Manali and Vishisht

We arrived to Manali at 5:30 a.m., or better, to the muddy bus station that is on the outskirts of the city. An English girl was bargaining a taxi to Vashisht and we decided to follow her. We had no idea where to go anyway.

                After shamelessly chasing her for a few minutes she realized Caleb and I were like two lost chicks, and decided to adopt us by asking us whether we wanted to share the taxi she had already negotiated. We said yes!

                Because we were five people in the car, Caleb and I had to ride in the front seat. Caleb was sitting in the middle, between the driver and I, with the gear shift between his legs. It was a very homoerotic scene: driving through the Himalayas at sunrise with a stranger shifting gears between my fiancé’s legs. Caleb argues, however, that the driver was very cautious and that he only touched his testicles once.

                When we arrived to Vashisht we entered the first hotel we saw and bargained a room. We paid four dollars for both of us, clearly this is not a five-star hotel, but we have what we need: a bed and a (disgusting) shared bathroom. We leave tomorrow at 2 a.m. to Leh anyway, so it won’t hurt to sleep on a dirty bed for one night. 

                The room was full with flies though, but luckily Caleb is the best insect assassin in the world! Although he prefers to be called a “sleep-restorer.” It does not matter how you call him (you could also call him traitor for killing sentient beings after spending a month studying Buddhism with a Geshe) his intervention in this matter was indispensable for my well-being.

                Vashisht, however, is beautiful. The town is built in a valley right beside a river. There is a Hindu temple decorated with impressive wood carvings, hot springs where locals bath and do laundry, and an overwhelming, magical view of the Dhauladhar and Pir Panjal ranges. But now, it is time for me to head to New Manali to buy some hand-made Kullu Valley shawls.

Mcleod Ganj, Dharamshala

It’s been four days since we arrived to Mcleodganj, the city where the Dalai Lama lives in exile, and the city where Caleb has spent the last month. Because Himachal Pradesh is in the north of India, and closer to the Himalayas, the weather is a lot better than in Delhi. However, the monsoon season is starting and it has rained a lot; so we have spent most of our time in our apartment (which consists of a bed and a balcony with a gorgeous view) sleeping, reading and planning our trip.

                Mcleodganj is not a pretty city though. It is congested and packed with “Buddhist” tourists that come to practice yoga, learn ayurvedic medicine and meditate. And because it is built on a very steep hill walking requires serious good shape; of course, Caleb and I don't have such a shape, but all the hipsters and local Buddhists do, probably because they do not smoke, do not drink, and would rather eat sea-weed tofu and green tea over greasy puri and lassi. But despite all the honking cars, the sore legs, and the rain, our time in Mcleod has been great. Especially because Caleb had made some friends before I arrived, so we have a little bit of a social life here. The Tibetan reality, however, is very difficult, and I would have liked to spend more time here to understand it a little bit better.

                Last night, Caleb and I went out for dinner with Paula and Francesco. She is from Colombia and he is from Italy. They have been traveling for the past year. Paula studied Anthropology and did a master’s degree in “Resolucion de conflictos.” She describes her work as “peace education,” and she has spent time in Bogota, Choco, and now here in Mcleodganj, teaching kids and adults who experience violence, discrimination and segregation, how to express their feelings and their ideas through non-traditional ways of communication. Ways that instead of perpetrating war open new windows and possibilities for discussion and reconciliation. (I am not sure Paula will accept my definition of her work as an accurate one, but that is what I understood.)

                Paula and Francesco are wonderful people. They are romantic dreamers, but they also are incredibly pragmatic. They do not stay still. They are always in action, coming up with new ideas, new strategies to bring peace to communities in conflict, to share different ways of acting and thinking. Paula and Francesco really believe in human kindness and compassion, but above all in change. And even though being around people like them injects my soul with good energy, it also makes me feel uncomfortable and insecure. Partly because I do not believe in human kindness and compassion, partly because I move at a different pace, and I think there are conflicts in this world that in order to be solved need, more than new forms of expression and communication, time and patience; that was our discussion last night around the Tibet.

                Paula and Francesco were frustrated because they feel the Tibetan community here in Mcleoudganj is hermetic and too traditionalist. And it is true. They have been in India for half a century and they have not integrated at all with Indian people. In fact, their relations are not good; Tibetans are “invading” Indian territory but refuse to have anything to do with Indian culture or people--the typical immigration problem. I do understand why, nonetheless.

The Tibetan people have been persecuted for more than fifty years. They are not allowed to live their culture in their own land, and here in exile they have found the space to build monasteries, listen to the Dalai Lama’s teachings, learn and speak Tibetan. In exile they feel stronger as a community because it is the only place where they can actually be a community. A community that shares the same beliefs, that speaks the same language, that has the same political and religious leader! Caleb told me the Chinese government has banned people in Tibet from pronouncing the Dalai Lama’s name, and that school lessons are taught in Chinese. So how can you blame the Tibetan community for being hermetic and traditionalist? They are simply trying to keep alive a culture in foreign territory, because in Tibet where most of Tibetans live, it has almost already disappeared.

Paula and Francesco’s argument, however, is that Tibetans should be more honest about their situation in India and stop referring to Mcleod as a “temporary” place because they have already spent half a century here. So Francesco believes they should build a community with Indian people and be more inclusive. “They will not be less Tibetan for doing so,” that’s what he says. And I think he is right. But Paula and Francesco also argue that Tibetans are very passive and static because they leave all the decision making to the Dalai Lama. Paula and Francesco think that a democratic system could help Tibetans feel more empowered and stop thinking the Dalai Lama is going to solve all of their problems. However, I think Tibetans have done great at keeping alive their beliefs and culture, and that in itself is a victory for them because that’s exactly what the Chinese have tried to destroy. And it is especially a victory for Tibetan people because they are doing this when they have no land, when they have no community life. How do you keep a language and a culture alive when there is no official territory in which this language is spoken? When families are dismembered because in order to preserve their beliefs and freedom kids have to be sent to adoptive families outside of Tibet, or walk for three months across Nepal toward mcleodganj? What the Tibetan community in exile has managed to do requires a lot of work and cooperation among them, and what is even more interesting is that mixed Tibetans that live in America or Europe are learning Tibetan, are going to Tibet, and are being educated by the Students for Free Tibet organization.

 Tomorrow we leave at 8 p.m to Manali, where we take the bus to Leh in Laddakh, another Tibetan territory in India. Tongyot, a Geshe with whom Caleb studied Buddhism for a month in Mcleod, invited us to spend a week with his family. I cannot wait to be in Leh, but at the same time it is hard to say good-bye. We met amazing people here in Mcleodganj, and I do hope one day we have the opportunity to come back.

A huge Dhramsalian slug

 Our balcony

               

Old Delhi

After spending some time with the diplomats and air conditioning, it was time for me to see the “real” Delhi. We decided that we were going to take the metro to Old Delhi (I could not resist the temptation to ride the Ladies Car), go to the mosque and have lunch at a restaurant the owner of our hotel had recommended (luckily, because the area is not very pretty, and even though we have enough Cipro, it is not cool to have diarrhea).

                The day before, Sandra had hired a driver who took us to a fancy market, and even though I wanted to buy every single thing, I decided to only buy a kurta (a long, embroidered blouse). My trip to Old Delhi was the perfect opportunity to wear it, because after all the terrible things I had heard in Toronto and I had read on blogs about the sexual harassment of women, I really wanted to look proper and avoid “boob-grabbers.” So I put on my pistachio kurta, my loose grey pants, and my floral head-wrap.

                We walked from our hotel to the metro station, and as expected it was insanely packed. However, the Ladies Car shined in the distance like a precious gem. It was empty, cool, and “boob-grabbers” free. A police officer, and a pink sticker on the floor that said “women only” marked the border of the promised land, and I, as the Messiah walked towards paradise, leaving all sinners behind.

                Once we arrived to Old Delhi we walked among cows and goats, homeless people, garbage, tuk tuks, bikes, cars, beggars and urinals. We saw the mosque, and in front of it, in a narrow alley way with no exit, was the restaurant the owner of our hotel had recommended us. As soon as we sat down at a table, the waiter brought us red, raw onions! I really wanted to have some, I LOVE ONIONS! But Sandra and Alejandro had warned us “do not eat raw vegetables or you will get sick.” Maybe it was a punishment from the gods because the day before Caleb and I had had a burger in a very gringo restaurant: Dear Cow, I publicly ask you for your pardon, and I thank you for all the delicious dairy products. After our meal, I asked Caleb if we could go to the mosque, and he said it would require some energy because Indians want to charge tourists for absolutely everything, but we went for it.

                We walked to the Mosque, took our sandals off and put them in my “mochila.” The floor was burning, but the fact that we had put our shoes in our bag and that we were not going to be charged for putting them in a locker was worth the pain of walking on fire. However, as soon as I had declared victory, a stranger hugged me from behind and wrapped me in an old floral sheet that someone had sewn into a bath robe. Yes, I had to pay for that! For melting in a polyester sauna, even though I was properly dressed: my legs were not showing, my arms were not showing, my hair was not showing. Proof of the latter is that no one, absolutely no man had looked at me. Well, Caleb says that some of them did, but I did not notice; I was definitely not harassed, maybe because I am not a tall, white, blond Swedish woman, or maybe because I was walking beside a man that looks like a Tibetan gangster, or maybe because I was covered from top to bottom, despite the 45°C. I don’t know. The point is, however, that in order for me to enter the mosque I had to be dressed up as a blue, Hawaiian table cloth.

               I accepted my fate and entered the first space with marble floors to cool down, but Caleb immediately held my arm. Apparently we were in the most important space in the entire mosque and I was jumping and running, behaving like an ignorant, white tourist (which I am). But how was I supposed to know that this was such an important space? Let me remind all of you that I come from a Catholic tradition. In a cathedral, there are candles, an altar, IMAGES, and people SITTING DOWN. At the mosque there were, obviously no images, no altar and people not sitting down but literally sleeping on the floor (and I not that ignorant, I am not talking about those who were praying; I am talking about people cuddling each other). I thought that was pretty cool, though. I wish we could spoon each other at mass.

                After I started to feel my feet again, I spotted, among the men who were praying, a man who was wearing a shirt that said “fighting solves everything.” I thought that was pretty ironic. This man was lying on his knees and his forehead touched the floor; he could not look more peaceful and tranquil with himself and his surroundings. But maybe he was not praying that hard, because as soon as Caleb and I left the room he followed us, recording every step we took with his phone. We walked across the mosque, my feet were burning again, and the paparazzo was not giving up. I was about to hit bottom. But then Caleb pointed at a tall tower, and told me we could go up the tower and see Delhi. I thought that was a pretty cool idea.

                We had to buy tickets to go upstairs, of course, and then fight with the guy that collected them because he was pretending we had just given him one, not two. But after all the normal hassle we were allowed in. Then the interesting part started. The stairs to go up were incredibly narrow and steep (probably 80 cm. wide). I was trying to control my claustrophobia and my nausea, while going up the endless, dark spiral, and once I was getting used to the space, things got worse: people were going down as well! This was the perfect opportunity for the boob-grabber boogeyman to attack. However, men did not even notice me, to the point where one of them hit me on the head, and my head-wrap fell off. I was very unhappy. Not only was I realizing that Indian men are simply not attracted to me, but I was boiling in my polyester sauna, and my hair was so wet I really did not want to feel it on my neck. So I murmured “fuck.” Oh, that they noticed! And in our narrow, dark, steep, spiral of rock every single Indian man laughed at me and repeated “fuck.”

                Somehow we managed to get to the top, and the breeze did feel great. However, the space was not that much bigger, and there was barely space for us to stand. So we looked around, took a picture, and went back into the vertical tunnel. This time, however, a group of Indian teenagers did notice me, and all said hi. Since my self-esteem was back to its normal levels after some male attention we decided to go to our Western paradise McDonald’s and have an ice-cream. Sadly Caleb had to buy them outside, and the 30 seconds it took him to enter the restaurant again were enough for the ice-cream to melt. 

First Days

This is our second day in Delhi. We just moved to our less fancy hotel, where Caleb stayed when he first came. And because Caleb has committed to sing at a party in Damarshala--a party that a traditional Tibetan singer is throwing! So basically we are just going to make a fool of ourselves—he is “rehearsing” what he believes to be a bolero, even though it sounds more like a ranchera.  It’s gonna be a mess, and I already have that nervous laugh, to which Caleb responds: “How am I supposed to become a great musician if you don’t support me?” which just makes me laugh even harder. Caleb is a very optimistic person, but I believe that this is the price I must pay for kind of forcing Caleb to go out with Sandra and Alejandro, a Colombian couple that lives here in Delhi.

                Caleb cannot understand why it is that Colombians love to meet up with other Colombians when they travel, and to be honest I don’t really know why either. I think I am just so grateful to that Colombian couple that helped me in Bangkok after my passport got stolen that from now on I promise to find a Colombian couple in every single country I visit… just in case. So I told Caleb that we had to go and meet Sandra and Alejandro, period; and I took his phone and called Sandra. She is a very sweet girl, and we pretty much spoke on the phone for 15 minutes, we laughed and we even said “besos” (kisses) at the end of our conversation. When we hung up Caleb was even more confused. “How come you don’t know this woman and you are able to speak as if you’ve known her for a long time? And you even sent her kisses?” But that’s the secret of the tropic, the rain forest and our indigenous heritage. We are genuinely good, generous people… we even let Spaniards take all our gold and kill our gods. So there we were in our little orange room waiting for the two strangers to come pick us up.

                Sandra and Alejandro were unable to find the hotel, so we agreed to meet up at a mall close by. We didn’t have to give each other any kind of hint of how we were dressed or anything, we knew we were going to recognize each other among the saris and the brown skins. At least they were going to recognize me because I definitely stand out in this city. In fact, today at Indian Gate a little girl and her mom asked me if they could take a picture of me. I thought they meant they wanted me to take a picture of them, but I was wrong. As if I were Minnie Mouse at Disney World they stood beside me, and there I am in the memory card of some Indian stranger, who’s probably bragging about meeting a pale, blondish life form.

                But back to Sandra and Alejandro. They did recognize me, and luckily because they both look so Indian! So it never crossed our minds that they were the Colombian couple we were waiting for. And that’s another wonder of Colombians, we are such a “salpicón” (fruit salad). There are the white, mushy bananas like me; the sweet, pinkish watermelons that despite being Latinos and Latinas are unable to get a tan;  the exotic, juicy mangoes-- the Latina and Latino category that the world likes the most; and the brownish grapes like Sandra and Alejandro (among others of course). So there we were, the moment had arrived, we had met the bodies, the owners of the voices on the other side of the phone. We went to have dinner in a little neighbourhood called Hauz Khan Village, which is the equivalent to Yorkville in Toronto or to La zona rosa in Bogota. We had tapas and talked, talked, talked. Luckily Sandra’s and Alejandro’s English is good, and Caleb excels at pretending he understands Spanish, so the conversation went smoothly. In fact, they are very nice people! And I believe Caleb is realizing why it is that Colombians keep wanting to get together, even if it is in on the other side of the world.

                Today, for instance, we went to the Art Gallery with Sandra, who picked us up at the hotel, and trust me, a car with AC is very much appreciated when it is 45­°C outside. 

Living the good life with Sandra at Humayun's Tomb