd to step back; to make room for the dance. Akin to teenagers hoping to glimpse their hero; the crowd members grudgingly shuffle back into the shadows.
The air is sweltering. Moisture densely packs the space despite the heavy fans pumping air above us. I close my eyes and steady myself. The drums begin; wrapping themselves into my fizzing scalp. A primal pounding infiltrates the attention of the temple's consciousness. Four bare chested men beat sticks on stretched hide, They circle the personification of Shiva. Yellow body paint explodes like sunlight across his torso. His face is adorned with a feather head dress. Trunk arms sweep cold silver blades in circle around his protagonist; dizzying the humid space. The watchers reverently drop their heads each time Shiva's shadow passes over them.
Across the temple floor; the twit and Francois laugh and clap hands on the backs of the gathered men. They travel from the furthest flung corners of Kerala to be blessed at the Theyam. They come for prosperity, health, successful harvests and divine providence for exam results.
On the left hand side of the temple; among silken shawls of sunburst colours, under the wide eyed gazes of young children, Bada and I soak in the curios stares. We smile and wave at our gender kind. Some smile, some wave, most deferentially lower their eyes. Children straying too close to our path are scolded. Despite the silence, it feels as if they would like to reach across the gulf to us. They desire to cross the chasm of our cultures but lack the tools to approach it.
The energy of belief is awe inspiring. The genuine faith in the blessing is as innocent as the Christian depictions of baby Jesus. I can't help but wonder; if I had been born into a religious institution of such vigour - would I not be the atheist that I have found myself as today? It seems that the rituals of Hindu religiosity affirms life; finds that the love for the gods requires celebration conducted in joy and fervour. In England, as a child, I sat in stone grey churches; miming to dreary hymns; taking lessons on the piety of life and the other worldly salvation. What is this if not life denying? Where is the colour, the love, the jubilance in knowing that god loves us and walks among us? Sealed outside perhaps; banished to the natural wonders that lie outside our grey stone walls.
The descent to the temple leads down a myriad shaded walkways. Bedecked on both sides of the walk are arrays of garish stalls. Under neon strip lighting; lurid bangles and plastic inflatables are sold alongside framed deities, gurus and Bollywood heroes. The sweet aroma of popcorn permeates the air.
Inside the temple, crowds gather to witness the second reincarnation of Shiva. Young men; dressed in white robes tied at the waist, climb ladders to light cotton rags dipped in mustard oil. The flames illuminate an elven wooden house at the far end of the temple. Three golden lamps illuminate the back doorway. They dominate the space with flickering gold and yellow extending far above the tallest heads. Worshippers hold their hands aloft the flames; gathering heat energy and charging their eyes.
It is the moment for Shiva's dance. The men and women are segregated from the centre of the temple. Ushers motion for the crowd to step back; to make room for the dance. Akin to teenagers hoping to glimpse their hero; the crowd members grudgingly shuffle back into the shadows.
The air is sweltering. Moisture densely packs the space despite the heavy fans pumping air above us. I close my eyes and steady myself. The drums begin; wrapping themselves into my fizzing scalp. A primal pounding infiltrates the attention of the temple's consciousness. Four bare chested men beat sticks on stretched hide, They circle the personification of Shiva. Yellow body paint explodes like sunlight across his torso. His face is adorned with a feather head dress. Trunk arms sweep cold silver blades in circle around his protagonist; dizzying the humid space. The watchers reverently drop their heads each time Shiva's shadow passes over them.
Across the temple floor; the twit and Francois laugh and clap hands on the backs of the gathered men. They travel from the furthest flung corners of Kerala to be blessed at the Theyam. They come for prosperity, health, successful harvests and divine providence for exam results.
On the left hand side of the temple; among silken shawls of sunburst colours, under the wide eyed gazes of young children, Bada and I soak in the curios stares. We smile and wave at our gender kind. Some smile, some wave, most deferentially lower their eyes. Children straying too close to our path are scolded. Despite the silence, it feels as if they would like to reach across the gulf to us. They desire to cross the chasm of our cultures but lack the tools to approach it.
The energy of belief is awe inspiring. The genuine faith in the blessing is as innocent as the Christian depictions of baby Jesus. I can't help but wonder; if I had been born into a religious institution of such vigour - would I not be the atheist that I have found myself as today? It seems that the rituals of Hindu religiosity affirms life; finds that the love for the gods requires celebration conducted in joy and fervour. In England, as a child, I sat in stone grey churches; miming to dreary hymns; taking lessons on the piety of life and the other worldly salvation. What is this if not life denying? Where is the colour, the love, the jubilance in knowing that god loves us and walks among us? Sealed outside perhaps; banished to the natural wonders that lie outside our grey stone walls.
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