India

To Nepal

2004-04-30T19:46:00.000+09:00

The journey continues here...

Bodhgaya: brought to you by Pepsi Cola

2004-04-29T19:35:00.000+09:00

Seated in meditation Siddhartha made the determination -'Even if my blood should run dry I will not leave this seat until truth has been realised!' He recalled his innocent meditation under the Rose Apple tree as a child and thought this would be a good way to start. And then ... Mara came! All that is beautiful, alluring and pleasant - and all that is terrifying, monstrous and fearful. 'What right have you to pretend you are sitting on the throne of enlightenment?' Mara boomed, surrounded by his great army.

Unmoved, sitting under the Bodhi tree on the full moon of May in his 35th year, Siddhartha became enlightened. Ignorance was dispelled and wisdom arose. He knew: 'Delivered am I, rebirth is ended, fulfilled is the holy life, I have done what was to be done.' He touched the ground calling the earth itself to bear witness.
-- This message was brought to you by Pepsi Cola

According to a sign next to the present day bodhi tree, the Buddha remained seated "unwinking" for a week after that momentous insight - just no one around to wink at, I guess.

As the holiest of Buddhist pilgrimage places, I decided to make my own trip to Bodhgaya a little pilgrimage of sorts, following the oilgrima on their rounds and rising before dawn for meditation. The Mahabodhi stupa was magnificent, if a little tacky on the inside and covered in scaffolding on the ouside. But what I didn't know, and wat would itself be reason enough to come again, was that Bodhgaya is also home to what could be the best banana lassi in India!

Bodhgaya has a very international flavour - something of a Buddhist supermarket: Buddhist countries from all around the world have gone to great lengths to build a representative temple in their country's own unique style. The Tibetan temples were amazing, the Japanese temples extraordinary, and the Thai temple and its exquisite contemporary murals took my breath away. But the Korean temple... well.... it speaks for itself:

Cows and Corpses

2004-04-28T19:30:00.000+09:00

April 28, 2004

I'd never seen a dead body until I came to India. Now I've lost count. Back home, death is something to be covered up, not talked about, sealed up in coffins, and generally ignored to the best of our ability. My second day in India, we saw a black man on the pavement next to a busy street with his face in a pool of dried blood. If he wasn't dead, he's got one hell of a headache.

But it was in Varanasi that death became irrefutably right there. If you're a Hindu, Varanasi is the best place in the world to die. The burning ghats on the shores of the Ganges work 24/7 and go through about 150 bodies a day. The air is surprisingly fresh: a blessing from lord Shiva, according to one of the locals who stood beside us one night as we watched one old man's flesh turn to ash.

Walking by the great river next morning, we see a bloated corpse knocking its head against the banks, while a few metres downstream the faithful are engrossed in their ritual bathing, and a group of young boys in their game of cricket.

Mark Twain said that Varanasi (or Benares as it was known then) is "older than history, older than tradition and older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together." In fact most of the city was systematically destroyed by muslim invaders just a few few centuries ago, but Mark Twain's comments still hold true. Varanasi feels old, and it's not just the buildings.

The narrow winding alleys are the closest I've even been to being in a real labyrinth. The lanes are so twisted and narrow, and the plentiful cows so wide that one cow is all it takes to block your way and send you ducking into an ornately carved doorway to let the holy beast pass, and continue its garbage grazing further down the road.

Varanasi is like the rest of India on steroids. While probably one of the most interesting places in the world, it can also put your head in a spin. Every month at least one tourist is reported to go missing in this sacred, though somehow seedy city. Perhaps abducted, perhaps just lying dizzy in a corner, perhaps they went down to join the corpses floating in the current, or more likely just lost in the labyrinthine alley ways, still looking for their hotel.

Bull Buggering in Khajuraho

2004-04-25T19:25:00.000+09:00

Sex and religion definitely find their most intimate embrace in the stone carvings at the temples of Khajuraho. Nubile nymphs felating fiery demons, bear-breasted maidens groping goddesses, the many muscley men buggering bulls and maidens and horses and more maidens... The sheers acrobatics of it all put the Beijing circus to shame.

Ninth century India must have been a pretty wild place to live. Khajuraho was supposed to have been the capital of a vast empire, but the only thing left now are these mysterious open-air Kamasutra temples, a glut of guest houses and hundreds of tenacious touts all desperately vying for our precious out-of-season business.

Celebrity Gurus and Freak Show Alley

2004-04-22T19:14:00.000+09:00

Combine 20 to 30 million devotees, one sacred (though breathtakingly filthy) river, thousands of deeply stoned and mostly naked sadhus (holy men), and you've got the Kumbh Mela, the world's largest religious congregation.

It was a somewhat inauspicious start to out trip, with our train to host-city Ujjain rolling in four and a half hours late. Even in India, where the lateness of trains is something to be counted upon (they actually make a special announcement if the train is coming in on time!), four and a half hours is a little extreme. But then the Kumbh Mela is an extreme event!

As we walked through the seething mass of humanity, we heard strange stories of mad sadhus chasing people through the streets with large swords, but considering the sheer size of the event, it's actually amazing how few problems there appeared to be.

The faithful gather down by the holy river to strip down and bathe in her vibrant green, washing away the sins of this and countless past lives. And there was no need to feel uncomfortable about being an onlooker in this holy place. The Kumbh Melas’s festive atmosphere seemed only to magnify the usual India exuberance.

“Your good name?”
“Your country?”
(“Ahhh... Ricky Ponting, Adam Gilchrest, Shayne Warne...”

We must have answered these questions more than a thousand times, and shaken ten times as many hands. And it seemed everyone with a camera wanted to have their photo taken with us. We felt uncomfortably like celebrities. Friendliness ad nauseum!

Even the sadhus were often keen to meet us, calling us over for a chat, a photo, and to offer us a smoke (and then expecting a rather generous donation). Down Freak Show Alley (our rather un-PC nickname for the main sadhu hang-out) there were naked sadhus covered in ash and waving their penises in the breeze. There was a mad ranting sadhu, calling us thieves. There was a sadhu who had been standing up for more than one decade, and another who had been holding his hand up in the air for more than two. There were sadhus with dread-locks around their ankles, and other bald with wild eyes. There were biker sadhus and sadhus locked in bizarre yogic postures. But the irony was that for all the exotic allure these stoned and somewhat eccentric mystics had for us, it was when the two white guys sat down for a chat that the crowds of onlookers would materialise. And when we stood up to leave, the crowd would disperse. I guess one man's exotic is another man's banal.

The other kind of holy man/woman was the celebrity guru. These gurus would set up their camps in endless rows. One night we walked down the festivals's main street for more than three hours. We saw millions of poeple and a couple of amusement parks, but no end in sight. At each camp’s entrance was a giant Los Vegas-style gate, replete with flashing neon lights, giant guru posters, blaring music, and dancing dioramas of Shiva and Ganesh. Inside were any number of large tents, plus the big top for dancing and for audiences with the guru.

Despite the friendliness of the natives though, it was hard to be more than just on onlooker in the face of this onsurge of religion and culture. But before leaving this – the mother of all festivals – we decided to join the millions down by the river and take the ritual plunge, submerging ourselves in the smelly greenness (we have the pictures to prove it!). I’m not sure how sanctified I feel by the experience, but perhaps a little wiser. Let me just say that if you’re going to bathe in a holy river, it’s best not to put your head under... I’ve still got the cough and runny nose more than two weeks later

McMaharaja Burger

2004-04-19T19:07:00.000+09:00

Back home, I'd really rather dine out of a garbage bin than eat at McDonald's. But there's something about being in a faraway country that suddenly makes the banal (and gratuitously unappetising) consumerism from back home seem somehow exotic and appealing.

It all started with a McMaharaja Burger at McDonald's, and escalated into a trip to Whimpy's (the poor man's McDonald's) and Pizza Hut, and a shopping spree at the Addidas, Nike, Reebok, Levis and Samsonite stores... among others.

After two trips and a more than a week altogether, I never saw the Red Fort or Hummayum's Tomb or any of the other grand attractions that Delhi is famous for. But I did get a belly ache from McDonald's and am now the proud owner of a pair of black laceless 'All-Conditions-Gear' Nikes. Just do it!

Not Quite Heaven!

2004-04-17T17:11:00.000+09:00

Perhaps it was that we’d enjoyed Kashmir so much. Perhaps it was just the skanky black industrial filth that clogged our noses. Perhaps it was the deeply callous tone of the head ticket collector. Perhaps it was that he seemed to be taking far more interest in joining his friends in kicking the shit out of some scrawny guy behind the counter. Perhaps it was that even though we had valid tickets, there were still no seats available for us on the train to Delhi.

Jammu (just south of Kashmir) saw a lot of fighting in the last few decades, and although it is largely at peace now, I’m afraid if we’d stayed any longer, Blair and I would have started our own war. Whatever it was, something possessed us to take another dingy old ‘Deluxe’ bus (having just travelled more than 10 hours from Shrinagar on one) and get the hell out of Jammu.

Even the nicer buses in India would probably not be considered roadworthy back home. This was not nice bus: Even without the seat in front of me being stuck in fully reclined position, there would have been precious little legroom. The bus felt a lot more like a sauna than a bus, as it waited until every last seat was full, before leaving more than one hour late. The guys behind and in front of me were fighting about something or other, and the hindi pop music that blared through the speakers impertinently louder than the speakers could handle, lent new meaning to the word obnoxious.

After one of the longest nights of my life, interspersed with spats of fitful sleep and murderous dreams, we finally drew into Delhi. You can tell you’re getting close to Delhi when the horizon disappears in a cloud of smog, and you find yourself chewing on the pollution. Aaaah... it’s good to be back...

Single in Srinagar

2004-04-17T15:55:00.000+09:00

Strolling through the ancient Mogul gardens, lined with massive maple trees. Floating on a shikara though Srinagar's winding canals and her floating gardens. Sitting on our palatial houseboat, surrounded by the snow-capped Pir Panjal range to the south and west and the mighty Himalayas rearing up in the east. Sipping Kasmiri tea and watching the sun setting over beautiful Dal Lake. This must be one of the most romantic cities in the world. Srinagar really is a shitty place for two single guys!

We'd never even planned to go to Kashmir in the first place. Apart from shawls and a rockin' Led Zeppelin song, the only thing we’d heard about Kashmir in recent times was the fighting. But things seem to have improved in the last few years. The threat of violence has diminished; the tourists are slowly returning; and the houseboats are slowly starting to see customers again.

But Kashmir still has an identity crisis. Of the Kashmiris I've met who have settled in other parts of India, having fled their homeland during the dark times, most still seem reluctant to return. There are those that still want Kashmir’s independence, and many others who still wish to see Kashmir a part of Muslim Pakistan. Most Kashmiris talk of India as if it was a foreign country, and I can’t help but notice how few tears are shed as Pakistan thrashes India in the first test match in Multan.

But despite it's problems, I think Kashmir would have to be my favourite part of India so far (if this really is part of India at all...).

Better than Heaven

2004-04-15T10:05:00.000+09:00

There had been reports of rebel strikes in the east. In the mountains of central Kashmir, a small Indian security force watches over the pilgrims on the old trail up to the holy cave high above the village of Pahalgam. One soldier nods off at his post, accidentally firing a round from his loaded rifle. The security force panics and opens fire on what they take to be a rebel incursion. There are no rebels. Instead thirty-five civilians are killed - pilgrims they were there to protect.

An inquiry found that the whole incident was a tragic accident. There was no more violence in Pahalgam. But it was enough to effectively put an end to tourism in the area for the better part of 2 decades.

The Kashmiri people say that Kashmir is Paradise. Before the 'dark times', Pahalgam was one of the hubs of Himalayan trekking: whether day walks, or 3 week walks up to Ladakh. And the area really is beautiful. We stayed in our own little cottage on the edge of the village, surrounded by green meadows and snow-capped mountains on all sides. When our guide, Ibi, took us further into the mountains to his favourite little hamlet, Aru, he told us that this is "Better than Heaven!" And he wasn't far wrong. We did a day-hike from the hamlet, through one of the green valleys. If we had more time, we could have camped, then gone on further to see the glaciers and the blue lakes. But we contented ourselves with a few day walks in the mountains and around the village, and one (and definitely only one!) day of horse ridding.

Gateway to Kashmir

2004-04-11T09:18:00.000+09:00

The only road into Kashmir clings to the sides of steep mountains, and the remains of recent rockslides litter every bend. Stopped to repair a puncture, we sip sweet Indian tea in the mud, watching huge convoys of brightly painted trucks competing for roadspace with goat herders taking their goats up to Kashmir's summer pastures.

We drove for 10 hours through the night. A vicious storm raged around us in the mountains.

I can't resist. I switch on my mp3 player, and Robert Plant wails:

Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace
Like thoughts inside a dream,
Heed the path that led me to that place
Yellow desert stream,
My Shangri-La beneath the summer moon
I will return again,
Sure as the dust that floats high and true,
When movin' through Kashmir.

Oh, father of the four winds, fill my sails,
Across the sea of years.
With no provision but an open face,
Along the straits of fear
Ohh.

When I'm on, when I'm on my way, yeah
When I see, when I see the way, you stay-yeah
Let me take you there. Let me take you there

[Led Zeppelin: Kashmir]

Those aren't clouds...

2004-04-02T09:52:00.000+09:00

Maybe you have to have grown up in a really flat country to have the same experience, but as our small-gauge train slid up through the shear gorges towards Dharamsala, and it suddenly became apparent that the wall of clouds rearing up in front of us wasn't a wall of clouds at all, I understood all at once the impulse to climb mountains.

Don't worry mum, I'm not about to go out and climb Everest just yet... but I guess now I can at least understand why you would. The Himalayas - even these little mountains here on the outer rim - are spectacular.

We've been staying in McCleod Gange for more than a week now. This is the headquarters for the Tibetan Government in exile, perched up in the hills above Dharamsala proper with the Himalays in the distance. It is also home to the Dalai Lama, or The Big 'D', as he's affectionately known by Blair and me, in line with the almost rock-star status he has around the world.

I've been reading one of his books while I've been here, and he really is an extraordinary human being; one of my personal heroes. But at the same time, the Big 'D' hype can get a little nauseating at times: Dalai-mania.

photo by Franka Bruns

Big 'D' sightings have been reported among some of the tourists in the past few days, but unfortunately, Blair and I haven't been lucky enough to see him yet. Given that our bus leaves for Kashmir tonight, and He leaves for his North American tour tomorrow, The Dalai Lama may have to remain the most amazing man I've never had the pleasure of meeting...

monks debating (with attitude) at the monastery in McCleod Gange

The Eighteenth Curry

2004-04-01T09:48:00.000+09:00

RICK: Well, why don't we play a game?
VYVYAN: Oh, boring!
RICK: Oh, come along now. What about Bottcelli, where you have to guess the identity of the famous person?
VYVYAN: What about Jelly Botty, where you have to eat 18 curries?
[quote from The Young Ones: Summer Holiday]

I guess I finally ate the 18th curry!
It all seemed pretty funny at first: actually getting Delhi Belly in Delhi!! But there wasn’t much to laugh about for long. I can't ever remember feeling so totally and utterly crap... and jelly botty was just the beginning: fever, headache, projectile vomit, cramps, dehydration. I think vomiting into some rank gutter in a putrid little back alley next to an open sewer was probably the low point.
But a few jabs and a few pills from the friendly doctor had me up the next day, and well enough to decide to get out of hell Delhi and push on up north to Amritsar... an overnight train away. Amritsar is the most sacred place in the world for Sikhs, and home to their Golden Temple. Perched in the middle of a lake, it is one of the most sublimely beautiful temples in India. Or so I hear...

Amritsar was also home to one of the most brutal massacres by the English during India's long struggle for independence, and I, coincidentally, was also home to my own brutal massacre of sorts. My virus was back with avengence, along with the jelly belly, and the whole gamut of attendant symptoms. In total, we spent just over 4 days in Amritsar, and I never saw anything but the inside of a few lousy hotel rooms, and their skanky porcelain.
Fortunately memory is kind: the whole ordeal is just like a bad dream now. The Amritsar massarce is once again history, my immune system stronger; and I’ve once again made peace with my bowels...

The Prince of Bikaner

2004-03-26T09:40:00.000+09:00

In Delhi today, and the final of the India-Pakistan cricket series is being waged as I type. This is the most important series of matches in a nation where cricket is like a religion... and Sachin Tendulkar is a god. Everyone who can is now glued to their tv/radio following the match.

More importantly for us though, this match amounts to some small respite from the touts and salesman who are usually the bane of every tourist. "No thanks, I'm not interested." "No thanks, I already have one." "No thanks, I've already been there." "No!" "No!" "No!" "No!" "No!" "No!" "No!" "No!" Indian salesman must be about the most tenacious in the world, and it seems everyone has something to sell.

This was never more apparent than when we were fortunate enough to meet a member of the royal family of Bikner. We had just finished exploring the massive castle at Jodhpur (the beautiful blue city), when a small jolly man with a large woolly moustache and a regal almost yoda-like bearing, offered to take us deeper into the palace to see some very "special" artwork. Our man turned out to be none other than the Maharaja's uncle, and the art none other than his own work.

But royalty is certainly no guarantee of artstic talent, and the Prince of Bikaner was certainly no Michelangelo. But what do you say to a prince of the realm when he proudly shows you his art (and I'm using the word "art" very loosely here) and then asks - or rather urges - you to buy it!

I try not to burst out laughing, mumble something about not having enough money on me, and not wanting to insult His Highness, but still end up the proud owner of a fine miniature camel painting, for the handsome sum of 190 rupees (about AU$5).
Finally, for your viewing pleasure, I now attach a photo of this masterpiece of royal Indian art, a very special glimpse of this rare artistic triumph:

Holy Rats

2004-03-24T11:58:00.000+09:00

Indian religion is renowned for its acceptance of all paths and all things as sacred. But surely nowhere does this religious eclecticism reaches greater heights than at the Deshnok Karni Mata Temple of Bikaner. But this self-proclaimed "Eighth Wonder of the World" is not a place for the faint of heart.

The literally thousands of rats that infest the temple are said to be reincarnations of a divine family come to the earth to bestow their blessings upon the faithful. And as befitting such holy rodent avatars, there is a constant stream of pilgrims who come to offer milk, candies and praise. No mouse traps or Rat Sack, just countless holy rats living it up in what must be rat heaven.

Now, your average rat is an ugly, mangy, filthy little critter prone to disease, fighting, gnawing and scurrying away from people at unnerving speeds. The rats at Deshnok Karni Mata Temple on the other hand are ugly, mangy, filthy critters prone to disease, fighting, gnawing and scurrying towards people at unnerving speeds.

But there is nothing to fear! To have one of the holy rodents scuttle across your temple bare feet (already caked in rat shit) is said to be rather auspicious. I had a very auspicious day!

Michael Jackson and the Great Thar Desert

2004-03-22T22:14:00.000+09:00

Back in the ancient fort town of Jailsamer now, after our grueling camel safari deep into the great Thar Desert of western India.

Most travellers (except perhaps the rare American tourist, with the telltale shorts, white socks and camcorder) try to travel under the illusion that they aren't really tourists at all, but are somehow having that special, more authentic experience "off the beaten track".... This was not one of those experiences.

This was a "safari" in only the most frivilous sense of the word. There were no long hot days in the sun, no arabian nights, and we saw none of Lawrence's burly firends. It was a lot more like a camel ride at the circus (complete with musicians, dancers and a Pepsi salesman) with a few token sand dunes and a few sandy chapatis thrown into the bargain.

But it was still fun in the end, and I did manage to snap the requisite camel-rider-crossing-the-dunes-beneath-the-setting-sun photo. Ahhhh.... those precious Kodak moments....

(My camel's name was Michael Jackson)

Jailsamer and the Lonely Planet

2004-03-20T19:38:00.000+09:00

Udaipur

2004-03-19T19:32:00.000+09:00

"Bye Bye! Chocolate?"

2004-03-18T19:15:00.000+09:00

How much does a clean conscience cost in India? I'm figuring on about ten to twenty rupees (or about 50 Australian cents) a day.

I've never really seen poverty before. But in India, you can't walk more than about 50 metres down the street without it jumping out of the pavement to ask you for something: a leper with no hands pushed around in cart; a pretty little barefoot girl holding her even littler sister, both with grimy hair, dirty faces and big weepy eyes; on old widow with no prospects, just a bright but filthy sari; a young mother lying on the street with her crying baby. "One rupees?" "One rupees?" bringing their hands (if they have any) up to their mouthes meaning "I'm hungry."

People see foreigners as walking dollar signs: someone vastly wealthy. Some people ask me how much my camera cost. "Ummm... yeah... quite a lot..." I can't bring myself to tell them it cost them more than they would earn in 5 years. The money I earnt on my Bollywood shoot was so little as to be meaningless to me, but it was still 10 times what the average Indian would make in the same time.

I usually give them something. But give money to one person: ten more appear and the first person demands more, without even pausing to thank you. It's endless, and you can't help everyone. Still wrestling with the moral implications of all this.

But it's not all quite as grim as that. Poverty doesn't always mean misery, and there are still plenty of smiles.

The cutest were the little kids in the little rural village of Mandu*. Somehow everyone in Mandu has got "hello" and "bye bye" mixed up. The kids run out of their little mud and straw houses posing for photos and saying "Bye Bye. Chocolate?"

* Mandu is littered with ruined forts and palaces. It was once the centre of an Afghan/Mogul empire, and the ancient home of a great king who devoted the better part of his life to women and song, building one palace just to house his harem of about 15,000 nubile nymphs. It's now all in ruins, but we're pretty sure that if you refilled the old stone pools, added some subtle lighting and spun a sly electric beat, it would be just about the coolest place on earth for a party.

speed bumps and blind corners

2004-03-12T18:52:00.000+09:00

back home, we live so far from the edge that you need binoculars. in india you're so close you get vertigo. the only option is to give in to the chaos, and nowhere more so than on the road:

- in india, the notion of a 'speed bump' has been interpreted to mean a place where one should speed even more excessively, a point most excellently demonstrated by our bus driver from the ajunta caves this afternoon

- there is surely no indian word for 'blind corner'. why should going uphill around a hairpin corner with sheer cliffs looming on both sides prevent one slow bus from trying to overtake another slightly slower bus?

- 'oncoming traffic' is not something to dissuade overtaking, but merely competition for road space. there is a truck in front and a team of cow-drawn carts coming the other way. there is clearly no opportunity to overtake. but.... we overtake anyway. just sit tight and somehow it'll all work out.

sitting tight in Jalgon tonight. waiting for the morning train, trying to let go and be saved by chaos

There's no business like show business...

2004-03-10T18:44:00.000+09:00

Just to set the record straight: The movie business is BORING!

There's the cool costumes, the directors, the lights, the cameras, the big stars. But above and beyond all that is the endless waiting: the soul-crushing tedium of standing in a dust bowl under the hot Indian sun, having had to wake up at 4am that morning, dressed to the hilt in thick 18th century woollen British soldier uniforms, filming the same scene for the 7th time from the 100th angle, and realising that the entire three days it's taken to shoot will probably amount to a little over 28 seconds of actual screen-time.

But... hey... I'm in a Bollywood movie! B..B..B..B..B..B..B..B..BOLLYWOOD!

Literally pulled of a street in Bombay by a talent scout (or rather a white scout), we were whisked up to a hill station only 5 hours out of town (an Indian 5 hours that is... more like about 8 or 9 by my reckoning). The film is called "1857: The Rising" and is supposed to be a pretty big deal: starring stunning-but-short Amer Khan (a big Indian heart-throb) and directed by English Mick Ward with a funky northern accent (assistant director of Snatch) , the movie's set to be released internationally in January 2005.

with Bollywood superstar Amer Khan

If the quality of extras is anything to go by, I figure success is pretty much in the bag. I just hope I can make it to the awards ceremony.

Chip & Best

2004-03-03T18:23:00.000+09:00

finally in india. first impression: the sweet fragrance of diesel, dogs, sweat and incense

already feeling that sensory overload that india's infamous for. like a frightened little puppy i made straight for the hotel we'd booked online. the confirmation e-mail read:

Please wel come to hotel causeway your Double Room is confirmed Tariff Rs, 1500 and best way to get our hotel from the int'l airport? Taxi? Yes sir Chip & best but you tel him Taxi man My hotel is Just oposit to Colaba Police Station Next To Leopold Cafe. Only.

not quite the 5 star experience, but passable and central (though at about US$30 a night, about 10 times what we would learn to pay elsewhere)