Images

sometimes i have this inexplicable urge to write down the images that flash through my mind..
...that hope is like an orca trapped in a koi pond, too grand and pitifully outsized for such a small enclosure.
...that descending into the Midwest is like dipping into a bowl of oatmeal, shapeless, bland, and hearty.
...that the man i overheard on the plane enthusiastically explaining his friend's research on cancer used the word "certain" so many times, i knew he had no idea what he was talking about. 
...that the act of furtively jotting down these thoughts and collecting them feels oddly akin to amassing baby clothes for a child i don't yet have.

This passage has an image I love...it's from Ryan Van Meter's "If You Knew Then What I Know Now." The context is the aftermath of a breakup of an 8 year relationship and he's describing the things he would want to tell you on the first date but won't:

"That my body actually feels different now, maybe even unfamiliar, as though it was gone eight years and suddenly returned, like when a friend borrows a book for so long that when you finally get it back, you forgot you ever owned it. That it's because he knew my body better than any other man, and he told me he loved it while overlooking its certain flaws, and now that he's left, I feel as though I don't only have to meet a whole new man but I also have to convince him to think the same way about my body. And on top of it, I should probably like him." 

Observations on an Indian bus

10/25
Today was a travel day. I had a 10 hour, 3 bus journey to McLeod Gang in Dharamsala so I'll give you my impressions from the bus ride.

1. India's all about the concept of mobile workspace. Forget about paying to rent space for a business. Throw down a piece of cloth, claim your bit of sidewalk, and you can cut hair, pick earwax, offer de-lousing services, pull out teeth -- any service you can think of. nothing too private to conduct in public.

2. The bus seat in front of me is busted. It's only a thin sheet of pressed wood with a piece of plastic stapled around the edges so the wood is fully exposed in the back. I can see it's split right down the middle and under the weight of the man in front, I'm watching the wood bulge out towards me. There's a horrible screeching from the wood rubbing against the frame. Of course, that's minor compared to the much more worrisome rattling of every window, every door, every joint on this bus as it careens over the bumps in the road.
Any minute now, this seat is going to give out and I'm going to find a fat Indian man with a greasy mop of hair in my lap.

3. Speaking of hair, there are a lot of people here who dye their hair bright orange. Like that man sitting in the front seat. What little hair he has left is dyed Day-glo orange. That color Brits refer to disparagingly as "the ging," like it's a plague or something. That's a coveted hair color here; I've seen it on both men and women. It's unfortunate. And by unfortunate, i mean hideous.

4. The brakes on this bus squeal sharply in protest every time they're applied. Sounds like a pig being slaughtered. The only thing that seems to work properly on this bus is the horn, which is being used promiscuously -- for good reason, I'm sure. India's roads, besides being poorly maintained seem to be fraught with obstacles: lumbering trucks bearing heavy loads that look poorly secured, mangy stray dogs, fat cows, water bison, horse drawn carts, motorcycles, auto-rickshaws, bikes, people, cars, and other equally dilapidated buses. 


5. A young woman in a heavy blue shawl over her head and shoulders and a gaunt face just spent a good five minutes begging me for money. She kept showing me a black and white photo of a man who looked like he might be her husband or brother, along with a note that looked like it could be a doctor's note. When I shook my head and looked away, she got louder and more insistent, pointing emphatically at the photo.India makes you look poverty in the face about 50 times a day and challenges you to turn away from it. I gave her all the change in my pocket and she acted like it still wasnt' enough. It's hard here-- i dont' think anyone could ever do enough to make a difference.

Another traveler told me that you have to say no firmly but with compassion -- say it with your eyes. It sounds so simple and kind. But how can you say no when they know -- and you know-- how much you have an how little they have? My eyes can't say no. They're filled with the guilt of countless privileges.

6. For breakfast, I had a bag of Lays sour cream and onion potato chips and 4 bananas. It's a luxury in the US to ask questions of our food like "is it organic? Does it have transfat? What kind of oil was used? Is it whole wheat? Gluten free?" My food concerns are much more basic here: "Will it make me deathly ill? Give me a tapeworm or other kind of parasite? Dystentary or Hep A?" 

Lest you think I'm being needlessly paranoid, let me assure you, I'm not. I have a stomach of steel but I've never seen food prepared in such unsanitary conditions -- not in China, not in Cambodia -- congrats, India, you win. Food is cooked in grimy alleyways in frying pans that look like they've never encountered a sponge or dish soap. Lentils sit around in uncovered metal pots and fried chipatis are heaped in greasy piles until someone buys them. I can see mud caked under the fingrenails of all the boys doing the cooking and I've never seen gloves or tongs. Given these conditions for culinary prep, I intend to survive on lassis. A lassi a day keeps the diarrhea away.

7. After almost 10 hrs on 3 different buses I've finally arrived! Mcleod Gang is the Dalai Lama's home in exile, perched atop a mountain coverd in pine forests. I have to say, the path to enlightenment is paved with some pretty big potholes and sinuous curves that hug the edge of cliffs. The smattering of signs on the way up the mountain were really amusing. I particularly liked the one "Himichal Police: Better late than Never" in front of the police station. Some just really didn't make sense: You are in cantt area, drive slow" (the imperative was blatantly ignored) and "tree forest married. services available."

8. The air is crisp and cool up here and Tibetan refugees and monks are everywhere, as are colorful yak wool shawls, monkeys, prayer wheels, and tankas. Ate dinner at a momo noodle house, found a spartan room with a sheet of foam on a cot for a mattress. No bathroom or shower but the price is right -- about $5 a night. One of the nicest things about being in this town is that I blend in much better here. With my Greek isles tan, I look vaguely Tibetan.

Amritsar

10/24/12
I started my day around 9 at the Golden Temple, the biggest Sikh temple in India. It's a large marble enclosure around a holy reflecting pool, with the Golden Temple itself in the middle. I waited in line for nearly 2 hours to get inside. On the first floor, where they keep the holy book, a Sikh guy was guarding something that looked like a giant pink cushion with gold sequins. In front of him, there were vases of roses and rings of marigold. Off to one side, there were several women praying and on the other side, men keeping the heartbeat of the temple on drums. In front of the holy book, devotees kept tossing money, and sikhs on their hands and knees would sweep up the coins and bills as soon as they landed. The ceiling of the interior was covered in gold -- 75 kg of it. At the top of the temple, there was another man, reading an identical book on his own gilded cushion. Each man also had a big poofy white fan that looked like a flattened Siemese cat, which they would use to fan themselves as they read. Funny thing was, all around the marble enclosure, there were duplicates of these men in loose white pajama outfits, turbans, white beards and matching mustaches, as if they'd multiplied and fit themselves into every free corner.  Totally bizarre.

After I got bored of checking out the sikh clones reading on puffy cushions, I sat down and helped a bunch of women wash the silver metal bowls used to give pilgrims water. These bowls are dubiously washed by the hands of more than 2 dozen volunteers, in a mixture of dirt and finely ground mulch. I have no idea how this concoction actually cleans, but after participating in this process for several hours, i can safely say i wouldn't recommend drinking the water.

Attached to the temple was a museum all about the persecution and martyrdom of the Sikhs. Seems like everyone wanted to kill the Sikhs at one time or another -- the Mughals, the Brits and Mrs Indira Gandhi. The museum was a series of rooms filled with badly done paintings of sikhs being run over by wagon wheels, having their limbs ripped off, or being stabbed in the holy pool. A bit macabre for my tastes. 

After lunch, I headed to the Jalianwala Bashi, the memorial park that pays tribute to the spot where many Indians were killed by the Brits. General Dyer fired a total of 1,650 rounds into the crowd without any warning to disburse, and you can see 28 bullet holes in the brick wall as well as this hauntingly deep well where people hurled themselves in desperation. Now the memorial's a lovely green space with lots of people napping, chatting and lounging around. Seems like the equivalent of picnicking in a graveyard.

Some indian guy who introduced himself as the Nowhere man (because his philosophy is that most people see life as "no where" and he sees it as "now here") gave me a tip to head over to the Durgiana temple for the biggest Hindu festival outside Diwali. He told me to speak confidently, take out my notebook and camera, and tell people to let me onto stage because I'm a part of the international press. With this helpful hint and a finger point in the general direction of the temple, he sent me on my way. After having walked for a good mile, dodging traffic and weaving through crowds, I gave up and decided to hail a rickshaw. Of course, I got the one driver who pretended he knew the way but really had no idea what I was saying and drove me straight back to the Golden temple. Back to ground zero. 

Following many more useless directions, I ended up exactly where I was when the rickshaw driver picked me up. Turned out I was about 10 feet from the entrance but this time, an hour later, it was much more obvious from the throngs of people parading in, and all the drumming and chanting. Little boys were dressed in silver jackets and silver conical hats and the girls had henna painted hands. The crowd to get to the field where the ceremony was being held was horrific. I've never been in a worse crowd-- no room between bodies, everyone packed in tight, chest to back, shoving from all sides which caused the crowd to sway back and forth just as much as it moved forward.

This was where some asshole guy behind me rammed his fist between my butt cheeks (I just realized it's ironic I called him an asshole). I turned around and punched him _hard_ in the gut. And I tried to face my side so he couldn't access my behind. Guess what? He snuck around to my side and did it again! I was furious so i unhinged my knife from my bag and flashed the blade in his face. His friends started laughing. He refused to look at me. From now on, I'm always going to have my fruit peeling knife handy when I walk the crowded streets.

Dussehra is the Hindi version of Burning Man and a pyromaniac's dream. It's the festival marking the God Rama's victory and subsequent rescue of his wife, Sita, from the wicked king Ravana after a long and bloody battle. Giant wood and paper mache effigies of the 10-headed demon king ravana, his son Meghrad and brother Kumbhkaran and some other villain are crammed full of firecrackers and set ablaze, marking the triumph of good over evil. It's like the equivalent of blowing up multiple 4 story buildings. Everyone runs for cover and clamps their hands over their ears because the noise is deafening. Then after the explosion, the boys pick up pieces of the burning wood edifice and joust each other, as burning paper rains down on the crowd. Blue faced Rama dances on his chariot with live snakes around his neck. There are fireblowers, jewelled men with bow and arrows, and painted monkey boy dancers with spears whirling and twirling, stamping their golden feet to the pounding of hundreds of drums. it's an incredible sight to behold and I did make it to the stage, front and center, with the 'press.' Noone asked me what I was doing; they just assumed I was supposed to be there. And Nowhere man was right, the view was spectacular...I watched the whole procession and ceremony unfold right at my feet.

Ended the night at my posh guesthouse which has 2 matching green carpets depicting mice pushing shopping carts full of toilet paper rolls. Swam in their freezing cold pool for 25 minutes until my hands were numb. Swimming by yourself with the light of the moon on your back is always a good way to end the day...

Arrival in Delhi

10.22.12

Got into Delhi at 4:30 am. It was a horrible trip. The streets outside are chaotic. Beggars sleep in the middle of the sidewalk and packs of big yellow dogs roam the streets or lie around near rubbish piles looking half dead, with flies circling their heads. If you're in a rickshaw and it stops at a light, beggar children immediately dash up to you and grab your leg or put their heads on your lap while talking quickly in a language you can't understand, but recognize is a plea for food and money.

My nose burns from the smell of urine and burning trash. You have to watch your step or you get sucked into mysterious brown puddles, fall into holes in the street, risk getting hit by oncoming traffic, find your arm grabbed by touts who want to lead you somewhere, or trip over dogs. I've done all of the aforementioned.

I'm staying in a windowless room that looks like a cage and smells like musky BO. there are mysterious burn marks in the sheets.

My day was less than exciting as I spent 2.5 hours at the train station waiting to buy a ticket to Amritsar. I'll head to Amritsar, then meet up with an Israeli girl I met here in Delhi in Dharamsala, the home-in-exile of the Dalai Llama. The plan is to escape to the mountains for some trekking until I need to be back here in 2 weeks time.

Plakias, Chania, Athens

More amazing things about Greece:

1. The swimming: In Matala, I swam around the cove and there were shafts of light like sword blades all the way down to the floor at least 100 feet down. Schools of small silvery fish glistened like hammered metal leaves. I did have to fight some current to get back around the cliffs. In Plakias, Adam and I also went for a sunset swim though we were only out for 25 minutes, half of which was spent treading water as we imagined hungry sharks chomping off our legs. We watched the sun descend into the sea, sliding right in as if it were a coin in the slot of a piggy bank. The sea was calm, like liquid opalescent glass that fluttered ever so slightly to make these beautiful slow ripples. We sang all the words we could remember of the Lion King's Hakuna Matata.

2. Runs: The Aussie owner of the hippie backpacker hostel in Plakias sent me up a veritable mountain -- 3 miles of steep switchbacks -- that climbed up from the beach to the monastery in Selia. Not a run for the fainthearted. When I got to the top, Greek people sitting at restaurants outside or on their front steps clapped and yelled out "Yassou! Yassou!" and waved. I don't think they've seen anyone attempt anything quite that stupid. The view was stunning though-- olive groves stretched out on the hillsides into the valley below, then the sea and mountains on the other side. Grecian paradise. A must do for anyone craving stunning panoramic views and a near heart attack from a strenuous workout.

3. Italian food: Adam and I found 2 Italian restaurants in Greece. Leave it to the italians to find sunny spots by the sea, settle down, and churn out delicious eats.  Seriously, I don't know why (Janet gets this), when you're missing home, nothing tastes quite as comforting as a plateful of spaghetti and a glass of red wine. In Plakias, the best Italian food is at a place called Kri Kri (named after the nearly extinct Cretan mountain goat). Do not, however, under any circumstances, order the retsina, even if it is 2.5 Euros for the entire bottle while all the other wines range from 10-18 euros. Tastes exactly like fermented Pine-sol. As Adam so eloquently quipped, "The taste of retsina coats your palate the way dog shit sticks to the bottom of your shoe."

4. Chania: Chania's a Venetian port town built in the 15th century and the crumbly yellow stone remains of the old sea walls still hug the harbour. The narrow streets are made of big chunky stones cobbled together and worn smooth by age. Houses are painted a cheery yellow or soothing buttercream color with brown or blue wooden shuttered windows. Wooden doors open up onto ornate wrought iron terraces where masses of bouganvillea in the gaudiest shades of pink and violet spill over onto the streets below. Adam and I splurged 15 Euros per person to stay in the Casa del Amore, which was a 500 year old 3-story house owned by an old man who had lived in NYC for 42 years. We both loved it as soon as we stepped into the lofted pine alcove, with its own terrace overlooking the candlelit cafes of the street below. You could only get up to the alcove by climbing this handcut spiral wooden staircase. 


|n the morning, I threw open the terrace doors to see the sun rise and the man across the street taking down the wooden chairs for his cafe, and a little old Greek woman further down the street diligently sweeping her patch of the sidewalk. I felt something akin to bliss and incredulity -- I can't believe this is my life right now. I'm really blessed.

5. All the really old stuff just hanging around: In Heraklion, Adam and I spent an afternoon at the archaeological museum which houses some of Greece's most treasured antiquities in a dimly lit, bunker style room that reminded us of the DMV. This is where they keep the famous disk of Phaestus, the 3,500 year old terracotta disk inscribed with hieroglyphic symbols of human beings, limbs, tools and animals. The inscriptions are believed to be the first ever human script. No one knows what it means, but archaeologists think that every 4 symbols are the equivalent of a sentence and it's a hymn to a goddess. 

There's also a bunch of crazy art from the protogeometric period which came after the mysterious Greek dark ages following the splendor and decline of the Minoan civilization. One of my favorites was "clay model of a circular building with a female deity inside it, watched from the roof by two male figures and a dog. Archanes. 850-800 BC." Pretty accurate description of a round portajohn-like structure with elaborate swirls and a checkered design, the door lifted off, and a seated woman wearing something that looks like a prisoner's outfit, with her arms held up over her head. Above her there's a chimney with two guys peeping in and a dog chilling out on the roof. Good job, dead people, very artistic.

6. Greek mythology: We also saw a bunch of marble reliefs of the sexual exploits of Zeus, Greece's ultimate manwhore. I liked the marble relief of the union between Leda and the swan, one of the many myths about the affairs and metamorphoses of Zeus. Zeus fell for Leda, the wife of King Tyndareus of Sparta, and he transformed himself into a swan to have sex with her, which really irked Venus.One of their four kids ended up being Helen of Troy, who later started the Trojan War. Incredibly imaginative -- way better than 50 shades of grey.






7. Acropolis and Agora: Visiting these places gives you an eerie feeling of standing on the foundations of Western democracy. All my Thucydides came back to me and I could imagine Pericles' orations as well as Socrates, gadfly of Athens, stirring up the philosophers. Super cool.

8. New greek friends, Persa and George: Because of the strikes and protests, we had to walk 4.1 km with our 10 kg packs to the airport in Heraklion to fly to Athens. And when we got to Athens, the metro and buses were also on strike. At the airport metro station, I started talking to a couple, Persa and George, who drove us 40 minutes to the city center and put us in a cab to our hostel. 



Last night we met up with them and they took us out. We started out at an avant-garde artsy little beergarden completely hidden in an alleyway between the tourist and souvenir shops in Plaka. The garden was this crowded, dimly lit stone square with high tables and stools in the middle. All along the crumbling walls of the ruins around it, were small rooms filled with modern art exhibitions like photos hung on crisscrossed wires, paintings on staticky tv screens, and piles of crumpled clothes heaped on the floor. The whole thing was surreal. 

From the beer garden, we walked to the "anarchist part of town," a good 45 min walk that Persa had clearly underestimated. The streets were filled with Greek's alternative crowd (think 80s clothing-- like zebra patterned tights under a tattered denim miniskirt, lots of piercings, jet black hair, fringe bangs on the women...) gathered in sidewalk cafes drinking and smoking, live music pouring out of warmly lit, colorful restaurants, grafitti art spray painted on every building of the narrow alleyways.

We ended up at a crowded restaurant on a corner with two guys playing traditional Greek songs, singing and strumming on bazookies, instruments that look like fat bellied banjos. One of the musicians had the whitest shock of hair I've ever seen, with matching white beard and shocking white brows. I never saw him open his eyes once while playing. The food was the best I've had this trip and George kept the food coming and raki flowing (I lost count by the 7th round...) We had stuffed zucchini with mincemeat, meatballs with spearmint, tatziki, spinach stewed in tomatoes and onions, fried cheese with freshly squeezed lemon, greek salad with olives, feta, cucumbers and tomato, stuffed tomatoes and peppers, orzo in a tomato sauce, slow cooked pork that was so tender it fell off the bone in buttery mouthfuls....it was a feast and the company was wonderful. 


For our final stop of the night, we had caipirinhas at a quiet, artsy cafe down the street with Frieda Kahlo-esque murals on the dark blue walls and dangling pendant lamps wrapped in patterns with brightly colored string. A truly lovely night.

Adam's still sleeping off the raki and I've been up for hours. Not sure what's up for today but tomorrow's my last day in Greece and I'll be flying out to Delhi in the afternoon. I feel like I've been gone forever...