Stuck in Rishikesh

So I am effectively stuck in Rishikesh due to another bout of DB. However, I suspect that this may be something worse. I've now been sick for 7 days and been able to get very little work done as a result.
Still having a good time, just not a particularly fun time if that makes sense.

I'm not really sure what to say here. I still really like Rishikesh, and am meeting some inspirational people. I've certainly been able to do a lot of writing. I've filled half a notebook already. That alone is very satisfying, as many of the assumptions that I had developed and brought with me have been either smashed or altered to fit more neatly with the reality I see here. What I find most interesting is the embarrassment I now feel towards my questionnaire, as many of those assumptions are built into and are glaring. There have been some puzzled looks and objections to terminology (that I have encouraged the respondents to write about). I have to be careful not to do too much talking when I hand them over to people lest my words become leading.
As a result of this I prefer recorded interviews. I don't doubt that in these cases my questions and the general conversation are even more leading than the questionnaires. However, I think that people tend to say things they might not commit to paper, and it gives me a chance to chase the interesting bits.
Sadly, I feel I haven't done justice to my time here. I would like to have had many more interviews and questionnaires back, but being sick has meant that some days I'm left with only 2-3 hours useful time in which to go out and work. Of course, not everyone you meet wants to be pestered by some pasty, bearded academic, and in particular many do not want to be recorded (the power of the voice remains it would seem). Nonetheless, I count my time here as invaluable. No amount of time spent in front of my computer or trawling through the library could have given me the insights into 'spiritual tourism' that I've been able to glean here.
At this stage I would like to leave here on Thursday or Friday, and head for Dharamsala. I don't think I will get time to see Varanasi, which is disappointing but not devastating. Given my state of health and the strain it has put on Abi I think I will also cut the trip short by a week or so. Basically, whenever I finish my research in Dharamsala I will head home.
Traveller's Tips:
Black tea with sugar is nice when your belly is not.
Always carry a good book, when your day consists of moving from your bed to the toilet you end up doing a lot of reading.
Find a friend! Emotionally, travelling alone is one of the hardest things you can do. When a fellow traveller sits down next to you say hi, ask where they're from - you'll make a friend which can be the difference between depressing loneliness and joy.
(special thanks to Abi for being the greatest wife, woman, and soul mate in the history of existence, and to Lachlan D. for being a mate when I needed one).
More: Full post

My Poor Belly!

A sad attempt at poetry follows. I already think it sucks, but there you go. It was written at around 3am last night, between excursions to Chair of Purgatory.

My poor belly!
It grumbles loudly
It makes so much noise
Sometimes I think there's a monster inside

Perhaps I've offended it,
Or not kept it well
Or given it things that make funny smells

At night it moans loudest
And wont let me sleep
But black tea and toast
at mornings are sweet

My poor belly!
It's not very happy
The doctor says it'll take time to get better.

I hope we can be friends
We have been for so long
For I like food
And so does my poor belly...



Sorry... :-(
More: Full post

Notes on Travel

Inevitably, whenever one travels one runs into some lovely people. You would think that the fleeting, transient nature of these meetings would foster a guarded or aloof atmosphere, but such is not the case. Rather, the liminal otherness of the shared setting takes precedence and most travellers treat you like an old friend, or a fellow member of 'the club'. Victor Turner (the great anthropologist) talked of this at length, using the term communitas, and while I have been critical of the concept in the past I can now see its relevance, at least in this context, so removed as 'we' (Western travellers) are from our familiar surrounds. All we have for familiarity, for 'family' is those who speak our language and share some of our cultural values (or at least can joke about the vicissitudes of the traveller's life) - things we can connect with that bring us home, at least for a few minutes. Something comprehensible amid what is most incomprehensible.
It's a strange desire though, this need to be 'returned' home through contact with other travellers. We spend thousands of dollars to travel half way around the world, are at pains to 'go native', and seek the cheapest deal wherever we go, yet we often seek out those 'from home', pouncing on them at times, so desperate are we to again be in surrounds we know. But it is in these moments of connection that some of the deepest meanings and most touching moments of travel can be found. I think it might have been Satre who said that our identity, our being, lies in the eyes (or look) of others. Reshaping this a bit I think we can say that when we travel our new found friends are, in a sense, our interpreters. We make sense of our world with them, and through them. We are, after all social beings. Our sociality defines us, as without it we become 'mere animals'. So when travelling, perhaps it is not necessarily where you travel that matters so much, but who you travel with, for from their eyes come the meanings of your travel experience.
More: Full post

The Yoga Capital of the World

In Rishikesh there is no shortage of things to do for the spiritually inclined, and for those into yoga in particular the town in a goldmine. Added to this is the relative quite, the peaceful nature of the people and the surrouunds, and the general atmosphere of love and kindness. The upper end of town, Laxman Jhula, is particularly chilled out, so that's where I'm staying.
In contrst to Haridwar, the Ganges here is deep, slow, and blue-green, and can only be crossed by two footbridges resulting in a big reduction in traffic (and horn honking), though this doesn't stop the motorbikes from using it. The town sits in a valley, the sides of which rise steeply and high. There is no mistaking you are in the Himalayas now, even though the town itself sits at a lowly altitude of less than 1000ft. My hotel, Jaipur Inn, is one of the more expensive ones in town at 650rs, but it has a desk I can write at, a TV, a bathroom with sitdown toilet, a balcony looking onto the Laxman Jhula bridge, and a restaurant upstairs that has amazing views over the Ganges. It's also just accross the bridge from Devraj Bakery, a hangout for Westerners that does great breakfasts (banana porridge again) and excellent pastries. Each morning I grab a table at around 8am and sit drinking chai and eating my porridge while the sun makes its way into the valley. I've met some wonderful people while sitting there, all of whom have been more than willing to talk about their reasons for coming to Rishikesh and the sorts of things they get up to while here.

There's something special about this place, this location. I'm not sure whether it's the influence of the clean blue river, the way the katabatic winds set the bells in the temples chiming in the mornings and afternoons, or the milky light that washes through the valley as the sun rises. But I could happily stay here for a while.

Looking towards Laxman Jhula from downstream.

More: Full post

Haridwar

Haridwar is a particularly holy city located where the Ganges suddenly emerges from the Himalayas. The flat land is thrust towards the heavens quite suddenly, without the usual rolling hills or slopes. Here the Ganges is big and fast-flowing, and, at the moment, a browned shade of very light blue. It is believed that Vishnu left a footprint here, so the city is deemed to be a particularly auspicious place to wash away ones sins. Pilgrims come to bathe and cast offerings into the Ganges at the ghats (steps), particularly the one known as Har-ki-Pairi (the Footstep of God). As luck would have it I arrived the day before a Shiv Ganga Yatra (pilgrimage day to do with Shiva), the same festival that kept me from getting to Varanasi.
As I found my way out of the train station I could see why Varanasi (even more holy) was out of the question. Thousands of pilgrims of all castes and economic situations choked the streets, often in large groups of whole families. Many were carrying little boat-like constructions that held candles. As I have discovered, India is a noisy place at the best of times, but the roar in Haridwar was deafening; people talking, yelling, and singing, horns blaring even more than usual (given the increased human traffic), and devotional music blasting from the various stalls set up to cater for the needs of every pilgrim.
After checking in to my hotel I took a deep breath and plunged back into the mass. It was, to say the least, overwhelming. A sight, smell, and sound overload as well as emotionally taxing. As I made my way through the lanes and bazaars it started to become too much. Finally, a small ghat appeared that wasn't too crowded, and I sat down. No sooner had I done so than a wrinkly old woman approached me, all smiles, and began chatting away in Hindi. Assuming she was begging I shook my head, whereupon she bent down and picked up a tray I hadn't noticed and painted a tikka on my forehead (picture to come). Perhaps I had wobbled my head instead of shaking. Anyway, I had only 3rs in coins on me which was apparently not enough (she wanted 5), and after a further 10mins of talking at me she left, grumpy, as did I.
More bazaars and more dizzying human bustle. Eventually I found myself at Har-ki-Pairi and stepped up onto the bridge to watch the religious action. Thousands of pilgrims bathed, splashed, dipped, and played in the Ganges. Most come to simply wash. fill up a little water bottle (which you buy nearby), and then leave. Some put little boats filled with lit candles in, while yet others cast various sacred offerings (some limb shaped - presumably to fix the real one).

As is always the case here, people come up and talk to you. One man said he had come from Nainital, 12 hours journey, and was going to throw his offering in then head straight back. He was hoping to arrive back to his home in time for work the next day.
Below me I noticed a family gathered around one of the holymen on hand. He was holding a lamp and waving it over a tray filled with a garland and a bowl filled with a grey material. As I watched prayers were said, and the mother began to weep gently. I realised that I was watching the final stage in a funeral, and quickly felt like a voyeur, unwelcome but left alone. I knew I had to watch though - as a student of religion and because it was clearly such a moving moment.
The prayers continued for some time, and the mother was joined in her open weeping by some of her daughters. Looking at the group more closely I realised that apart from the husband and a lone teenage boy, the rest were women, some 6 or 7 in all. The husband and the wife, in clean white, moved with the holy man to the banks. Crouching, some quick prayers were said and then everyone got up. Most of the women now wept openly, hanging onto each other. The holyman gave them a minute then motioned the adults to the water's edge again, and I now saw he was carrying a brown plastic urn. Crouching again, the three dipped their hands in the water and with a suddenness that shocked me the holyman upended the urn. As the Ganges turned grey around them the mourner's tears dried, though the on their faces was that look that all humans share in the face of grief. Without ceremony the holyman finished his duties by tossing the urn into the river, then got up and wandered away.
I was deeply moved by this and had forgotten the throng around me. Strangely, I felt as if I had been a part of the ceremony, as if I should be comforting the family too. Looking up at the diminishing space around me I had had enough, and went back to my hotel.
Haridwar is an odd town. I hate to say it, but I don't think I liked it. It felt like a place set up to take pilgrims money. The holiness of the place clearly isn't lost on the people who go there, but for me it simply didn't sit right. Aside from this there were almost no tourists, which meant I had no work to do.
The next day, I decided, I would head to Rishikesh.

More: Full post

Delhi to Haridwar: A Train of Thought

Paharganj is empty and quiet as I step out of my hotel. In the darkness the streets resemble a scene from some apocalyptic movie - all grey smoke and potholes, shops boarded up, and only the odd person crouching aimlessly here and there. It's a little creepy, though not threatening.
At New Delhi train station I turn down the offers of the touts and taxi drivers and push my way through to the first platform. It's before dawn and already the place is packed. Finding a station attendant I ask which platform my train will leave from - No. 10/11. I climb the stairs and walk over the bridge to it. As I sit down I pull out my clock and am shocked to see it says 05:55. Somehow I have arrived an hour before my train is due to depart. Suspecting the alarm mechanism is to blame I engage in some experimentation and discover that it will go off within half an hour of the time it is set to. Oh well.
I munch on a packet of chips I bought yesterday. A shoe shiner approaches me and looks mournfully at the state of my boots. He offers to fix the terrible situation so that I may "be most appropriate for 1st class". I decline. A train pulls in and a mad rush by passengers on and off the train ensues. This results in gridlock and lasts for 5mins. Eventually, after much shouting, it is all sorted. The train then sits at the station for a further 15mins - as it was clearly announced to do by the station master.
I move to a more well-lit area. More shoe shiners approach, often spending 5mins begging to shine my boots. I ignore them after a while. Craving anonymity I cover my head with the hood of my jacket and bury my hands in my pockets. It seems to work. Finally it is 06:50 and my train arrives with much blaring of its horn. By chance my carriage stops precisely where I am.
I board the train and wait for it to move off. As we get under way I take in my surroundings. Around me sit 70 or so Indians with possibly one whitie apart from myself. Most are either reading a paper (Hindustan Times and Times of India seem popular - both are English language) or dosing after having woken so early. Towards the front of the carriage a small child sings to herself happily.
Not much can be seen of the outside world. Most of the windows have a saffron tint. The addition of several years of grime means that the passing trees and buildings of the Delhi outskirts fade into a haze reminiscent of an afternoon heavy with dust. One window, the emergency exit, is un-tinted, but with the breathing mass inside and the cold air out it quickly fogs over.
The interior of the carriage itself has an Eastern Bloc feel - grey lino walls and floor, faded aqua seat frames that are chipped and dirty, although the seat cushions themselves are a clean blue plastic. Apart from my fellow passenger's bags, which are surprisingly Western and new, the only shot of colour is to be found in two cast iron strips bolted to the ceiling (presumably as some sort of reinforcement) that are a gay shade of cyan.
Over the intercom a defiantly characterless mix of what I can only presume to be the Indian variant of 'lift musak' plays. Its mindlessly upbeat progressions (that dare you to be unhappy) are oddly familiar, sounding somewhere between laid-back bluegrass and bouzouki. I think it wouldn't be out of place in either context.
The first course of my breakfast (included in the ticket) arrives - a tea packet, some biscuits, a small thermos of hot water, and some chocolates. I make the tea black and sweet - it's soothing, though the biscuits are flavourless. What I took to be chocolates turn out to be rather nice caramels, giving a pleasant finish to the snack.
The train now slows to pull into its first stop - Meerut. This city was the sight of the genesis of the First Indian War of Independence. It was here that Indian soldiers (mostly Hindus and Muslims) under British command mutinied after a rumour circulated that the newly issued ammunition had been waxed with either cow fat (cows are sacred to Hindus) or pig fat (pigs are unclean to Muslims). The British CO, showing particular cultural insensitivity and imperial righteousness, ordered his troops to line up and load their rifles. This involved biting the waxed end of the cartridge off and provoked considerable outrage. Those who refused were imprisoned. The next day the garrison mutinied, shot the officers, and marched on Delhi. There followed an almost total rebellion of the Bengal Army and five months of sieges and fighting. Eventually the British won, but the East India Company, which had been in control, was forced to hand power over to the British government which immediately announced its desire for existing Indian rulers to control local matters so long as their loyalty lay with Britain.
...
Sometime later we have finished the main breakfast meal (chickpea dahl, bread-like nan, and two slices of bread with strawberry jam). Up the wall opposite me a lone cockroach meanders. It seems to be the only thing awake in here aside from me. After breakfast there was a burst of activity - newspapers were rustled, mobile phones exercised, chins wagged. But within 20mins all was quiet again as the efficient pantry-car staff cleaned away the trays.
From above me a distinctly Chinese influenced music now floats down. The hum of the train and the cartoon snoors of the chap next to me the only other noises. What little of the country I can see outside seems to be dominated by sugar cane. A man walks by me. He's holding a machine gun. As we slow to another station an army base shaded by eucalypts slips bye. I'm tired now. The journey has drawn on for 5 hours. Possibly only an hour to go.
The train crawls now while what sounds like an Indianised version of Knick-knack Paddy-whack plays over the intercom. The cane outside is tall and wild-looking, often with great swathes bent flat as if some giant had lain there the previous night. The carriage is half empty now, though most are still asleep, even though it is past midday. Suddenly the train leaves the sugar plantations and enters suburbia, and we arrive in Haridwar.
More: Full post

Delhi Day Tour

After coming to grips with the realities of haggling for auto-rickshaws in Delhi, I decided that hiring a taxi for the day might be worth it. Also, given the habit many drivers have of mysteriously ending up at a destination not of your choosing (and one outside a shop you simply must look at), combined with my previous day's conversations with Mr Delhi Belly, the notion of spending a day with a recommended driver, in a nice car that would take me wherever I wanted, was heavenly.
So it was that at 9am Ashok, my driver, greeted me in the hotel foyer and led me to his chariot (a small Suzuki of some kind). After chatting about where I wanted to go he mapped out an itinerary, though with one addition - he insisted I visit the Gandhi Museum, as all who wish to understand India must know Gandhiji.
After weaving and dodging our way south from Paharganj we arrived at my first stop - Qutb Minar. Begun in 1193 to celebrate the defeat by Muslim armies of the last Hindu kindgom, this mosque complex includes an impresive red sandstone and white marble minaret (the Qutb Minar) of some 73m height and a mighty 15m diameter at its base.

The mosque itself was construted out of stonework from sacked Hindu and Jain temples. Interestingly it seems as though the builders didn't have too much of a problem with the technically idolotrous and thouroughly infidelic (is that a word?... it is now) artwork therein, as many of the pillars have literally been lifted straight from the old temples into the mosque. The result is a fascinating mix of Muslim geometrics and organisation of space, filled with Hindu and Jain iconography. Much of the fine detail survives, inluding tiny arvings of what I presume are Vishnu and Shiva, and it makes for great viewing.
Sadly, though I had my camera I only shot one photo (photo's to come later). When I turned it on as I got out of the car, the battery showed 8 minutes of life, so I decided to be conservative. This was needless in the end as by the time I got to Humayun's Tomb (more on that below) later that day it had magically recharged itself to 28 minutes...
Next stop was the Baha'i temple. The well manicured grounds and supurbly designed temple (in the shape of an unfurling lotus flower) draw lots of visitors, most of whom are Indian.

There were some Westerners though, and it was with great interest that I noticed that foreign tourists spent much more time in the temple, where talking and photography are banned, than the locals. It was pleasingly peaceful, and got me thinking about the appeal of temples in India, removed as they are from the maddness of the street.
A few hundred metres away is the ISKCON temple (Hare Krishnas to the layperson). After passing the heavy security (which included a metal detector and a bag search) I had a wander round. After a few minutes I realised I was the only whitie there. Not a single tourist was to be seen. Nonetheless, the place seems to be set up to cater for the international crowd, as there is an english language bookshop, an ice cream parlour, a Govinda's, and a sound and light show introdution to The Science of Happiness. I chose the latter. It was, unsurprisingly, a fantastical and loud explanation of why bhakti yoga (devotional practice) is the best way to live. Included is:
* a fit inducing strobe scene in a pitch black room filled with statues of monsters and people in hideous pain,
* a maniquin led depiction of the cycle of birth and death acompanied by the music from The Fellowship of the Ring,
* a deafening room of screams with pictures of dying or deceased people, and
* a scale-model depition of the scene from the Bhagavad Gita where Krishna tells Arjuna why it is that he must 'do his duty' (also accompanied by Fellowship music... I wonder if the New Line knows?)
It was great!
Next was Humayun's Tomb, a fabulous example of Mughal architeture.

Built by the senior wife of Humayun, Haji Begum, and set in a huge grounds, it must have been one of the great buildings of the world for its time. It was here that I realised how powerful such places are, especially for the foreign tourist. Outside, the street is packed, noisy, polluted, and to the unfamiliar, an incomprehensible chaos. Inside you completely leave this behind; everything is cool, calm, clean, and ordered. It makes me think that for many tourists the contrast might appear so huge that to deny the power of the place seems impossible.
My last stop was the Ghandi Memorial Museum. I don't have much to say on this. It's a very well done museum, and quite moving. It's located at the house Ghandi was living at when he was shot, and includes a little footprint trail that follows his final steps, as well as lots of the paraphenalia from his life (including the famous glasses.
After that it was hometime as I was pretty tired. Definitely well worth the money.
Traveller's Tips:
Car and Driver for the day organised by Hotel Namaskar - 550rs (ask to have Ashok as your diver)

More: Full post

Hello Delhi Belly

Monday night I was a little worried about my health. I ventured out into the mayhem of Paharganj-by-night in order to purchase an alarm clock. While haggling my voice became more and more croaky, until finally, as I settled the deal (35rs for a little clock in the shape of a house), I sounded like a cricket. I had been feeling a bit shakey all day, in fact, so it was with little surprise that I found myself awake and sweating at 2am. There followed a musical 10 hours in my room's bathroom. Needless to say there will be no photos from this episode. On the plus side, my squat toilet technique is now solid...
I'm not really sure what did it, but by 6am my breath was smelling like rotten eggs, I was having cramps, running a temperature, and was getting to that point where packing it all in was sounding good. Thankfully, my beautiful wife had purchased for me a gastro med-pack a couple of days before I left. I don't know what people do without such remedies. They are available here, but the notion of leaving the hotel in such a state is most unappealing. Anyway, within 5 mins of popping the prescribed pill my cramps began to subside and within 15mins I was asleep. The rest of the day was spent in bed, apart from a brief excursion to the Everest Cafe for some banana porridge, and then a call to Abi that probably did as much good as the pills.
Aparently around 70% of travellers get DB in India at some stage. I guess I'm one of the elite group who can say they actually had it in Delhi.
Traveller's Tips:
For rehydration - Hydralyte, trust me, you need it.
Simple Western food in Paharganj - Everest Cafe, banana porridge 40rs
More: Full post

Delhi - First Impressions

Firstly, the place of the religious. The first thing to greet the newly arrived after walking up the air-bridge from the plane was a somewhat out of place sandstone carving of Ganesh (a god associated with commercial success) leaning precariously against a dirty-grey tiled pillar. There were, in fact, a few of these, along with the odd silver trumpet lying nearby. My taxi-van and driver also had their own assortment of relics, no doubt to cut a safer path through the dodgem-style traffic (more on that below). Of particular note to me (as a religious studies student) was the bouquet-garni of green chillies and limes tied to one of the windscreen wipers. From memory this is a magical charm used to ward off yakshis (evil spirits), but I felt it also contributed to degreasing the driver's side of the windscreen.
Secondly, the road rules. Or lack of them. Lanes mean nothing. Let there be no mistake with this, they mean nothing. The four lane 'dual-carriage highway' that rings the airport was host to six to seven 'lanes' of traffic, not counting those making their way off-road. Even the side of the road one drives on is only conceived of as a way to make things slightly easier. Any chance to overtake traffic, even if it means weaving through the oncoming flow, is taken without a thought.
Thidly, spending on public infrastructure. There seems to be very little. The supply of electricity, for instance, is a hit and miss affair. Indeed, I had just finished writing this paragraph and was about to save when we had a power failure... Paragraph lost. A more poetic example for me could not be had. Perhaps not so for the reader, however. Likewise, roads are better thought of as a series of connected potholes with little to no drainage. On days like today, when it rains, they quickly turn into medieval mudbaths, through which the pedestrian must pick their way with care.
Nonetheless, this town is growing on me. It has a defiant charm, and is filled with smiling, friendly people. Most importantly, for me at least, it has good food. Cheap too! My luch today (which I could not finish, so large were the portions) of dahl, malai kofta, fermented cheese, veg curry, roti, and rice cost a princely 73 rupees, or around $2.50.
My hotel, while nothing special in so far as the accommodation is concerned, is run by two very friendly brothers and a host of boys who run around switching the generator on when the power goes, and make sure that your key is waiting for you as soon as you walk in the door.
My hotel is in Paharganj. It's a madhouse, but it's close to everything and is easy to negotiate.














Yesterday I didn't do too much, being exhausted after the 26 hour journey. However, today was spent wandering around the impressive Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India. Apparently it can hold up to 25,000 worshippers, although this seemed a touch ambitious to me.















In the grey overcast half-light it looked a little dull and dejected. However, I suspect it a sunny afternoon would bring out its magical qualities.
I also had my first cycle-rickshaw experience. Aside from feeling one's life may be about to end under one of the huge trucks or after being tossed out after bouncing over a pothole, it is an excellent way to get a feel for the smell, sound, and sights of the street.



Tomorrow (Tuesday) I'm hiring a taxi for the day (about $15) so as to save the hassel of arguing with drivers about which shop I want to go to. I had a particuclarly adamant Sikh auto-rikshaw driver today who almost wouldn't take no for an answer and then lectured me on the benefits Sikhism has brought to the world and what a great one he was... Barmy!
More: Full post

Flying's Time

Well, what should have been a 16 hour trip to Delhi ended taking around 25-26. After saying a heart wrenching goodbye to Abi at the airport I sat down at my gate and eyed the suspiciously large crowd milling about. Lack of movement suggested a delay of some sort, and 10mins later the ground staff announced that there would be a delay of 2 hours due to a fuel pump failure. 2 hours later this still required an hour to fix. Eventually we got off at around 20:30 (was supposed to be 17:00).
Of course, this meant that my connecting flight from Singapore to Delhi would leave without me. Thankfully, Qantas were on the ball enough to have booked me onto another flight and into a very nice hotel by the time we arrived.
My room at Changi Gardens was very nice!















And the breakfast at 06:30 was too!















My new flight was with Air Sahara, and apart from being packed it was pretty nice. On board I was treated to my first Indian meal (chana dhal, roti, and yoghurt) and my first Bollywood movie (Phir Hera Pheri - apparently a sequel, in which the heroes get up to all sorts of hijinks concerning the money they acquired in the prequel with much singing and dancing). The final two hours of the flight were in cloud right down to short final before landing (the pilot got a round of applause from some of the more nervous fliers upon touching down).
At the airport my driver was waiting (he had turned up at 03:00 and then gone home) to whisk me straight into the chaotic, disorganised, maelstrom that is Delhi.
More: Full post

7 days

Now things start to get serious...

It's now only a week until I leave for India to start the first phase of fieldwork for my PhD. I struggle to find words that can describe how this makes me feel. Elated at finally getting to do what I set out to almost seven years ago; nervous that I won't be able to find enough people willing to talk about their spirituality and their journeys; daunted by the reputation of India as both a life-changeing experience and a mind-fucking one for Western travellers; heartbroken that I have to leave Abi for six weeks.

That last one is the toughest. Physically painful.

I think I'm as prepared as I need to be. Lot's of web research on where fellow travellers go in India to check out things spiritual. Given the brevity of my journey I'm only going to visit Varanasi, Rishikesh, and Dharamsala (in addition to Delhi).

Now a wanky attempt at symbolic imagery:















A guidebook so I can find my way, my glasses so I can see, a notebook to record my thoughts, and a strategically artful lightbulb. I hope I have lots of those.
More: Full post