On Returning

Again, this is really more of a series of thoughts than a cohesive essay. It doesn't attempt to paint the whole picture. As a result it can appear somewhat depressing, especially to loved ones.
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I have previously said that travelling alone is one of the hardest things one can do. But of that experience the return home is probably the most difficult. The unfamiliar world the traveller moves in is one full of surprises, excitement, and challenge. One is forced to become a 'new' person, of sorts, in order to deal with this. Becoming good at it is enriching for the soul and teaches you a great deal about your self. In a sense these challenges and surprises are mirrors held in front of your face, and the image written upon them one only you can confront. For that travel period it becomes the way of life - meeting challenges and confronting fears.
The return to 'normality' thus becomes the greatest challenge, for suddenly all is predictable, safe, familiar, and known: all is known, or appears to be, and that knowledge is terrifying. "Is this all there is", we ask? We see our relationships and the familiar patterns of life and all we see is predictability. In our home culture we cringe at those aspects we saw reflected while on the road and that we so adamantly rejected. For a brief time all we see are these apparent negatives. Our disappointment at the shattered illusion of home we call 'culture shock', and it is remarkably similar to that we felt upon leaving home. Yet, somehow this shock cuts deeper.
How is it that the beautiful routines of home can seem dull and unlovely? We strive for them so hard in normal life, but six weeks with a backpack in India and we feel like home is flawed; the cool morning breeze isn't quite as refreshing as the katabatic wind off the Himalayas, the clean, empty, and well organised streets appear lifeless to eyes and ears now used to chaos, shit, and crowds, and the tones of home somehow sound less cheerful, less musical. It's illogical, but we still feel it.
I suspect in my own case part of this has to do with a sense of purpose. In India I was the researcher, the intrepid social explorer (oh how mighty our visions of ourselves are). There was no ambiguity in my mission. But at home ambiguity returns - am I a researcher, a writer, a husband, a friend, a citizen...? The multitude of roles competing for our attention results in feeling like we are being pulled in every direction at once, and we feel torn inside.
However, this makes me think that what we are really experiencing is a reflection of the more general phenomenon of change. To leave home and travel, whether for work or pleasure, requires a shift in being, to some degree. At home one is one's normal self, absorbed in the vicissitudes and complexities of everyday life. Yet, when we travel this state of being is not appropriate most of the time and a new state must be inhabited, like a new set of clothes. Thus we become the traveller version of ourselves. We are the same, and yet we feel ourselves changed in the experience, as well as by it. The traveller us might even appear to be a radically different person to that we thought we knew at home; perhaps more patient, more assertive, less emotionally unstable, or with less fear.
The return home thus requires the shedding of the state of being, and like any change it can be traumatic, especially as those 'new' aspects we have come to love may have to be discarded as inappropriate in our home context. Our linear conception of historical progression (at least in the Western cultural milieu) requires that we abandon that which we have left behind as useless. Yet when we return we say we 'pick up where we left off', as if somehow time stood still while we were away. We put on again our old clothes and the fit simply feels wrong. Our old home state of being hasn't changed, and as a result we feel dirty in it. "Surely I'm not unchanged", we plead, "surely these experiences have made me a better person?" Yet somehow, for a while at least, we fail to see it.
Thankfully, of course, this is the illusion that ontic change creates. There can be no experience without change. Indeed, some have said that the only constant is change itself. Returning home and donning our old clothes we see the familiar wrinkles and stains, feel the tears and patches, and it takes a while for our changed, new self to work them flat and be comfortable again. And thus we realise finally that we are indeed changed: the same but different.
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India - Last Impressions

My final impressions of India are a cascade of brief images drawn from a last minute taxi ride to Delhi. As it is I quite like that this turned out to be the case as the car window is a much more socially intimate frame than the aeroplane's, which was to have been my mode of transport (much as I love flying). As it was a bank of storm activity hanging around the Himalayas resulted in my flight being at first delayed, then on (mad rush to the airport), delayed again, then diverted to Chandigarh half-way to Gaggal airport (where I was waiting), before finally being cancelled. So back to McLeod Ganj I went in search of my refund as no cash was kept at the airport. The upside of this was that I got to say a second goodbye to my friends there, especially Jess who had been such a rock for me as well as a professional inspiration. My host, Manu, was also delighted and continued with the assertion, which he had made earlier in the morning, that this was a sign from the god Indra that I shouldn't leave.
I was touched that the gods of India, particularly Indra, thought me so important that they sent a mighty hail and thunderstorm to McLeod Ganj to mark my eventual departure at 4pm. They didn't want me to leave, and in an odd but very real way neither did I. The strange thing is that I think a part of me never will. As I sit here in seat 19F on Jet Airways flight 9W018 to Singapore, staring at the hazy earth falling away below, I know it. When the wheels separated from the ground I felt a part of me was left behind. It came as a shot of adrenaline and a nostalgic twinge, but it felt like losing something physical too. Strange... (ed. although I did leave 9kgs of me there... perhaps that was it).
The taxi to Delhi last night (20th-21st) was fitting as it provided a number of pseudo bookends. As we descended from the mountains into the plains we drove through some sparsely populated areas, and as the sun set and the blue-grey twilight set in I could see the few dwellings lit withe the warm orange glow of fire. I was struck by how 'simple' most Indian's lives are. Many, perhaps most, work, eat, and sleep without much else to occupy/distract them (though this sounds patronising now I write it here). For a while I meditated on the over complication of life that we in the West seem so bent on. I can't think of an answer as to why, but I suspect it is bound up with an excess of leisure time and lack of cultural and social tools with which to deal with it. As we drove out of the storm the light washing over us turned purple. We sped through the occasional patch of drizzle here and there, and I was reminded of the weather on the 11th of February that had heralded my arrival to this incredible country. Though only five weeks ago it seems like an age since I was last here. Passing through Delhi was just as I remembered it - dirty, ugly, delapidated, neglected, and chaotic in every sense. In other words, a shithole, though one that has a certain charm, at least to me (perhaps because it was my first Indian experience). I'm not in a hurry to come back to Delhi. India itself is another matter.
Looking out the window now I am struck, again, by the pollution. It lies thick over the land, filling the air all the way up to our altitude of some 30,000ft. The rubbish in the streets, the beautiful hills, and the dancing streams comes to mind now too. In the taxi I had witnessed the nightly ritual by the local 'garbos' - head round to any bins and simply dump the rubbish therein right onto the street so that cows, dogs, and the approaching rain can take care of it. It mars the beauty of the land - urban and rural. But the problem is at least two-fold. On the one hand there simply isn't the waste processing infrastructure in place such as we have in Australia (problematic as it is). On the other, the Indian conception of rubbish is much less symbolic and and very much more functional than our own. We view objects as taking on a negative status when they are assigned as rubbish - they suddenly become ugly, dirty (even if nothing has changed), polluting, and off-putting. Thus, they retain a power over us. This shift in the status of being of objects (from 'something' to 'rubbish') simply doesn't occur in Indian thought. Things just lose their positive function and so cease to be of use or care. Thus, they have no power. As a result, chip packets, bottles, food scraps, etc, are just dropped wherever the person happens to be when the functionality ceases. I was greatly surprised by this, particularly at Rishikesh. There you often see people dropping their recently emptied chip packets or the like right into the river they had just minutes before been sanctifying. Not just any river, mind you, but the holy Ganges... the most holy and sacred river in Indic religion. I'm not sure what the solution is. It is certainly a problem, as there can be no denying that rubbish can pollute, making water foul or earth poisoned. But whatever it turns out to be it will firstly require some challenging logistical and cultural change.
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I didn't get any photos of it, stupidly, but when younger Indian males hang out they often hold hands, or walk arm in arm. I found it a quaint, charming, and endearing cultural quirk when I first arrived. No doubt it is a source for numerous 'poofter' jokes from some foreigners, but what it really signifies is the playful and affectionate culture of friendship that Indian males share (I can't speak for females as I barely spoke to any). I was luck enough to be included a few times in this platonic form of male intimacy. I'm not quite sure why, or how, but often I would find myself standing in one of my regular cafes with a staff member holding my hand or with his arm around me, telling me some sweet joke, or about his girlfriend, or about what a 'handsome man' I was with 'such a beautiful smile' (their words). It was so genuine and touching, so lovely.
Sadly there is also the other less endearing aspect of Indian male culture - sexual discrimination. As a solo male traveller you could probably miss it if you had your eyes closed, but having travelled with someone passionate about it I was able to gain a thought provoking glimpse into what it is like for female Western travellers in India. Whether it's being stared at hungrily, photographed, tailed by a car full of men, or even running in fear, life for the solo female traveller in India shows up, in harsh light, the undercurrent of discrimination present in the culture. However, unlike the treatment of rubbish the treatment of female travellers has nothing to do with ontology. Rather, as Jess insightfully pointed out, it is simply because the men think they can get away with it. Make a scene and the normal social taboos kick in. Still, it really shits me.
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As far as spiritual tourism to India goes, things are just as I suspected and vastly different. The other day, while marking the departure of Roy (Norwegian anthropologist doing fieldwork in Bhagsu), Jess asked me if the trip had been worth it. The answer was easy - YES! I've learnt more in these six weeks than a decade, probably a lifetime, in the library could have yielded. As I mentioned in my final post about Rishikesh there is much more socially positive work being done here than I would have previously given credit for. There is also much more certainty; about morality, politics, cosmology, but most interestingly about the status of the self: impermanent and prone to error or distraction, but fundamentally good, pure, and capable of great love and compassion. Pessimists there are few, conspiracy theorists some, but amongst the spiritual tourists of India optimism, through the self for humanity, sings loudest. This is the notion that while there is lots of work to be done with the human race it begins with the individual. Only by changing and improving one's self can there be any long-term hope for the lot of us. So, while critics may say that the spiritual tourists of India are self-absorbed, individualist consumers whose only actual focus is themselves, the real issue is much deeper and broader. It certainly can be labelled individualism, but more correctly what is to be seen in India amongst spiritual tourists is a form of individualism that is a work based optimism founded in the power of personal agency and realisation (a little too Rogerian perhaps) for the human community.
That is a most comforting thought, is it not? Though, perhaps I wouldn't have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. ;-)
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Parting Thoughts on McLeod Ganj/Dharamsala

In my first post on McLeod Ganj I spoke about the contrast in what we might call tourist demography or type between here and Rishikesh. When I was writing it (and my fieldnotes) I was very conscious that much of what I was saying was of a comparative tone; 'Rishikesh was like so, but McLeod Ganj is not'. I was also conscious that much of what I was writing had a faintly negative tone to it. This was intentional as it was what I was seeing and feeling, but I think in parting I would like to concentrate upon some of the more positive aspects.
The thing that really struck me was the draw the Dalai Lama has, not so much as a 'thing' you come and see, but as a person you come and hear from, or more specifically, hear teachings from. Although, for many the opportunity to see up close someone who, for them, is an inspiring and spiritually wise figure was also significant. In fact, every tourist I met had come to McLeod Ganj to either hear or see the Dalai Lama, in some form or another. I think this says a few things about spiritual tourism, not to mention about the status of the Dalai Lama in Western popular culture. Firstly, tourists are coming with the desire to hear and often to learn. Speaking and listening, part of sociality, contribute to the group of behaviours that mark us as human (at least for the time being). Whether out of curiosity or the desire for spiritual education, tourists come here wanting more than to see a sight, take a picture, buy a hat, and go. This comes back to the notion I spoke of in my parting words on Rishikesh - that the people one meets here are, by and large, trying to be more spiritually healthy and to ultimately become better people. They are coming to look after themselves, to find renewal from which they can return to everyday life with greater strength or better practice. That they do come says that whatever they are finding here is either not available at home (the failure of Western secular 'life' to adequately deal with itself) or must be tapped at the source (albeit displaced in some circumstances).
Secondly, despite so many Western tourists coming to learn from the Dalai Lama and Tibetan Buddhism, most do not consider themselves Buddhist. My immediate impression from this was that it was indicative of how normalised Tibetan Buddhism is in the West (though not so much as to be considered culturally normal). This most is most prominently displayed in the types of travellers (I now see that I use that term interchangeably with 'tourists' - a problem perhaps) here. They are 'normal' in that one sees all types here - well funded and budget, old and young, mainstream and fringe. The presence of Tibetan Buddhism in Western popular culture results in it having a broad based appeal, not just for those interested in studying its intricacies but also for those wanting to 'hear what Buddhism has to say' about life, the universe, and everything. A useful set of tools, perhaps.
Finally, the persona of the Dalai Lama himself is huge. Many speak of him wit reverence and love, which I personally found refreshing and very pleasant. How many other world leaders do we speak of in positive terms. Most Australians, Americans, and British I chatted with were thoroughly fed up with and often disgusted at the decisions and agendas of their leaders. For many, the thought that it was possible to be a world leader (though not a political one as such) and promote peace, harmony, and happiness for all is a very comforting thought indeed. I feel likewise, and think that our present crop of political power brokers could do with some lessons, though perhaps they simply wouldn't listen. Yet, in addition to this, there can be no denying that the man has a contagious and very genuine 'happiness' and charisma. Seeing him up close (Jess and I got within a few meters as he passed by on the way to a puja) is a special experience, perhaps because of his commitment to such peaceful and loving ideals. I'm still thinking about this one though and am not yet ready to fully comment on it. In any case, that notion of undying commitment to world peace is most heartening, it's just a shame that so many don't actually want it. Who would have thought I could use the lyrics of a band I dislike (Megadeth), but they fit here: "Peace sells, but who's buying?"
Few, it seems, apart from some of the world's travellers.
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Two Pictures from Bhagsunag

The following are two excerpts from my personal diary. Both were written in the moment. I'm not sure they have a point.

11/03/07
Ranu's Cafe
Bhagsunag

The air is cold, its chill aided by the moisture it is laden with from the clouds not far above. In front of me a mountain stream flows, filled with large grey rocks (granite?) making uncounted tiny waterfalls that splash and churn noisily. But what draws my eye most is an image of such poetic beauty to me that my eyes fill and a lump enters my throat: Further down the hill is a little playground with swings, a slide, and monkey bars. A small Tibetan boy monk sits swinging in one of the seats, clearly lost in the dreamy wonderment of its motion. Occasionally he swings harder and jumps off at the top of the arc, his robes billowing, making a cloud of crimson as he returns to earth before bounding back to start again.

12/03/07
Sher-e-Punjab Dhaba
Bhagsunag

I know the mountains hover above me but they are lost in the grey mists. It is raining again (three days on and off now), and the clouds stream only a few hundred feet above. In the muted light the earthy tones seem to shine somehow - the rich deep brown-green moss on the stonework, the glowing yellow-browns of the mountain grasses, and the somehow vibrant grey of the slate shingles on the roof in front of me. They glisten. It's cold though. Very cold.
Sitting here waiting for my usual breakfast of mixed veg parantha (like a filled nan bread) with a preserved lemon, carrot, and chilli chutney, and steaming hot black tea (20Rs all up) the cold begins to seep in. It must be only 3 or 4 degrees, my hands are icy, and when the tea comes I grip the glass tightly. At home I would find it too hot to hold, but here it is nicely warming.

As I stare at the dance the mountains and the clouds make I exhale and the breath clouds around me, thick like smoke. It can be hard to tell the difference sometimes.
The parantha arrives and it begins to pour again, the temperature dropping further. A sparrow lands in front of me, sheltering from the rain no doubt. It shivers, and searching my memory I can't recall a time when I have seen a bird do that.
On the ground beside me (the restaurant is open to the elements, having only a roof) water courses through the grass, forming little rivulets that run over the stones and paves in a grey flow. The chilli in the chutney begins its burn, warming my body (they do great paranthas here!). Today is a day for sitting, talking, and writing and not much else. It seems most of the locals think likewise, as the surrounding shops remain closed despite it being past 09:30.
Looking up again I see the browns, greens, and greys and am happy. My breath hangs in front of me.
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The Home of the Dalai Lama

McLeod Ganj wraps itself around a steep spur of the southern Himalayan wall. As I described in the last post it seems to rise straight out of the valley, and from various perches in town one can sit and gaze at the tiny villages and sweeping green far below. Towering above, the first of the Himalayas proper peak from between their twisting lower ridges. All are higher than any mountain found in Australia, indeed I'm probably sitting at something like 5700ft as I type - high by our standards. Of course, McLeod Ganj (usually referred to by the name Dharamsala, the neighbouring hub a couple of thousand feet below) is best know as the home of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, and the seat of the Tibetan government in exile. These two factors combine to give the town a very different feel to that of Rishikesh, immediately apparent to the visitor. The town itself is certainly quite touristy. The pull of the Tibetan cause and the Dalai Lama himself mean that the place swarms with Westerners. From a research point of view, what is particularly interesting is the demographic shift - here the tourists are 'normal', as opposed to the slightly 'fringe' feel of most of those in Rishikesh (I use those terms with much hesitation). I was a little surprised by the number of Tibetan monks here (stupidly) - at times the streets are jammed with crimson robes, shaved heads, and prayer beads. I was also surprised by the amount of non-Buddhist spiritual practices on offer, such as Yoga and Ayurvedic courses. However, the dominant feel of the town is 'Tibetan'. In fact, now I think on it I feel that this place functions as Tibet for the rest of the world, in a spiritually literal sense and operatively figurative one. It is still India, but it could easily not be to the casual eye. The sense of purpose here is pointedly other than Indian, it is Tibetan.
Returning to the topic of the travellers here, you would say that McLeod Ganj attracts a more general tourist crowd, representing the full spectrum of foreign tourists in India (this wasn't the case in Rishikesh). Of course, this has much to do with the popularity of the Tibetan Independence movement and, most prominently, the Dalai Lama, whose pull or draw for tourists in town is palpable. Most people are here to see or hear him, even if they aren't at all interested in cultivating their spirituality. I have arrived at a time when he is giving teachings and the town (and its hotels) is packed with monks and tourists. The talk in the cafes around town reflects this pull; what the big D was saying today; how someone chanced a glimpse of him; how another can't stop giggling every time she hears him speak. It's nice to see a single person having such a broad-based positive effect on the people who encounter him, and I think that that is probably the heart (unconsciously) of the draw he has. Everyone wants to be 'touched' in some way, even if they're not spiritual.
But the town also has a dark side. Here one can easily purchase alcohol and meat. While not things I have a problem with at all, as many would attest, those products glow at me when I pass them in the street, and I know that their presence is symbolic of some deeper tensions and problems the town has. You feel it as soon as you arrive, something you can't quite grasp. It's not unfriendliness or aggression, nor tackiness or unease. It's just that you get the feeling of a deep sense of the unresolved, and people with stuff unresolved and held back tend to be angry at whatever is causing the situation. This anger comes out occasionally and for very brief periods; narrowed eyes at an arguing tourist, a shout at a person honking a horn (haven't seen that in 5 weeks in India), a more than necessary shove to get through a door. There are also clear tensions between the poorer local Hindus and the popular (hence often richer) Tibetans.
This is not to say I don't like the place. It is staggeringly beautiful. It's just that I see the buried tensions beneath surface and worry about how they might play given the wrong set of circumstances. As a spiritual destination this is a place you might come for inspiration and textual learning, or to be introduced to the practices of Tibetan Buddhism and (for some reason) Vipassana. But you also come to learn about Tibet and its terrible recent history.
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By Taxi to McLeod Ganj

To get from Rishikesh to McLeod Ganj there are essentially three options; train, bus (of various shades), or taxi. By chance Jess and I were intending to go there around the same time so we had shopped around looking for the best deal. For some reason we came to a largely silent agreement that a taxi sounded pretty cool. We had tried to get some more people on board but they all piked on us at the last minute.
So, in the pre-dawn chill of Tuesday (6th) I stepped out of my room, fixed up my bill, and knocked on Jess' door. Having forgotten to set her alarm (tut tut) I set off for the taxi alone, savouring the dark, quiet streets. At the statue of Lakshman I met our charioteer and his esteemed carriage. Jess soon arrived and we set off beneath a sky slowly lightening.
It was, shall we say, a small car, and probably not one intended to run the gamut of the myriad potholes and rocks of northern India. Nor, I don't mind saying, was it at all suitable for any more than three people with bags. I silently thanked our two pikers as two was an agreeable number in terms of space (ie. we could both sleep relatively comfortably). The roads themselves were atrocious, often with long stretches 'under construction' (road dug up and left so). We were driving on some major roads too, but the only really decent stretch was around Chandigarh. Most appeared more like neglected backroads to my Australian eyes.
Much of the country we drove through was either simply beautiful or breathtaking. I say this referring both to the physical landscape and the cultural. I was particularly struck by the Sikh country in which shining white gurdwarras dotted the landscape, visible often from miles away, their gold tipped onion-like domes reflecting the hazy sunlight. It gave the land an enchanted feel, rich in stability and tradition. I got the feeling that they acted like beacons, or maybe markers of both physical and spiritual landscape, communicating more than any road sign or guidebook could. I was reminded of the power of the church spire or bells from my own cultural context as a socio-psychological organiser - the way it can act as an local axis-mundi to those whose lives it works in. Where the church bell can be heard, or the spire seen, there the parish lies.
Jess and I stopped counting distinct landscape changes at around 7 or 8 as we entered the toes of the Himalayas again. At first a quiet fascination held our eyes - the land reminded me of northern Greece with its chaotic hills and valleys, hardy trees, and sinuous roads. This was the first 'ridge', and as we hit the top a dramatic valley scene unfolded before us (sorry no pictures... too bumpy). Away in the distance a green-blue river meandered lazily amid a stony floor. In the apparently far distance to the north a bank of clouds sat unmoving. I presumed they were veiling the first true mountains, but when we reached the valley proper I was shocked to realise that there were in fact only a few clouds. Actually what I looked upon was a mighty wall rising seemingly straight up from the river. Even Jess, a Colorado mountain girl, was amazed, but all I could do was sit either in open mouthed amazement, or smile and giggle stupidly at what I was drinking in. How is it possible that this is my job? The guilty pleasure of that realisation made me laugh even more. But there was a hollowness too; where was the person I most deeply wanted to share this bizarre experience with? Where was my translator, my sounding board, my completeness? Where was my Abi? The pain of it was arresting, and the tune in my heart thinned, lacking its full compliment of strings. The sonnet bittersweet. That's life, I guess.
The final climb to McLeod Ganj was vertiginous and a new exercise in riding through corners (a game of which would have been fun but my mood was not right for it). We arrived, finally, at around 18:30 after a touch over 12 hours of physically assaulting driving (my arse was very sore). Finding rooms took us a while, but eventually we settled on a dingy dive in Bhagsunag, a small town 2kms from McLeod Ganj. We looked at some great places that were out of our price range and some that were just crap for the price (though in hindsight we should have taken them). Here's a picture from the top of the Mount View Hotel.Impressive!!
I have only one thing to say about my room in Bhagsunag:
Filthiest room ever!!!


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Parting Thoughts on Rishikesh

Some places in this world are blessed with a something else that gives them an eternal quality - they linger in memory and emotion long after the traveller has put their pack down and unlaced their boots. From my own experiences spaces like Mt Athos in northern Greece, the rolling hills of Tuscany, and the cloud-locked quiet of the Blue Mountains in winter come to mind. These types of places have qualities that resonate quite deeply within you (or me at least), perhaps recalling in one some lost snippet of the music of creation or reminding you that grace is a quality honed and practiced, not purchased. Rishikesh is just such a place. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago there is a magical quality in the air that fills the senses with a pointed hope, and relaxes the body (particularly handy if you are doing yoga, of course). However, the depth of Rishikesh's magic is brought out by its human qualities - its people.
A passing comment I made to someone I later interviewed came back to me as an explanation for why Rishikesh is such a special and efficacious place to come and find a spiritual path - there are no arseholes here! There are simply no arseholes. The locals are almost universally friendly and charming and are always welcoming, and Western travellers are open, friendly, and jovial. Almost all are willing to tell their story, and as a born listerner I find myself wishing to stay longer, drinking the heady layers of emotion and meaning that people speak of so freely to me. It is a great honour and privilege to be able to listen to these people, and that I can call this my work, my job, just seems beyond belief. I'm not quite sure what I have done to deserve it, or that I do.
Academically speaking (for a moment) my time in Rishikesh has taught me a great deal, not only about spiritual tourism, but about Western spirituality, personal meaning and identity, and the ways in which being 'on the road' can bring to light new tones of emotion or resurface those buried at home. I think I was probably starting to become a little cynical towards those types of notions. Looking back only just a few weeks I can see that I thought such talk to be over-romanticising what was actually happening. But such is not the case, and the rich meaning people can get from their travels I now see as far more significant to their everyday lives than I has previously imagined. This also makes me think of how these types of spiritual pursuits, if we can call them that, are portrayed and thought of in Western popular culture and philosophy. It is now with the narrowed eyes of the critical academic that I look upon commentators who see only frivolous hedonism, meaningless voyeurism, or youthful experimentation here. These arguments miss the point entirely, not to mention the reality. People come to places like Rishikesh to try and become better people, better humans. They want to fix what they feel is wrong or misguided in their lives. Here they can find paths, teachers, and techniques for that. I think it says a great deal about the Western world that we tend to look upon such individuals as hopeless cases or social misfits. Shame on us.
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Playing Holi!

Firstly, let me apologise to all for not posting sooner. A combination of power failures, lack of photo upload abilities, travel, hotel finding, work, and last but not least laziness has kept me from this. I'm now in McLeod Ganj (Bhagsu to be precise) and at work again.

Today (4th of March) was the Indian holiday known as Holi. After hearing some horror stories from travellers about getting caught outside during the festivities I had decided to play it safe and stay in my hotel all day writing. However, last night Lachlan had suggested to Jess (my new travel mate) and I that we all walk into the hills to explore a valley he and I had seen on a previous morning's walk. It seemed like a nice chance to have a full day off work and see some of the non-touristy India, as well as say goodbye to him.
As a personal experience of culture and festivity it is certainly the highlight of my trip so far, and probably one of my most treasured travel experiences. According to Jess, who is travelling to research and paint/draw such folktales (see her blog link to the right for more details), there are numerous legends concerning the origins of the Holi tradition, but I'm with her in thinking that the Krishna + Radha one seems most likely, especially given Krishna's popularity and the influence he has as a character on Indian culture through the Bhagavad Gita. Krishna, upon complaining to his mum about how unhappy he is with the skin colour difference between himself and Radha (his number one Gopi girlfriend), is told that skin colour is a minor matter - why not just dye it another colour?? Much playful throwing of coloured dyes between the two ensues (Krishna is the master flirt and ladies man). Cutting to the contemporary world, what results today is a festival that in which people participate by running around and throwing dye and coloured water on each other. In other words fun!! I was lucky enough to spend it with two wonderful people in a setting so unexpectedly lovely that I feel refreshed and reset by the experience.
The day started much as most of my other days in Rishikesh have - up early and out to Devraj Bakery. Walking through the street at the ungodly hour of 8am (Indians wake a little later than Australians it seems) it took me a few minutes to realise that all the shops were closed, and, when I arrived, so was Devraj. As those who have met me here will attest this was a devastating situation. Every breakfast I have had in Rishikesh has been 'at the office' as it is now called. Thus I wandered aimless in a state of loss and personal rejection (surely Deepak must know that I need my jam toast and black tea today, as every other day?!?!). The empty lanes of Lakshman Jhula passed by me unnoticed. Eventually I found myself back at Devraj, vain hope unconsciously guiding me, no doubt. Despondent I looked around and noticed a vantage point I had somehow missed for the last two weeks.
Set on the roof of the building that houses the support wires for the bridge was a nice little perch with a seat looking directly down the line of the superstructure. A good place for a self-portrait!!
As I was taking the photo Jess turned up, also looking forlorn (craving her usual Devraj muesli with curd, no doubt). Commiserating each other on our loss we set off to find a place to eat. Oasis, round the corner, seemed likely, and as we perused the menu I spotted Lachlan crossing the bridge, his body language communicating a his unbelief at the closure. I jogged over to get him and the three of us broke our fast (though Oasis is not a patch on Devraj and took a good hour to make Lachlan's banana pancake). Sated, we set off to find the valley entrance. Given our lengthy stay at the 'restaurant' the day's festivities were already beginning to get under way.
When one walks out and participates in the celebration, one is said to be 'playing Holi'. Not a hundred meters up the road we began our day of play, encountering our first group of revellers - a mob of teenage boys covered in red dust. Needless to say each of us was done with what would turn out to be the standard Holi play - a shout of 'Happy Holi!', a handful of dry pigment smeared across the forehead and into the hair and face (my beard was very popular), and then a hug, as if to apologise for the slightly aggressive, albeit brief intrusion of personal space. I instantly found it playful and affectionate in a way that can perhaps only be in India. As we made our way through the winding alleys we were ambushed by several troops of children who would squeal with delight at the very moment of attack - squirting us with water or lobbing dye-filled water bombs our way. But it wasn't only the kids. Oh no. The mums and dads often got in on the action (buckets seemed popular) or stood on the thresholds shouting tactical advice and handing our ammunition.
Reaching the creek that emerges from the valley we had chosen we set off up a stony track beside the stream, the water bubbling excitedly to our side. This was where the day truly turned magic; as we climbed through the thinning houses and opening fields the shreds of drunken aggression that had been brewing in town were lost amid the giddy shouts of children and the joyful dancing and singing of their families. Virtually all were 'marked' in someway, with a number of the kids and younger adults taking a psychedelic appearance, so covered were they in various dyes. The same was true for us by that stage too. Admittedly there were some... tense moments, I guess you might say. At one point a coordinated two-wave assault (pincer I believe) saw me take a bucket of water down the back and Jess similar down her side and into her bag, in which was her sketchbook (her reason for being and travelling). There were a couple of worried minutes as we leafed through the book to make sure all was ok before quickly stashing it in my bag which I had lined with a poncho that morning (thanks again to Abi for that one!). Also, some of the men were probably a touch more interested in playing Holi with Jess than with Lachlan or I (she was certainly the most 'painted' of the three of us by the day's end). But these were minor issues.
Passing through more little settlements where we were offered coffee and food, and even to join one family's celebrations, we eventually came to a pleasant little pool by a small abandoned ashram and decided to stop for lunch.
We munched on pomegranates and Kit Kats and listened to the water sing its timeless song. Occasionally locals would pass, wishing us a happy Holi, though I noticed that now we were high out of the town the amount of pigment was significantly less - poorer people perhaps, or maybe just less time to play, with fields to work. After a while we were joined by two boys who had come to wash their Holi dye away in the stream. Both were covered head to toe, and with the uninhibitedness only children can maintain simply walked fully clothed into the water and frolicked, picking up their bar of soap to scrub only as an afterthought.
Lachlan, clearly gifted with kids, began to play with them. We shared some of our food (including a lesson from Lachlan on not throwing Kit Kat wrappers into the stream) watched them attempt in vain to get clean.

After they left us (shivering bodily despite the warm sun) we set off again, though soon turned back feeling the a desire for a more filling lunch than fruit and chocolate. The walk back down to town was marked by the comparative quiet. The kids, many looking freshly bathed and tired out from the morning's hyperactivity, just smiled or waved. Adults lounged in chairs, chatting and laughing. In town the occasional person was still at play, but most seemed spent and the streets were still (I noted a number of small piles of vomit dotting the roadside - too much pigment perhaps). Back in Lakshman Jhula we searched out a restaurant that Lachlan knew to be good and, once there, the three of us sat quietly, our bodies warm and pleasantly tired from the walk and play.
It was such a beautifully perfect day. These words do no justice to it I'm afraid, though hopefully they communicate some of how special it was for me.

Love to my travel companions.

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