Darjeeling, Land of the Gorkha!

           The train from Kolkata. 

         I left Darjeeling by dawn's twilight, a dry, cold wind worming through my coat. Crawling out my room's second story window I balanced, teetering, carefully on the narrow ledge affording myself one last solitary moment to take it all in. Down the weathered street chai stalls were coming back to life, exhaling long held breaths of steam. Further on, the hunchbacked silhouettes of laborers slowly emerged from a dense morning fog rising out of the valley. Loads of bricks on their backs, slung up by a paltry piece of fabric across the forehead, they lurched jerkily ahead like the seconds hand of an antique clock.

         Weeks later I would be on a town local puttering through mud-hut villages, the relentless sun searing parched countryside and transforming my rickety aluminum bus into a furnace. I saw my immediate future as well: I would walk in the cold, limping through old and empty lanes, trying to catch any crease of dappled sunlight to warm my back. Back to the town center I'd arrived at nearly a week earlier I'd see virtually the same sight, everything already on full tilt and clamoring. Cars, busus, tuk tuks, smoke billowing from them and seemingly everywhere else, mingling with the mist, the great cloud fueling itself. But, at that precise moment dripping with clarity, I knew that I was out on an old ledge that had surely seen greater fools, recollecting the beginning of a odd journey.

        Now, after many years, Darjeeling can be a difficult town to remember. Like anything that seems so right in its place you struggle with its existence, like recalling a myth or dream. The memory of its dirty, dank alleys will funnel you back to a journey along its streets you couldn't possibly have taken. Everyday experiences that had even become normal to the point of banality at the time now hold a tinge of regret, as though having been there was a sort of carnal pleasure you may have been better off not partaking in. Over time, in this case three years, distinct moments fade to snapshots; mere glimpses of untold stories that may just as well stay that way.

Darjeeling

       We arrived as a group, the five of us, all equally unburdened travelers who had met in Kolkata and were all heading in the same direction. We laughed uproariously and often in our northbound train, at everything, all of us having caught that same contagious traveler delirium of being in a strange place with strange folks who weren't even so strange; at the rats scurrying over our feet, at the bombardment of nuts and snacks from vendors. Our cabin's other passengers not sure what to make of it all. We weren't entirely sure either. It was indeed a fine start.

       Then our bloodshot eyes were given their first glimpse of Darjeeling, the cobbled mystery, bathed in culture, history, trash, and grime. Ringed by beauty and wild, yet rising above like the old, rusted bow of a ship sunken in shallows. We climbed the crooked alleyways that cross all the snaking roads in a straight shoot to the top. To a dilapidated hotel with a homely sitting room and a view into a peculiar and beautiful valley. Our shared room was a cold, reclusive place, stacked with hard-mattressed beds and scant furniture. It had an untouched, noble air about it and I really only went there to sleep, wearing every sweater I had.

    

       Days the group would split and fracture, walking for miles to do nothing and sit on benches and the steps of old churches, talking about nothing. Javier the Chilean and I would visit the rolling hills of tea, always returning to the town square to recoup, drink 10 rupee chai, and watch the afternoon loll by and watch old ladies feed birds and young children ride ponies and watch the sun and its light slowly drift away bringing back that dank, sullen cold. For a time it seemed we entirely subsisted on chai, momos, and chicken and onion filled rotis. There were candlelit chess games when the whole town lost power and we welcomed the lukewarm beers our hosts provided. Days like this would wallow open and shut at seemingly interminable intervals then ending in sonorous swirls, the last mutterings of an old town falling back asleep.

     

      Staring back into all of this, I finally leapt and took my plunge. Landing poorly, I was instantly mauled by chilly ,dew-slicked cobble, morning mist , and a stray dog that scared easily. The fog was cracked slightly with an awakening sun and, even with only a vague idea of where I was going, I knew that the day would unravel fine. 

     

      

        

The view from a pass in Darjeeling, a Gorkha flag waving in the wind.

This slogan was everywhere. The Gorkhas, a little-known ethnic group who are pushing for separatism.

The ubiquitous stairways that push through the heart of the city.

Students warming in the sun.

The view from inside a Darjeeling tea factory.

A temple skirting the town's North side.

Prayer flags in flight.

India: Tibetan Opera

          McLeod Ganj

Tibetan monks participating in ritual in which
one monk airs his grievances while another lends
a helpful ear.

            Mcleod Ganj is well known as the Dalai Lama's home-in-exile; his temple is discreet, off a slight road from the town square, perched overlooking the valleys and winding roads every visitor here must take by bus. A mass of Tibetan refugees accompany him as well, making this tiny hamlet set high upon the hills of Himachal Pradesh yet another one of India's faces. Markedly distinct from the rest of the country, and from anywhere else really, it is, like so many of its fellow villages-turned-stars of the tourist circuit, an adducible of India's depth. Tibetan temples spark the hills, their multicolored flags waving, and humble locals slip quietly through the streets. Vendors and shops sell Tibetan dishes here, lacking the panache of spices redolent in the rest of the country, while shops sell their unique brand of crafts and religious items. All very Indian but all so not. McLeod Ganj's very existence is indeed predicated on India itself. A tacit agreement, from what I've gleamed off locals, between the Indian government and the Tibetan government-in- exile has resulted in a more than temporary home. They've been here for many years; there are generations of Tibetans who have yet to see their homeland.
                I met one such man in a small tea shack on the outskirts of town. Arriving here on my early morning wanderings, I was out to get a hold of my bearings after a "deluxe" bus ride that defied all conventions of the word. The man, a young guy really, seemed of a laconic, thoughtful nature and certainly in no rush with anything or anyone. In short, precisely the type of person you'd expect to meet in a dilapidated tea shack on the hills that ring the Dalai Lama's ersatz hometown. We spoke infrequently, which seemed to suit us both, content to take in the pleasant atmosphere. Splifs were later passed in that sleepy little shack, people coming and going while the creaky door announced everything, the whole day lost in a nice, aperture-wide-open, view over the valley. My new friend was kind and polite, passing small two-finger cups of chai to visitors with his left arm held across his chest, a customary show of welcome and decorum.

             A two hour walk out of town yields this.

                


                McLeod Ganj caters to its refugee population and a steady stream of tourists seeking a special cultural experience. Small shops hock genuine wares and these merchants snooze through the languid afternoons as people shuffle in and out. Two or three-man groups of saffron-robed monks muddle their way up and down the hills seemingly oblivious to the cadres of visitors gawking at them. There's the obligatory fisherman pants wearing, dreadlocked, counter-culture (congruent, really) hippies who almost seem to parody themselves as they walk the streets, sham stoicism and all, trying to gain a quick four-day or two-month enlightenment before heading off to their next revelation. And there's the locals, not hotel owners and not the merchants there for visitors. The ones riding rusty pickups into town with goods or walking them in from outlying towns, smaller towns with small schools, small valleys, and excellent paths for strolling and rambling without a care. 
            Sure, it can be touristy, but isnt everywhere, and weren't those cackling ladies serving me hot noodles in strange porridge so nice. Didn't those characters on the road out into the snow-flecked hills laugh with me. I will say that McLeod Ganj is indeed fantastic.


 'Prince Drimeh Kundan' Opera


          The opera reflects heavily on Buddhist beliefs in the arc of its story.
          In a kingdom there is a prince, the only heir to the throne. A noble an benevolent soul, he is deeply saddened by the misfortune and suffering of others, particularly in the presence of his enormous wealth. His father, impressed by a mentality reminiscent of a bodhisattva (बोधिसत्त्व), gives the prince full reign over the kingdom's riches. The prince disperses them at will, without prejudice or reticence. 
          He soon marries and starts a family, invigorating hope in the King's ministers that new responsibility will quell his desire to aid all those who suffer, thus preserving the kingdom's riches. It does not. Indeed, he vows to give even his wife and children should someone ask.
           It is not long before the prince is banished from his kingdom along with his family. A beggar, at the behest of an evil king from a land far away, asks for the kingdom's sacred "wish-fulfilling" gem. The prince gives it to him. Even in the eyes of his father he has now gone too far. As he exits the land of his birth the prince continues giving alms ,having long forsaken his wealthy existence and status, until even his own provisions are gone.
            Along his journey the prince gives his children to Brahmins who ask this gift of him. The prince and his wife retreat to a forest full of goulish, howling demons. They spend ten years there meditating on existence and the fundamental truths that are found within.
            Eventually, told by a bird that their children are safe and awaiting them, they leave the forest. As a final test, a blind Brahman begs the prince for alms. But he has nothing to give. To his wife's horror he gouges out his own eyes to give to the man. News of the prince and his continuing atruism in the face of the suffering of others reached his former home. Gods grant his wish of new eyes. He arrives to a resounding celebration.
           Together he and his wife preside over the most prosperous period the kingdom has ever experienced. Eventually, they attain nirvana.

Indian Stories ( with apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

 A rickshaw and its driver shuttling past a portrait

 of the venerable Mother Teresa, her eyes ever watchful

over the city she spent her life protecting. Kolkata, 2009.       

My Indian journey starts here.

        Let us ignore platitudes about India. It's steep, rich, longstanding culture, once nascent, it seems, at the beginning of history itself yet still undaunted by the tides of time. By globalization. By the car, the airplane, the Internet, nor by redoubtable cultures administered by force.  Indeed, it's rickshaws, many now motorized,  are still driven by men with bundled, burning feet and aching back. It's cities cradle de facto tourist spots, net cafes, hectic bazaars, lepers dwindlig on street corners, and flashy cars with drivers lilting limp cigarettes from cracks in tinted windows. Swindlers and ascetics and beggars and merchants alike muddy streets already full to their brim 

          Perhaps a rephrase is necessary. We cannot avoid the platitudes popularly fed to us about India; or, India is as immune to platitudes, and the truth or lack thereof found within, as is a stoic holy man  ( a sadhu) to the torrent of fluid life rushing by him, through him. A king on streets which have no such thing.

         India the battered, proudly showing scars. India the backwater, now on the precipice of economic behemoth. It's distended new wealth and it's even more distended belly of poor. It's Bodhisattva tree where Buddha gained enlightenment and its ancient desert fort cities from where it played defense to Mongol hordes. Rickety buses charter and swarm through towns of mud-thatched huts, tiny blips on its berth, carrying cell-phone squawking passengers to bustling virtual metropolises.  In full circus mode, so feel the cities, and on full tilt so feel all but the locals when navigating them; India's grasp is captivating, eliciting love or hate and often both, from all who enter. 

      

        Just a stall like any other in a hive  set among the  alleyways, lanes, and mere dirt paths that vivisect India's heart, Varanasi.

        

        India occupies its own atmosphere, its own time and place. Many, realizing this, try to adapt to India, try to morph into what they feel India wants, expects, of them. Draped saris and dreadlocks are the traveler common. Not to forget fisherman pants. Abercrombie & Fitch: India Collection. Many others get lost in its grip, consumed by its crooked alleyways and cobbled lanes, chai stalls, and its overall unparalleled weirdness to modern Western sensibilities. To be sure, India is modern : it has skyscrapers, amenities that will argue any money you can offer, and a soaring upper class.  But it does not cloak itself (it cannot) in its own tale of modernization. India is raw, unfiltered, and, truly, mystifying.  

         But of course it's been so long now since my one and only trip; 3 years. My beliefs, my idealism, regarding India may be just as moored in the fantastic dreams of a young man yet to meet its shores as it is in my own crumbling vestige of mental snapshots of a journey undertaken with the dubious mixture of naivete and purpose.

Please enjoy, but take it upon yourself to go. 

Journey's End

        I drifted down from those mountains with their soggy roads and crisp air into the aimless heat of the coast. Jackets and various layers were stripped off along the way and stuffed under bungee cords already tenuously holding a severely distended backpack and a sad little guitar I picked up in Dalat. Eventually I found myself on a straightaway with a parched landscape on each side, happily sporting a t-shirt and rain-dirt-mud-weathered jeans. Around a bend, Mui Ne's sand dunes rose and that sweet salty smell wafted in.
       This region isn't painfully hot like some locales across SE Asia: call it fluidic, you float and you wade in its hazy indifference; some drown, most figure their afternoons in the shade, cold beer in hand. There's always later, probably an unspoken mantra in Mui Ne, and later is always there.

        I came here partly because of Andrew, a guy I might while we were both cowering from the cold in our terrible hotel's unheated ballroom-turned-restaurant during my stay in Ninh Binh. He cursed himself for getting that far North away from the beaches, the late nights, the DJing frenzy, and the dingy hut that he had been calling home for some time. The place sounded idyllic, we planned to meet up; though most travelers view these sorts of plans as mere platitudes at best, or even downright lies, I was yearning to see a familiar face, speak some English, and get my damn party on.

       I had planned for a few days, then I found a beautiful reason to stay. A week later I would be off to Ho Chi Minh City, trying to sell the bike with hand-scrawled signs posted on street lights in the tourist district. Fumbling around, just trying to leave, the way the end of trips usually go.

       I was tired, beat-up downright from the endless nights of partying with new friends. My memories even exhausted me as I tried to gather them: the dumping rain in the first half of the trip, my naivete and lack of any sort of knowledge regarding what I had planned, the streets of Hanoi that spilled forth history, the damn, unexpected cold and the knockoffs from tiny markets I tried to shelter myself in, the helpful and the would-be crooks, the long stretches of road shrouded in silence, the truck drivers at a lonely cafe feeding me wooden bong tobacco hits, the ones that ran me off the road, the locals laughing at my silly confusion in unknown towns, the wrong turns and bad directions with good intentions, the Montangard villages, the fear of the bike breaking down during so many stretches of empty highway, the eery scars of war and the mute man who showed them to me, the big smiles and bigger laughter,  the love and the joy. Vietnam. Yes, yes.

Pogo's, Andrew and Caleb in full force.

Beachside, buying mangoes and thankful to be out of the bush.

 The beauty of Mui ne's dunes at sunset.

    
       .            

Dalat Musings Days 19 and 20

 The plethora of hills and valleys that separate Lak Lake from Dalat. 

                 Coming from the semi-remote Lak Lake, I've apparently hit the back road into town. Weaving and pothole-ridden, this lurching beast of a highway rises to mountain crowns with golden views of the green furnace below, parched and ripe at the same time. As the elevation rises into Dalat, temperatures cool and the road is lined with pines, their crisp smell helping me along. Not much further to go now, maybe only 300 K or so until Ho Chi Minh City.

                  I spend my days here wandering the city and its outskirts, even finding a lake for some respite from the bustle that even consumes this relatively quiet place. Nothing of any significance happens and I'm happy for that; the bike and its status are a constant worry. It was dirt cheap already and that was 1500 K ago. Been rubbin' her tank for good luck and crossing my fingers ever time I hear an odd sound from this beast that I have no ability to fix.

Dalat's "Crazy House"is the work of architect Dang Viet Nga. It is designed in the likeness of a Banyan tree with staircases and walkways weaving their way along its length. Inside a labyrinth of  stalactite infused hallways whose walls have a peculiar effect on perception, as though melting on themselves, are free to explore. Rooms found along dark corridors and around bends are equally eclectic as the structure itself featuring odd statues with bright red eyes, statues of mythological animals, that stand eerily in corners.

             

          

Vietnam~ Day 18~

          I'm sweating rum bullets now. Down my brow, trickling along the crevices of my face and emptying out the bottom of my stanky, dust-covered helmet. Thoughtlessly propelling myself through some of the most elaborate beauty the world has to offer. Lush rice paddies, verdant valleys, the works... Asia. Beguiling me, reeling me along, and getting me caught up in its own myth, losing me along its grueling highways and indiscernible cities. I need breath and,though my trip has been solitary, I need solace. Luckily, Lak Lake lies ahead, and at a reasonable distance.
      This old country road eventually ( and mesmerizingly) winds down to Jun Village on the southern bank of Lak Lake leading to a settlement of the M'nong people. The capricious nature of my travels have brought me here and I'm thankful for that after fumbling through this town aimlessly looking for a place to stay. I'm here, nice and steady, with nothing but an old lake and few old folks to keep me company.
Though there's more; many a local enjoying themselves, swilling local liquor, near my door late into the evening.
       The wind heaves in this valley, been doin' that all day... and once those boys get to sleep, or pass, it's gonna' sound real nice.

Rice fields on the outskirts of Lak Lake.

The only visitor in this traditional stilt house meant to accommodate twelve.

The sweetness of the M'nong countryside.( Yes, those are elephants in the river)

Vietnam~ Day 17~

      Vietnam's Wild West. Tumbleweeds.
      Lumpy roads and snack stands.
      Ramshackle houses settled in valleys and along hills, the endless hills of burnt golden grasses and all those Fall shades, rolling here, in Spring, off damn far into the distance, giving a person at least the inkling to follow 'em up every lost, sad little offshoot road, hopin' to find treasure or mystery or whatever strange story gleaned my eye each time I gazed into one, at whatever eye-bleating speed I was going.
      This is where Vietnam's fake moon landing should have been filmed. Martian villagers and all, looking sidelong, only half-interested.
      It's been a while now since the last real rest-stop and this dirty, old bike is givin' cause for concern. How long will she last? Will I bury her, roadside, in some solemn ceremony, hitch into the next forgotten hamlet, hit the bottle, then find a bus to the nearest skeezy beach town?
       These thoughts roam through my head as I gun another 6 hours, predictably being run off the road by truckers and  not caring so much anymore. The skies have been dark and foreboding for a while. Keeping my hand on the throttle; I don't need anymore drenched journeys.