Where to next?

Now that my ramblings about India are over, at least for this blog, the question is what's next? My next fieldwork trip will begin in late August when I head to Europe to walk the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, interviewing people as I go. But that is five months from now, so I need something to fill in the time here. I was thinking I could just continue with the nonsensical ramblings as they come to me, perhaps some photo collages of my area of Sydney (hmmm that would give me a chance to get artistically wanky again... I like it!), or just nothing at all. Maybe some of you rabid blog fans out there can tell me your preferences (gets ready for one response from grandma).

In any case, this blog will continue to exist. So don't be strangers.



Self portrait: Balcony writing (aka attempt to be cool 5)
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On Returning: Part 2

I don't pretend to understand the workings of the heart or mind. My own seem so unfathomable that what I might say about others' would seem guesswork. Although this is not to say that I don't pretend to try to understand the workings of others' minds and hearts. That is my job after all. What I feel I can say about myself is that while my heart and mind might sometimes broadcast a thousand channels at once, I can only seem to write about a few of them at a time. So I thought this entry could focus on some of the more beautiful aspects of the return from travel.
Three weeks after returning I finally feel like I am home. What I have returned with are memories, experiences, insights, and a new appreciation of familiarity and of small moments. I sit here on my balcony sipping black tea (some things you can't let go of), the music from my CD player competing with the street noise below. Every now and then, as I listen, I find myself somewhere else as a tune that was on my MP3 player comes on. Suddenly I am no longer on my balcony but in a restaurant in Rishikesh flicking through the TZU catalogue to find something Silfan might like; or I'm half asleep in a taxi watching the first rosy tips of dawns fingers touch the hills and tree tops sliding by while listening to Bron-Yr-Aur after giving Jess the first listen; or I'm alone on the balcony at Manu House (hi Manu!!) listening to Boards of Canada while the sun comes into the Bhagsu valley, like some mighty god.
These tunes, and so many others, are now rich with memory for me. Their music now blends with that of my own memory and the emotions associated with it, playing and resonating their own piercing and beautiful harmonics. You can't purchase the ability to have such reactions to what are essentially groupings of tonal sequences with the odd bit of language thrown in, but I'm so glad to have them. They are sonic landscapes of emotion for me, deeper and more meaningful than they otherwise could have been.
I find I have a similar reaction when I look at my photos. They speak of moments more than of places; a sunny morning's walk to Swarg Ashram with a beautiful human being from Australia to get some cash from the ATM; haggling for a good price for a cycle rickshaw and then realising just how exposed one is when on the back of one in Delhi; or a sun drenched afternoon in Bhagsu sharing a goodbye meal with a wonderful man from Norway. The pictures take me back to the point of view they portray. When I look at them I am again behind the lens, feeling again the breeze or the rain, or smelling dinner in the kitchen, hearing the voices of friends around me. I'm so thankful for such technology (you really see why photography took off as it did) for the way it helps me to access these memories in that way. Now that I'm home I often feel more touched by the small moments and random images that I captured than I was at the time. Now I see their deeper meaning and influence on me.
But I think it is home itself that I find most beautiful and enchanting. It may seem odd in contrast but I can't get over the peace of quiet. I find it so fascinating, and in a charming way quite amusing, that four million of us can live in this city in such comparative silence (although I write this to the music of some verbal disagreement occurring on the street, including the magically Australian line, "get out of here ya fuckin' cunt" - how's the serenity!). Walking through the Sydney streets I am constantly reminded, and flawed I suppose, by what an astoundingly beautiful city it is. I don't mean the CBD per se, but the town-housed and terraced tree-lined streets that wind around the little hills and ridges of the suburbs. The aspect is sunny and spacious, the air is clean(ish), the temperature pleasant, but mostly it's the people I'm in love with. But it's strange... I think of Sydney as a city obsessed with trends and fashion, with money and property, and generally getting ahead of other Sydneysiders. But walking around town I mostly see people enjoying life in whatever way they can. I'm not really sure what to make of that contradiction...
The street noise, the bats in the evening, the heated arguments outside Oxford St clubs, the kids playing in the park. These are things familiar to my soul. I've lived here long enough to be able to know them inside myself. But that they are familiar and known makes me happy (again the contrast). I find now, after returning, that the familiar is really not that familiar after all. It is actually full of romance and mystery. Who are the people that emerge from those townhouses to go to work every morning? How do they do life? Who are these strangers? Where do they come from, and to where do they go? Who is the old woman across the road that I see walking her two tiny dogs everyday? What are her stories of life, of pain, of love? I guess I don't see repetition now so much as I see uniqueness. Maybe that's the benefit of getting to interview so many great people, I'm not sure. So I now find myself asking again, and that makes me happy (sigh of thanks).
So I guess the best thing about coming home is seeing and living again the poetry of everyday life.

I'm home :-)
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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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