Benares - As Old as Time Itself; and Before

At an internet-cafe I met a fellow USA'an, an Ohioan, Mike. Mike wore his beard like a grizzly, or how I imagine one would wear his, and made me jealous. We chatted and bid farewell, with assumption of later meeting, Bodhgaya is a small enough town.
Later in the day I met Dirk, a German who I shared an uncommon amount of similarities with. He and I spent the later part of the day talking about traveling (mostly how he has gone about it), working, and maybe even politics; wandering over the river to hut-shaped stacks of rice husks (does rice come in husks?) and a closer view of the mountain that contains the cave that the Buddha was to have spent 6 years meditating with but a grain of rice a day; and sitting under the Bodhi tree in the main temple. He has done his fair share of traveling, and told me of a couple organizations that he thought valuable: Wwoof - a third party connecting interested travelers and organic farms that need a hand; and Hospitality Club - an internet site that connects poor travelers (me) to people who want to host them for free (booya). Dirk showed me pictures of his bicycle trip through North Germany and Denmark, gorgeous areas - perfect in every facet for a bicycle trekker, and inspiring in every aspect for a potential. His photos showed that we both had weak-spots for sunset viewed through the green leaves of a idle tree, and the quietude only whispering and wailing grass can bring - though my experience of such has come much less than his. Dirk and I parted ways that night because he was taking a train to Delhi to get on a plane to New Zealand to trek around on his bike and then work at an organic farm. I envied him, but made sure to get his email address.
The next day in Bodgaya, my second, I woke up late, got a meal, got sick, and went to bed early (or tried). The third day held much more interesting events.
I again slept in - I feel that when ones body can focus solely on healing itself, rather than in addition to wandering around a foreign country, that body will do so in greater haste, thus allowing the experience in said country to be more fruitful, and taken in a better attitude. And who wants to throw up on a monk, really? Then again I met Mike in an internet cafe - he is a graphic designer who I am sure deals with much more frustration than the lay person in Indian internet. Again we got talking and as he was leaving from Gaya (the closest train station) to Varanasi the following morning, and I was through with Bodhgaya (despite failure to see all the temples and the 80 foot Buddha - that's what a bad banana does to ones stamina), I followed suit and purchased my Sleeper class train ticket online (online ticket purchase - a valuable lesson learned from said graphic designer). We decided to share an auto-rickshaw to Gaya at 4Am. Gaya is a stop on the way from Kolkata to Delhi, so none of the West-bound departure times are desirable. I had left my MasterCard in my hotel because each time I left the building the clerk would tell me that people were getting mugged or had their this and that "snatched" (which he said with proper eyebrow-raise and hand-motion), but I needed the cards magic numbers to pay for my train ticket. When I got to the lobby I found a Japanese fellow talking to the manager about a taxi to Gaya, and after inquiring when he was going to Gaya, and finding it was the same time as Mike and I, I suggested splitting the cost and sharing the rickshaw three ways. It worked out.
This morning at 4Am three of us were getting into the tuk tuk, sleepy eyed, even cold, but awake. The Doon Express was supposed to come into platform #1 but a train bearing quite a load of coal decided to take it's spot. It was an interesting experience when over a loud-speaker a Hindi voice spoke Hindi words to a Hindi crowd who jumped up and made fast for platform #2 with the three foreigners looking around somewhat bewildered, and somewhat amused. We followed the cue, followed the que, and boarded the Doon Express, each in our separate cars - due to separate purchases, from Platform #2.
Arriving in Varanasi (Benares) almost 2 hours late made time tight for lunch (at least together - Mike was heading on to Nepal for a 3-month meditation retreat) but we got omelets, untoasted toast (the electricity was out) and tea bag chai in the station cafeteria. I was sad to say 'goodbye' to Mike, he was a downright good person, but with KC (the name given to people who probably can't pronounce or remember the actual by our Japanese friend) I found a good hotel, booked our rooms, and got a delightfully cheap and hassle free rickshaw. Varanasi is known to be full of scams and unwavering rickshawers who try to take you to a "better" hotel where they can get commission. Our driver found a better way to get a large cut of money - he was honest and made it known. I cannot be absolutely positive that he didn't get a commission out of our hotel rooms but we had booked them in advance and they only cost 150Rs so I wasn't going to investigate or complain. We tipped him big and told him why. But I figure he knew what he was doing. The 5 flights of stairs I have to climb to my room are a bit much, but there is a rooftop restaurant that is open 24hours which this afternoon saw a perfect warm breeze and overlooks the river and ancient city, and the hotel offers free morning and evening boat rides. This is the first place I've been that I'm hit by the thought "I'm here, isn't it amazing I am here?"

I Took A Shower Today

My skin is much whiter and my hair smells like citrus.

Getting to and Being in Kolkata

I sat around on the train from Guwahati to Kolkata and tried not to smell myself. I've not valued water nor soap on my body the past week (two weeks?) and you can tell. You know those skin disease that make your skin different colors? I thought I had it because the dust has settled into the patches of my skin that don't sweat enough. But in long sleeves, you can't tell the difference. There was a man who looked like a turtle who sat near me. I had chai once or twice and a good chapatti with some sort of curry and a hot pepper which made the meal real good. I tried not to drink too much water to avoid the toilet. I also tried to hold my breath when the train started to slow into stations because you can smell the crap that they just dump through a hole in the train. At night someone turned a light on down the way which made me think it was morning each time I woke up and that made me wake up more, thinking we were close, which made me mad so I woke up more 'cause we were not close. But that made me glad to get to Kolkata at seven in the morning.
The problem with getting anywhere at seven is that the hotels have check out times that are at 10 or 12 and when you call around they tell you to call again at whatever their check-out time is. Even when they have vacancy anyways. Have to resort to the walk-in. Which is how I got a room at Hotel Marie.
Kolkata is nice because it has big wide streets so you can see the big tall buildings they made. Since it's India, everything is crowded anyways but at least it's not Delhi. The population is tremendous. I think tomorrow I'll visit the Bengali Buddhist Association and see if I can get a room so I can see how the Bengali Buddhists do their thing.

On the Road

Long bus and train rides are where it's at.
It feels like you are doing something because you are moving, you are commuting, you're getting "there" so you are free to think about anything you wish, you don't have to feel guilty saying "oh I shouldn't be just sitting here, I'm in India (or wherever you are) and I should 'go out' and 'experience the culture.'" No. You have been liberated from the feeling that your time could be used more valuably and are allowed to think anything - about the design of the seat covers, about the things you don't know about life, about your destination, about nothing. And watching the country pass by the window really eases you into thought process.
The sunlight beats a rhythm through the trees that line the road and can't they make these roads smoother? At least it's not as infuriating as that perfectly still chair that sits under you while you try and read something that all it makes you want to do is get up and do something else. Anyways I love when the sun plays through the green trees like that all golden and like a perfect set of eyes only one missing.
And when you get out of the city the wind pours in through the open windows as thick as meat and tastes like a full meal. You breathe deeply and slowly and look around the bus at everyone bored or sleeping and wish they knew where they lived. And the train is the same thing except less bumpy. Sometimes you catch air off the bumps in a bus.
And taking overnight trains anywhere is a good idea. For the price of a room you don't need one and you get somewhere else. Don't take the AC class - you can't taste the country air and the windows are an odd tint that changes the real colors outside. Nothing is wrong with the sleeper class (as they call it in India) just make sure no one can reach in through those barred open windows and snatch some necessary item out of your pack - but that's a fair trade for plastic windows whose crimes I've told you already.

Phalut & Sandakpur Trek

Rimbick to Gorkey

Shot while I was riding, standing, on the back bumper of the jeep (didn't ride there the whole time, just a few miles)

Looking out from Rammam

Little girl, not much else

I don't quite remember where this was

I stayed the night in Rimbick. Rimbick is a small town at the end of the Sandakphu/Phalut trail. I was to start my trek, the reverse of the norm ("Backtrack" it's called), the next day. My guide, Mingma, and I started walking at 8 in the morning.
The trail started with a jeep road, only a slight incline, and Mingma carrying my backpack. I didn't like that, but he insisted and I walked, thinking how I could explain in easy English that he was emasculating me. I learned that Mingma was able to be a guide because it was festival time, and he was not in school at the moment.
There were pines towering above and ferns draping the ground, watered by many small streams. The path had been cut out of the side of a mountain, so to our left was the incline and a few miniature waterfalls and to the right a steep fall. The pines turned to another type of tree that reminded me of sprouts, with long, lanky white trunks with no branches until their tops, which spread in green tufts of leaves. And the trail turned from its wide, easy Jeep road to a narrow path straight up the mountain. I had regained possession of my pack and trudged up, between heavy breaths that come from physical labor and the lower oxygen levels of high altitudes. It was grueling but at the same time beautiful. We were supposed to stay in Rammam that night.
We got there a little before 11am. I didn't know where we were and Mingma said, "Lunch here."
To which I responded, "Lunch here, then go to Rammam?" I didn't imagine that we were done for the day. Mingma nodded.
Before lunch I had tea with a trekker who sat alone (that is until I joined him).
"So where is your guide?" I asked.
"Oh," he smiled, "I'm traveling alone."
"I was under the impression you had to have a guide" I said with a hint of question in my voice and a glance at Mingma.
"Well...They want you too..." he smiled.
Mingma's English kept us from having very interesting conversations. Well they were interesting, but not in that way. I usually don't mind the language barrier, but the times I do are when the individual I am speaking with does not understand me, but pretends he does. I found out Mingma didn't understand me when, after lunch, I got up to leave.
"Stay here tonight?" he said with more confidence that question.
"Aren't we going to Rammam?" I thought about our conversation when pulling into the town we were in.
The other trekker who I shared tea with pointed to a sign on the only other building in sight. "Hotel Forgettable Name, Rammam," it read. I was shocked.
It was only noon so I told Mingma, "Lets go to Gorkey."
"You can walk? No problem?"
"Yeah of course! I thought we would be hiking all day!" I realized this wasn't going to be as much "trek" as "look at views" and was okay with that.
"Another...mm, 4 hours," he said. I shrugged, because my traveling friend had told me Gorkey was not more than 2 hours away, swung on my pack and we were off.
One hour and 20 minutes later we arrived in Gorkey. I realized that Mingma was more student and less guide.
I told him, "Mingma, I've got a great idea. I'm going to go on alone, and you can go back home. I'll pay you the full amount. Sound good?"
"Um...You can walk alone?"
"Yes!"
"I will ask Puran brother." Puran was the man who set me up with Mingma. Mingma said they were brothers but Mingma was 19 and Puran looked like he was pushing 40. I considered the fact null.
In Gorkey, we got "permission," I suppose, from Puran, and the following day I walked to Phalut and Mingma went back to Rimbick. It was good to be alone. I came to India alone, and on purpose. Not that anyone had suggested to join, but I was glad to go solo. Having a guide was not really along the lines of my journey. And I knew I could follow the trail well enough.

Gorkey to Phalut
Phalut is 3 buildings. Two on the main road, one serves as a hotel, and the other as a restaurant. The third is a little off the road and a new building. It provides two or three more rooms. My bed only cost 52 rupees (pennies more than a dollar) so I was happy. India is cheap but trekking is even cheaper.
It was not late when I got to Phalut, so I spent the remaining daylight exploring the mountain. Phalut is just below a peak, that owns a 360 degree view of the Himalayas. On my way up I saw a yak, basking in the sun. It was the first yak that I've ever seen, and I didn't actually know what it was until I drank it's milk in my tea, down in the kitchen of Phalut. I would not have wanted to milk that yak. I did want to take it's picture. I had seen it watching me since I came into view and it watched me as I stepped forward and pulled out my camera. I think I could call the photo I got an action shot. The yak had reared up on it's hind legs and came down with a vibrant thud. I think I caught the moment his feet hit the earth (if only I'd been a second earlier!). The yak was to lazy to actually charge, and I backed away quick enough to demand it. He had scared me and he knew it. Later I took a picture of him pooping to get back. Humiliation for humiliation. Take that yak!
The next morning I got up at 4:30am. I had been told that the sunrise was at 5 and didn't want to miss it. I ended up missing it. As I said, Phalut is near a peak, and that peak is where I chose to watch the sunrise. The wind was cold. It would not have been so bad but the wind came from the East, so when I took shelter behind a large cement marker (a landmark of the border between India and Nepal) the sun was rising behind me. I did not see the sun rise. I stayed in the cold, for a little over an hour and finally peeked over the landmark to snap a few photos, but I had no gloves and I barely got a shot in every direction before I lost half my fingers.
Luckily the frost let me keep my camera fingers. Later that morning I started to Sandakphu.

The view the yak was guarding

More Phalutian views

Phalut to Sandkphu







The road from Phalut to Sandakphu should have been easy to follow - it was a jeep road. But I took two wrong turns. One directed me in a two hour detour to the East, and one a bit longer to Nepal. The jeep trail is cut by little shortcuts, that cut off the switchbacks and apparently, when used correctly, get a foot traveler to his destination in better speed. I think I chose the wrong short cut to take. I came to a small thatched town, which had turned the mountainside into long green steps of farm, and approached the first local I saw. Luckily, he spoke a bit of English - at least enough to say "You have lost your way. You are in Nepal." A shock, but a happily received one (I didn't come to the Himalayas to stay on the beaten path, even though when I told myself this, I wasn't intending it to be taken literally). I told him I didn't want to go back the way I came, and that I wanted to go directly to Sandakphu (part in words, part in hand motions). He showed me a "shortcut" as he called it, that would lead me down the mountain I was on, across a river, up and over another mountain, to the path that goes to Sandakphu. He told me a few times to make a right on that path. I said, "Dan de vad" and took off.

Note that this is no jeep road

This is where the Nepali direction giver lived

The river I crossed

Me stoked to be almost up the mountain, almost to the road I was supposed to be on

I reached Sandakphu later than I had intended and quite weary from the extra long hike I had taken, but in high spirits. The view was amazing between Kanchanganga and Everest. I stayed in Sandakphu for 3 nights and spent the days reading and looking out the windows of a cozy restaurant with warm staff and good food. There was a pile of books in this restaurant with a piece of paper taped above, reading, "Read 'N' Keep." Though Clive Cussler, a New York Times best selling author's Sacred Stone was in that pile, though Grund-und Aufbauwortschatz: Englisch, and Learn Kannada Through Hindi, and Notes on The History of Europe: 1789-1939 by professors Sarkar and Mitra from Calcutta were among the choices, and Tom Wolfe's Fegefeuer der Eitelkeiten and Simon Maigret's Ja Kadonnut Asiakirja were calling for me, I chose the two for one special from Jack London - The Call of the Wild and White Fang. Reading about cold Alaska suited the temperature of Sandakphu, though I was safe in surprisingly well insulated cafe of the Sherpa Lodge. I made it through The Call the first day but only half way through White Fang the the next. I left the book there, but wish I had obeyed the paper sign.

When I wasn't reading, I took some pictures of and away from Sandakphu

My new friend

Everest...Except it's not the one you would think. I realized when I saw a post card in Darjeeling that labeled all the peaks that I had seen Everest, yes, but had thought it the wrong one...oh well

Under that construction I spent most of my time, in the restaurant, reading.

Sandakphu to Tumling




After the third night, I set out for Tumling. It was very foggy. The past two days had seen little daylight, which had made the glimpses of Everest that much more welcomed. The trek from Sandakphu to Tumling must not have carried many interesting stories because I cannot remember it. But Tumling did.
This is festival time in Nepal, and since Tumling is basically a Nepali village, being on the border, it was festival time in Tumling. The evening I arrived found the small town throwing firecrackers, dancing, and playing disco/hip-hop drum machine and synth Nepali tunes out of colorfully lighted DVD player hooked up to old speakers. But those speakers could get loud.
I had developed a bit of a cold in Sandakphu and carried it with me to Tumling. It was only in my sinuses but somehow I was sensitive to light. In the room where we were dancing Nepali style (which must be very odd because they honestly and truly liked my dancing! Some even asked me to teach them my moves), there were two characters who stood out. One was a large drunk man who interrupted anyone who was talking to me to explain the significance of my name. He said "Jere" is close to "gero" (or something like it) which means empty. And apparently "miah" means love (I later learned from a sober man that "miah" doesn't mean love but illusion, and that only by a very large stretch of the imagination could it mean love). So I was to this large drunk Nepali man "Empty Love." He later had the decency to change it to "Prim," another word for love. The other character who stood out was his wife. She had armed herself with a flashlight and was pointing it around the room, particularly in the Westerner's face. As I said I was sensitive to light, and each time she pointed that damn flashlight at my face my eyes watered and nose tickled and I had to blow snot into an already snot-filled handkerchief.
After they made me dance they had me watch 5 girls practice a dance they were to perform the following day. They had not quite gotten it down and I saw the beginning of that dance a great many times. But through this I learned that the next day was to be another festival day and that there was to be many programs including futbol, so I decided to stay the extra day.
The festival was in my best description quaint. Less than 100 people showed up but it was obvious that it was the biggest festival, deserving of the greatest planning, of the year.
My digital camera had run out of batteries before Tumling, but I had bought a cheap film camera in Rimbick, so pictures do exist, just not on this blog. For a great part of festival, though, clouds blanketed the whole futbol field and any photo's taken would have been in vain. I could barely see across the field - at times I couldn't!

Tumling to Mani Banjaing
I woke up at 5:30, drank some tea, then some coffee when I was hit by how little sleep I had gotten, then set out. The family I stayed with, the owners of the Mountain Lodge, had packed me a bag of Sale Roti, a delicious bread that I had liked so much I had gotten the recipe, so I was set.
The light rain that accompanied the morning contributed another foreign sound to the normally silent mountains. In addition to my heavy breathing due in part to the thin air in the Himalayas; my pack squeaking or shifting or brushing; the displaced stones on the path moving under my feet; there was now the pitter patter of the rain on the hood of my jacket. It didn't last long and neither did my hike. I made it to Mani Banjaing in a bit over 2 hours and got in a share car to a nearby town where I joined a share jeep to Darjeeling. In the car from Mani Banjaing to the connecting village, there were three full grown bodies in the front and four in the back. That wouldn't have been a problem but the car was that 80's Toyota style, thin and short and boxy. The front back-rest was obviously no match for the three burly shoulder spans of the three burly bearded men (I need not mention, but I will, that I was one of those burly bearded men - though actually, they had no beards, so I was left the lone bearded burly man). I ended up with my head bumping on the glass of the window shield. Each blind turn the driver would honk his horn to warn any oncoming traffic of our coming and speed up to make sure any collision would not result in a slow death.
But I got to Darjeeling (eventually) and now bask in it's warmth, watch it's festival, and eat her food.