Weekend Update

So I figure I owe you all a bit of an apology.....or something like that. I mean it's not like I made any promises, I do appreciate you reading along with me for the past year but I kind of fell off the blog-wagon. The worst part of it is that I've had a tremendous amount of material that would've supplied hours of entertainment to all of you that has retracted itself to the cobwebby storage locker that is the back of my mind. I am going to do my best to pick up the pieces here and if ya'll promise to keep a-readin', I promise to keep a-writin'.

I left Nepal at the end of November and hoofed my way backwards through the border-crossing process that I endured only 5 weeks earlier. I waited for my train, eagerly scooping rice and dal with my right hand, making small talk with some other tourists and a rare feeling washed over me: I was back in India and I felt comfortable. The All-India Express jostled me for 42 hours from Uttar Pradesh to the chaos that is Bombay and I was greeted by a very good-looking man whose presence evoked a rush of emotions that reaffirmed why I was coming back to him. We would spend the next 3 months living in Puna, playing occasionally in Bombay and basking in the sun and sand of Goa for the holidays. Occasionally I was pinched by the realization that my year long trip would soon be complete and that I would return to my old world a completely new individual.

So just when I was really beginning to feel comfortable we got caught with our guard down. Ajit and I had parked the car on a main street in Bombay, crossed the road and entered a store for precisely 12 minutes. Upon our return we found the back window of the car smashed in, his laptop and my bag stolen. Other than my camera and personal items my bag also contained the extremely valuable ticket to my otherwise insignificant human existence: my Canadian passport. I anticipated that this wouldn't be a huge problem, I mean people must have dealt with this type of situation in the past, no? The Canadian government would treat a taxpayer as an individual and step in where needed, right? Well, let me just make it clear to all of you: YOU'RE TOTALLY F****N SCREWED AND LEFT TO SHOVEL YOUR WAY OUT OF YOUR OWN S**T. I'm just thankful for Ajit because if I was actually alone in India dealing with my passport at the time, I would still be - to this day - alone in India desperately dealing with my passport. We spent our last 10 days together completely consumed with the task at hand: flying to Delhi (twice!) to get my passport, contacting Indian immigration in Nepal, digging up unlisted phone numbers for border patrol, harassing Police chiefs, Foreigners Registration officers and one very arrogant secretary. At one point, knowing how desperate we were, she told us to go get her some printer paper. Yeah, actually go an buy it because they needed it in the office. Should I even mention that the filing system ran about as efficiently as a mosh pit, it's a wonder that they actually keep criminals out of that country. Let's be wary of the white girl and deal with the terrorists later! My flight was leaving in a week and no one seemed to care about the urgency of that. Whatever, take a number, chump. So Ajit and my time together came to an abrupt end and perhaps for the better. Who knows how our separation anxiety would've affected us if we didn't have the passport drama to distract us. It showed how well we worked together to actually execute the impossible task at hand. It's not easy to get the Indian government to do something for you in the span of one week, hell we were asking things of them multiple times a day!

Two days later than originally planned, I was finally sitting aboard the Singapore Airlines flight that I had played over in my mind many times before. This time I wasn't as excited as I thought I would be. Are we ever though? I might've said this before (as someone said it to me) but I'll say it again: Life is what happens to us when we're busy making other plans.I had so many preconceived notions as to how things were going to be for me coming back home. I was excited about how much time I would be able to spend with all my good friends and family who I've sincerely missed and thought about over and over throughout the months of 2008. I was pumped about my new goal of improving the lives of those around me. I found comfort in the fact that I would finally have a nice little apartment of my own and a cushy job that would slowly tick away at my credit card balance. It is only now, when I've been back home for a few weeks where I see just how insignificant my absence was. Life hasn't changed a bit. In fact the only measure of time that I have is the changes evident in the faces of my friends' children. So I'm back in it and once again I find I've planned out the next 365 days. That's about as far as I ever get. In the eyes of those who live for the unknown: I'm too organized, in the eyes of the rest: I need a better plan. Either way it's all sorted; I've got my little apartment and a great job is in the works. God it was all too easy. The things that keep me up at night?....... well, I can't help but realize that all those moments I looked forward to while I was away will only occur on a rare occasion. I'm still here doing what I've always done, but this time I find a little bit of sadness as I come to terms with the fact that I can't hang onto all of you like I did for so many years.......my friends who I would give the world for. The one's I shared a dining table with at boarding school, the one's I shared a volleyball court with throughout my career, and all the rest who touched me deeply in one conversation or another. The world is spinning too quickly for me and I can't get enough.

So what's changed?......
I spend most of my time on the phone to India and I find great fulfillment in that.
I spend a lot of time reading, studying and actually doing the things on my TO DO list with the utmost care and focus.
I find it easy not to fight with my mother anymore.
I find it (just a little bit less) easy not to fight with my grandmother
I find it easy to give in a let people have their way
I can sit at home all weekend
I feel compassion for strangers, I look them in the eye and smile
I can't text message anymore, I want to talk


I'm still adjusting to being back. Canada: we have the room to move, we don't have any poverty, I have the ability to plan out my day, I'm not a victim of the constraints of culture, I'm not a walking ATM, I can speak the language. But I miss the freedom, I miss the Indian food, I miss the understanding and love people have towards the rest of their countrymen, I miss the 12cent Chai. I hate the way we distract ourselves, I hate the tunnel vision, I hate the way we think text messaging is actually communicating, I hate that we don't have any time for each other anymore.


Home is where the heart is......but what if I've left bits and pieces of it strewn all over the globe?

This Woman is not an Island

So trekking in Nepal was actually another one of the things on my south Asian "to do" list. Check.

I arrived in Kathmandu after a long train ride, a couple buses (each of these deserving a blog write up of their own) and footing across the border. The purpose of the visit to the capital was to renew my Indian visa, do some long awaited souvenir/antique shopping, buy equipment for my trek and, tacked on at the last minute, a self diagnosis of my energy sucking, diarrhea inducing, food rejecting illness and some much-needed rest. So in 8 days in Kathmandu (which were 7.5 too many) I succeeded.... for the most part.

I made my way to Pokhara, whereupon I discovered that there were places in Asia that could be both beautiful and quiet. Exactly what I was looking for after 3.5 months in the quicksand that is India. In a rush and up very late the night before, as I often am before I embark on a big trip, I was on the bus headed for the trailhead. I immediately joined the "singles" group of Asaf and Shahaf (obviously Israeli) and David (Ger) and we quickly renounced our previous status. Shahaf had hired himself a porter and, being all caught up in bubbling conversation and the excitement of the trip, we followed him as he marched up the road and off in, what we also didn't know at the time was, the wrong direction. After about an hour when Shahaf asked Joshi (the porter) "Is this the right way?" Joshi smiled, nodded eagerly and said "ya". What we would soon discover was that Joshi smiled, nodded eagerly and said "ya" to absolutely every question we asked him. (This was also most often followed by a hopeful, innocent look and the single question-formed word: "Cigarette?".) So after about 3 hours of walking and talking we found ourselves on the left side of the river directly across from the place we intended to stay that night and we were without a bridge with which to cross the Marsyangdi. So we trudged on and spent the first night in the place intended for night #2. But we were troopers: 2 Israeli boys fresh out of the army, an athlete and....well, a chemist, but he was usually leading the pack; we weren't gonna let this get to us.....we could handle it!

After plodding along for a couple more days it was apparent that dealing with the blisters on my feet wasn't going to go over as easily as I thought. I was prepared to suffer, but geez these hurt, and it was starting to harsh on my nature-enjoying mellow. But I was prepared for this. As I was packing my bags before the trek I was faced with a very tough decision: Birkenstocks or flip-flops? The Birks (despite getting on past 12 years in age) would provide me with the relief I needed when the blisters from my boots proved too much to handle and the flip flops would be my shower-power, keeping my feet both warm and fungus-free. Considering I was planning on being alone most of the time (and who knew if showers were even something that were going to be available) I went with the deluxe German model over the Asian all-weather footgear. Major life choice #1: the right one! Nice, off to a good start. I should also elaborate a bit on the pain that I was actually feeling while walking in these boots. I mean it's hard to have a crappy day when you're walking along the most beautiful valleys in the world in the warm afternoon sun, carrying nothing but essentials with the mightly Manaslu towering over your right shoulder. But these blisters were really ruining it for me. I also had poles and was using them much like my 80 year-old grandfather would have in order to take simple steps on well-trodden trails. It was clear that something was going to have to be done because I refused to suffer like this. So it was at this point where I won the first of many battles with my ego: I accepted the boys' offer to carry my boots and a few other heavier items from my bag. For those of you who know me, this is an absolute no-no for 'Izzy the Island'.

So things were going very smoothly from this point on and after a couple days of marching as 'Izzy the only hippie on the island who wears sandals' I was back in the boots. We slowly ascended through first the tropical, jungle-like parts of the valleys, to the British Columbian-like forests and then into beautiful Himalayan valleys. It was astonishing and I was loving every minute of it.

Much like trekking, life is also peaks and valleys. Day 10 hit and with it disaster struck: I ate a cheese bun. Having diagnosed myself with Giardia (for those of you laymen out there it's also known as Beaver Fever) back in Kathmandu, I took some medicine that has been rumoured to cause lactose intolerance as a side-effect. I really didn't think much of it at the time because I had been feeling so good throughout the trek. But at the base of the Thorung-La pass (5416m) this would prove to be disasterous.

I awoke at 6am the morning we were going to cross the pass and I couldn't sit up in bed without excruciating cramps and the other all-too-familiar discomforts I had been feeling back in Kathmandu. I told Shahaf and David that I wouldn't be able to stick to our schedule and Shahaf, the great team player that he is, offered to stay with me. I did manage to get myself up to High Camp (where people in their right minds would never volunteer to sleep), pausing every 50 steps to regain strength, breath and willpower. This was physically the hardest thing I've ever done as my body wasn't taking up any of the food that I had eaten in the last 20 hours, (nevermind the added disadvantage of being at between 4500-4900m) I actually wanted to die. I spent the rest of that day in bed and when it was too cold at 2pm in my sleeping bag I managed to crawl outside and lay myself on a piece of cardboard under the sun to warm myself up. The sun would be going down at around 3pm and it was clear we were in for an agonizing day and night. At this point it wouldn't be possible for Shahaf to do the pass as he would've liked due to extreme winds that gust across Thorung-la beginning at around 11am. The night at high camp was made extra special with freguent trips to the freezing and windy squatter toilet (which had no window pane) to deal with my diarrhea and vomiting. Suffering was eased a smidgin when I realized it would be much easier for me to just throw up outside my door. As I slithered myself into my sleeping bag for the last time that night, finally feeling a little relief, I vowed that I would get over this pass and to the hospital in Jomson even if I had to hire a ridiculously expensive donkey. I figured that was a better option than heading back down the 10 days from whence I came, where there were no advanced medical posts.

So there I was the next morning at 7am getting my pretty black stallion fitted to carry my pathetic a** over the pass. As the horseman and I trotted past the hoards of people, most of whom had started their ascent between 3 and 4 in the morning, I felt like one of those medievel horsemen, wounded and barely alive and hunched over his trusty steer who is faithfully carrying him back to his village. Other than feeling physically terrible and extremely cold, my ego was also taking a bit of a bashing as I rode past several women who had to be well over the age of 50 and were pushing on without complaint.

Well I made it. I got to the top with the help of a horse and if it's any consolation I did execute the long walk down the otherside; mostly because I had to: it was too steep a descent for the horses. So I guess you can put an asterisk beside the note on my tombstone that says "Crossed the world's highest pass". I have much the same feeling about it as I did when I was a rookie on my University volleyball team and we won the silver medal while I sat on the bench and watched. I was definitely part of it but when the topic is raised in conversation it's one I tend to waiver from quickly. Annapurna 2, Ego 0.

So as I slowly recuperated and said goodbye to Shahaf, I was by myself for the first time on the trip. It felt great to be alone and to be able to cruise at my own pace. But it's also amazing how quickly your mind returns to wandering when you're surrounded by silence. I did give myself a few assignments for my arrival in Jomson, the biggest village on the trek. To give you an idea: they have an ATM, a hospital and even a small airport. Mission #1 was to find a doctor. Mission #2 (upon the completion of Mission #1) was to try and poop in a tiny glass vial and Mission #3 was to withdraw some cash. So as I spent an entire day in Jomson, my already simplified life was reduced to executing one even more simplistically human task....and I failed. But at this point, despite having drained everything from my body the previous 4 days, I was once again on an upswing and I chose to power through and not let this little parasite ruin the rest of my trek.

I trudged on... occasionally running into people I had met previously along the way, traveling with them for a day or two and then disappearing again off on my own to find my own unique adventure of the day. At one point I took a wrong turn and ended up walking along an old trail. I saw the track seemed to be somewhat overgrown and untrodden for quite some time, but still I continued on. I found a very sketchy bridge over a river that exacerbated the uneasiness I felt, but still, I continued on. I walked along the hillside, through the tall grass and crossed a landslide and then scaled a rockwall to get myself back on track. That was about as exhilerating as it got: the risk of tripping, falling down a rockwall into a river without anyone in the world knowing where you are. Whoo....what a rush.

As I felt my strength coming back, the athlete in me started to shine once again and I found myself logging long hours and days; but it's this method of pushing myself and body to the edge that I found really enjoyable. Everyday I would meet amazing people as I sat around the tea house dinner table or communal stove (which heated not only our dinner and the tea house but also the humans and their stinky trekking parefernalia).


There were definitely a couple hard days out there but they also taught me a little bit about myself. I seem to make a choice about something and then I'm so bullheaded that I refuse to let myself waiver from it. For example, when I was returning from the base camp I had this idea in my head that I would make it to a specific guest house. Well, I found myself battling the longest, hardest hill of my trip well into darkness, having an argument with my ego and cursing outloud.
"Why do you do this to us?"
"Oh stop being such a sissy"
"Look at all these guest houses we're passing, why don't we just call it? We're exhausted?"
.....Silence. Walking, sweating, breathing......
This is still something I'm wondering the answer to. But it goes to show how I operate, most likely, in many areas of my life.

It was a couple days earlier when I had also marched the better part of a day that I jotted a few things down:
-# of hours walked: 8
-# of calories ingested: definitely less than I've expended
-# of times caught myself talking to myself: 5
-# of times got a leaf stuck on my pole: 17
-# of times I stopped to remove it cause it irritated me: all 17
-# of times I stopped to turn around cause I thought someone was behind me: 4
-# of times there actually was someone: 0
-think I actually lost my mind today



Day 21: Annapurna Basecamp. Goodnight Irene, I made it! Despite not being as high as some of the places we stayed near the pass (thank God) it was certainly the most beautiful. Volleyball was also being played upon my arrival and I, being forced by some Germans who regretfully knew about my past, joined in. The Nepalese, despite being very short, wearing winter clothes and hiking boots, are amazing jumpers and very skilled and they had no problem showing me up at high altitude. I arrived a 2pm and all of the accomodation in the lodges at ABC sell out around 11. I was offered a tent with a nice think foamy and a blanket and (adding that to my reasonable sleeping bag and hot water bottle) I didn't hesitate for more than 3 seconds before I jumped at the opportunity. Tenting in the Annapurna Sanctuary at 4100m was a special thing. It proved well worth it when I braved the elements at 1am to relieve myself and found the moon glowing right above me, lighting up the surrounding giants.


So that was it. It was over and I was extremely eager, after 21 days, to get back to Pokhara. Battle #3 ensued as I forced myself through another couple long days, but I did make it down in one piece, all limbs in full function.

I'm now making the long voyage to Bombay by train. 35 hours baby.

Talk to you soon

Just when you were living yet another uneventful day......

The craziest thing happened to me today.

But first let me provide you with some relevant information regarding Buddhism:

*Be compassionate, put others before yourself
*The universe will provide for you when you are on the right path, that is to say, we always get exactly what we need.
*No event is by chance.
*What goes around, comes around (aka-Karma)
*Monks live in monasteries and have no belongings. Everything they receive (funds) usually go to the monastic community.

Today I was walking around Kathmandu, having just visited the famous Durbar square with all its monuments and temples. From behind me I heard a friendly "Tashi Delek" (which means Hello in Tibetan). This actually caught my attention (usually I ignore the million hellos I get in a day because they're almost always followed up with "rickshaw, madam", "trekking information", "you like look in my store" etc) because in Kathmandu, this is not a common phrase. Napalese is quite close to Hindi and "Namaste" is the general term. I was joined in stride by an older Asian man who claimed to recognize me from Dharamsala. I nodded, surprised and also a little ashamed because I definitely didn't remember him from any particular encounter I had there. At first I thought he just got lucky and assumed that, with the Buddhist symbol I have on my bag, I had been there. But he then mentioned that he had seen me at the Karmapa's monestary. He was one of the yellow-capped monks from the monastery and had taken part in the puja(see photo) I had been watching (as I recall, I was probaby lingering around there for a good hour). A bit blown away by the fact that this monk remembered me, I had no objections to him accompanying me on my walk to Nepali Immigration. We got to chatting and he mentioned, in a whisper, that he was trying to get to Lhasa. When I asked him where he was staying he kind of shrugged it off and mentioned that he wasn't. When I told him that I had been feeling sick he immediately removed the red ribbon he had around his neck and gave it to me, mentioning that I now had the blessings of the Karmapa and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I felt honoured and humbled by his simple gesture. When I told him I was from Vancouver, he mentioned that he, as one of the Karmapa's 25 monks, would be making a trip there next March and that I could sit beside my new friend during his teachings. I was excited at the opportunity this would present for me to meet the Karmapa again, not to mention the fact that I could actually sit with the monks! It seems to me that every conversation I get into ends with the person wanting money from me. And sure enough, this time was no different. But the one thing that was, was the fact that Norbu Dorje Lama actually never asked for help. He was trying to get to Lhasa to see his mother who is ill. He has requested that the Chinese allow him entry and they told him to come back with XXX Yen and they would let him in and drive him to the Tibetan capital. This is a crazy, pretty much impossible amount of money to ask of a monk. He just kept saying how happy he was that he had found me and kept saying occasional prayers to the heavens as we cruised the streets of Kathmandu. So we walked for a while and the thought that this was some crazy guy who has come up with a really good story to con yet another foreigner crossed my mind many many times. But this guy was walking around with nothing but the clothes on his back and a few rupees in his pocket and just as the thought was in the process of crossing my frontal lobe for the 17th time, he stopped mid sentence to help a blind man across the street. Was Buddha trying to tell me something?

I listened to my heart and I followed the signs and I decided to help Norbu out and give him the money. He had many offerings and promises for me for when we meet again in Canada, but I won't hold him to it, I know he'll do that himself. I don't ask for anything in return except for the confirmation that the words exchanged between us were the truth..... and that will only come if and when we meet again.

It blows my mind how life worked out for Norbu today, and I'm pretty sure he's thinking the same thing. He says he's been waiting 49 years to meet me and today he did, at exactly the right moment. As for me, we'll wait and see what the Buddha has in store. I hope that I can show Norbu and his lama posse around our world when they come. He asked me if I had a boat as he made paddling gestures with his hands....he really has no idea. He also said that he and a few other lamas would come to my house and create a thangka painting for me.....I'd love a snapshot of that.

So that was my good deed of the day. I followed that up by walking into a Trekking agency and yelling and swearing at the guy there for 30 minutes for ripping me off.

Peaks and valleys, I guess.

Izzy's Big Step

So I'm in the midst of reading The Alchemist (I know, I know, a little late) and am totally washed up in what Paulo is saying: People need not have fear of the unknown if they are capable of acheiving what they want and need (Which we all are). I guess the biggest problem we all face is clouding this view of what we want and need with what we think we want and need and living the rest of our lives unhappily trying to achieve it. Some are lucky however, they have a major moment in their lives; sudden realizations, a death of someone dear, a near fatal accident, a drastic life change; and they are able to turn on the windshield wipers and see the road, and realize that they are the ones who are actually driving the car down Unhappy street. Lo and behold, they take a left turn, not because they know where the road will go, but for God's sake it'll get me off Unhappy street!

So I'm kinda driving a rickshaw through the rocky roads of India with no idea about what I might find, but with an idea of the things that I like, that attract me. Whether that be art, culture, music, people...whatever. And being a rickshaw, people jump on, we have some good times, some good conversations and then they jump off and we all move on.

So I attracted something. Actually, I hit it...like a garbage-devouring black bull on the side of the road in the middle of the night (FYI: bulls/cows pull rank over any vehicle on the road). I met a nice Indian boy (and my metaphorical rickshaw was written off).

Actually we were set up and it occured by the means of what I thought were simply meaningless everyday choices. So let this be a warning to you all! Every step you take, whether you decide to turn into the Starbucks or strike up a conversation with the bum on the sidewalk, you're CHOOSING that moments path on the infinite number of paths in your life time. So as I passed on my phone number, and I'll be the first to admit that I was sceptical, as I'm sure you all are right now, the way I figured, I had been travelling(rickshawing) with strangers-become friends anyway, what was the harm in meeting a local and going on a road trip with him and his friends? To me it really was no different.

After spending 6 weeks talking to him on the phone, we decided to meet up and head north to Ladakh, one of the only places in the world where Tibetan culture is still fully preserved. He picked me up in his jeep in Delhi and the following day we left, escaping the Sept.13 bomb blasts by a mere 3 hours! As we zipped along the highway and heard the news (we were at one of the blast sights earlier that afternoon) I really felt that something else was (and still is) at play, pushing me around this map and watching over me. In this moment I checked myself, gave my head a shake and gave thanks for my precious life. This was all reinforced 3 days later when we traversed the highest motorable road in the world and popped out the other side during the beginning of a fatal snow storm that would trap hundreds of tourists in the mountain camps for 3-4 days.

Suddenly my travels in India were upgraded. I was now cruising with 3 local guys (we picked up his friends just after we left Delhi) in a 4x4 jeep, rickshaw long forgotten. I spent the last month hitting all the major tourist sigths in northern India and then some; for the past 10 days I was in a remote village with Ajit's extended family who are still keeping the traditions of the caste system very much alive and where the entire population was presented with their first white visitor. Needless to say, I was treated like a princess.

I've now escaped for a few weeks into Nepal to take a break from the intense 3.5 months in India. I plan to trek Annapurna and will renew my visa here; I've decided not to go to AUS/NZ but to return to south India for Christmas and New Years.

I leave you with this:

The floor of a crowded concert hall, trying to push myself to the front in order to get a better view. After battling for hours and hours, sweating, pushing, being pushed, scratched, bruised and battered, I get a glimpse. But it's not better, it's just closer, and there's a huge, tall sweaty guy infront of me and the music sounds the same!

Defeated but still happy, I now let the crowd do the jostling and see where it takes me - after all, no matter if I'm stage left, front and centre or at the back of the park - I'm having a good time taking whatever the band throws at me, wherever I am. I'm open to letting someone take my hand and lead me around. Maybe I can help them have a good time. I'm dirty, stinky and shoeless, what have I got to lose?

I think that might be what my life is for: providing the hand (or many hands) for people to hold. I think that's what all our lives are for. Let's let go of what we want and let someone hold onto us. Someone is holding onto me now, and I'm actually letting him. He's taking me amazing places and I've actually discovered that after a while, I've started to hold onto his hand too.

Beautiful things happen when you stop trying and just let life take you on it's own journey. Makes me wonder where I would be had I done it at a different time, say 5 years ago. But that's the way the world works: in all its beauty, it's absolutely perfect.

Paulo says there is a force that wants you to raelize your own destiny, just read the omens amd you'll come across your treasure.

(Kool)Deep in India

I needed a change of scene. Emily(AUS) and I hopped on a rickshaw and travelled the 45min down the road to Haridwar. It was recommended to me by many people as a "must see" as it is located on the Ganges and is famous in India for it's amazing Aarti ceremony that is held every evening and attended to by thousands of people. I would compare it to a major concert in a park. The question I ask myself is how these events run so smoothly and we require hundreds of cops, security guards and rules to keep our civil society in line. The chaos in India just has a way of organizing itself.

On day 3, Emily and I separated on the side of the highway as she hectically struggled to pack herself into an overloaded rickshaw. I was once again alone and looking forward to it. But lo and behold, I quickly had a new friend take her place. His name was Kuldeep, he was 15 and new about 10 words of english. Combined with my 5hindi words, we somehow managed to entertain eachother.

We cruised around Haridwar all day and night weaving and overlapping streets several times. Due to his 15 year-old hormones, we were not allowed to stop too long in one place. But somehow his speediness and presence supplied me with a strange comfort. He would answer for me when one of the many beggars would ask for baksheesh and steer me, zigzagging through the maze of people at a pushy teenager's pace as he guided me through the bazaars, over bridges and in and out of temples. The dinner and new shirt I bought him were a small consolation for what he led me to discover.

Walking along the Ganga late at night, it was packed with beggars, saddhus, and homeless families living and spending the night along the riverside. Unexpectedly, I felt safe despite the eerie, dark surroundings. I realized that even though India's population is vast and it's energy overwhelming, the people are innocent and full of love. They just want to meet me and shake my hand and share their english phrase with me. It is amazing that I can turn the staring, confused, furrowed brow of an old man into a bashful, appreciative, head-waggling grin with a simple smile and heartfelt "Hello".

Until you've had explosive diarrhea while simultaniously violently vomiting over a squatter toilet in an ashram at 12000ft in the Indian Himalayas....

...you haven't really lived!


Rishikesh is famous for its yoga ashrams and it's beautiful location. For you Gen-Xers out there, this is where the Beatles came to record the White Album back in the day. It's one of the first major cities to straddle the Ganga as it shoots out of the Indian Himalayas and hundreds of pilgrims are found bathing along the ghats everyday. My intention was to come here and see what sort of yoga courses I could enrole myself in. I discovered that most of the intensive programs were starting towards the end of Sept/beginning of Oct and so I settled for an Ashram stay and 2 yoga classes a day. Aside from this, I spent some of the afternoons going on day hikes to holy temples and also bathing a day's sweat off in one of the waterfalls in the area. I found that alone-time wouldn't be a burden in this tourist haven and new friends are made readily available. So I settled in to my routine and was about half-way through my 7-day Kundalini course when I got side-tracked. A hard-core Swiss mountaineer named Isabelle got my attention when she invited me to go on a multi-stop trek adventure in the north of Uttrakhand, which, I didn't know at the time, is very famous for it's 4 holy sites located along the rivers that flow into the Ganges. She was intending to hit 3 out of the 4 and estimated that it would take about a week to 10 days.

We boarded the public bus at 5:30am and I really didn't know what I was getting myself into. It was the worst bus ride I've ever experienced in my life. I turned to Isabelle about an hour into the trip to get her take on things but she didn't seem phased. This was the normal way of travel, she assured me and she was used to it (this being her third trip to India). The bus was built in 1970, by my estimation, and had the basic structure of a North American school bus. The passenger door at the side of the bus was left open throughout the ride so that people were able to jump in and out of the moving bus as fast as possible, God forbid we stop for a nanosecond to cram another passenger in. The leg space was so minimal that I was forced to sit in the aisle. This actually turned out to be a good thing as the window seats were even more of a disadvantage. There was obviously no air conditioning on the bus so the windows were open all the time, both to keep the passengers cool but primarily to allow sick passengers to vomit out of them. Just like having someone ash their cigarette out the window infront of you, the same law of physics applies with vomit in the passing wind: it doesn't always go out and stay out! So as my knees bashed into the seat infront of me and the rather large Indian fellow beside me and I struggled to stay in our seats, the driver negotiated his way along hair pin turns, puddles and massive boulders left from yesterday's landslide at Schumacher-speed. In India the mountain roads are actually only wide enough for one and a half cars, and so one's horn is actually used while coming around corners to warn oncoming traffic (or to encourage cows, monkeys, humans, rickshaws, horses etc. off the road). The greatest experience of the day was when we jumped off the bus to relieve ourselves during one of the many stalls along the muddy road. There are very few bathrooms, as we quickly discovered, and using their saris to cover their rear ends, the Indian women are used to squatting anywhere on the side of the road. So we walked about 400 meters towards the back of the queue to try and find one of the rare public toilets. These are usually a three-sided cement box with the standard foot pads to use for squatting over the hole in the ground. But there was no hole in the ground, so a lot of the time these are filled with healthy piles of excrement. But when you gotta go, you gotta go. So I undid my pants in speedy preparation to jump in after Isabelle was finished, when the conductor of the bus came running, yelling and flailing his arms. The line had started moving and, because of the single lane roads, the bus would not be waiting. So we ran. I had my blanket draped around my shoulders, was holding my pants up with one hand and splashing visciously through the mud when suddenly my flip-flop snapped and I was forced to run holding it in my other hand and trudge through the mud and God knows what else with my bare foot. We passed about a dozen slow moving buses packed full with Indians getting a kick out of us. We were often reminded of this event as we met people along the way who referred to seeing us on the way. Much of the road trips throughout the 2 weeks were like this. There are landslides constantly during the rainy season and people are forced to hang out and wait until they are cleared and the vehicles are able to cross (this often required an overnight stay). Keep in mind there are no safety standards and if the car can drive over it, it will. It is also not uncommon for jeeps and buses to drive passengers to a landslide, have passengers walk across it and then board a bus or jeep to continue on on the otherside. There was one point where we were forced to jump in a shared ten-person jeep with 14 other people (and two children) for 30 minutes to a landslide. When 5 people across the front row of the jeep proved to be too inconveniencing for the driver, one of the passengers jumped up on the roof to ride with the bags. We also had the pleasure of driving across a fresh landslide. We were told that a bulldozer was coming to clear the rocks (it was just a minor one) and then we would be able to cross. We creeped along the queue to reach the site of the slide to find 3 men standing out in the middle of it, watching the rocks above for any sign of aftershock, and waving cars through one by one. Our driver, who I'm sure wasn't over the age of 19, was as scared as we were as he sped and zig-zagged through the mud for the long 15 seconds of the life-threatening rush.

When we reached our destinations, we would spend the day exploring; visiting temples, holy sights and small mountain villages in the area. It was raining like it can in Vancouver, but being at 3400m up in the mountains, it was darn cold. Glancing around to see saddhus wearing not much more than the robes they live in, hanging out and begging for change in their bare feet really is an awakening. But the pain of frozen toes is relieved for them as they take several dips in the hot springs located near the main temples, one hot spring at each of the 4 holy places...a real wonder. We, unfortunately had to enjoy this at 9pm when all the boys had gone to bed, as the sight of a soggy western gal in a hot spring is enough to reawaken the wrath of Vishnu! As the days cruised along and we started trekking to all the sights, I was beginning to think that the more torturous the journey up to the temple is, the greater the devotion. As I trudged my wet, frozen, tired body up to the Sikh temple at 4300m, wavering between feeling sorry for myself and sucking it up, I passed several sikh pilgrims well over the age of 50 doing the trek in either flip-flops or bare feet. It drives home the point: at what point do we really have a necessity for things and at what point is it just our programmed experience of material wealth that tells us we need it? I mean, after this trip in the mountains, where heat, hot water and clean sheets were non-existent and leaky hotel rooms the norm, I'm still ok. It's nice to have luxury, but sometimes we need to experience the complete opposite to really understand it. Don't get me wrong, I'm pumped for when western toilets will become a part of my life again.

So our trip continued on...with a new challenges several times everyday to keep us present and on our toes. Our last major destination was Gangotri, the mind-boggling 24km long glacier that is the primary source of the Ganges. At the previous mountain towns we were used to getting everything we needed: accomodation, food, water, toilet paper etc. But as we hiked the 13km to Bhojbasa, we found nothing much more than a dismal ashram. This place was no longer a pilgrimmage site since they decided a few months ago to charge entry fee into this area of the mountains. We were actually very happy about this at first as we knew that we wouldn't have to dodge pilgrims and horse dung, nor be the victims of constant offerings for a porter or a horse to carry us up the hill. This place was quiet and beautiful and we had truly picked the best for last. But there was a downside. I had been feeling amazing for the last couple months. Maybe it was due to the lack of alcohol in my diet, or the pure vegetarian meals I've been eating, or the 4 hours of yoga a day, or even the last couple weeks of trekking; I was beginning to feel invincible. I should've known: when there's a peak, there's always a valley. Over the last couple days of our trek I caught a little bug and spent the day of hiking up to 4400m a little under the weather. Attributing it to the food at the ashram, because the Baba who ran the ashram assured me twice that the water was fine, I chose to stick with the simple chapati and jam (which I conveniently had stowed in my backpack) for dinner. That night, I again had trouble sleeping and woke up the next morning with the worst cramps beginning and ending at every corner of my distended belly. I literally couldn't move out of bed and couldn't find relief in any position. I was crying out for my mama and there even came a point at which I told Isabelle that we should get a helicopter into these hills to come get me...."I have good health insurance!" Finally, with no relief in sight, I decided to force myself out of bed and into the bathroom. The rest is left to the title of this blog. I felt instant relief and eventually, after 6 hours of pain that morning, trudged my way back down the mountain. I discovered that it was the water. When Isa told the Baba I was feeling sick and was he sure that it wasn't the water? He did admit that "one may be sick for 2-3 days, but then no problem!" Right, thanks. Water is my weakness and if it's not pure I'm a dead woman. I can eat food from the dirtiest stalls in the north of India, but I can't drink water from a dirty tap in the Himalayas. That's India for ya: always keeping my on my toes, attacking from all angles.

I am slowly becoming desensitized to the attention I get as a white western female. The stares are endless, because it's obvious that staring is not considered rude here (neither is spitting, or coughing without covering your mouth) and the requests for "one snap?" (photo) are ongoing. At first I tried to give myself to every encounter so as to really take everything in; I would stop and chat and strike a pose. But I realized that if I kept it up I would exhaust myself. One snap isn't just one snap because the guy in the group of 10 asked for one but he meant 10. One rupee or one chai for the beggar isn't one because he wants 5 rupees and then a chapati to go with the chai. It's all never enough. At this stage I've just gotten really good at ignoring certain stimuli, not out of resentment or conceit, not because I don't want to help, but because I can't spread myself that thinly. I can't save that beggar, I can't help with the poverty of India, I can't heal the world. But I realized that it's the acts I do engage myself in that I need to engage fully. When an Indian stops me to make conversation their questions are usually limited to: "What your country?" which is followed by "You like India?" But lately, as I repeat the answer "Canada" over and over, I'm just now, after 6 months away starting to realize how far away that is. Not only physically, but also how so mentally removed I am from my previous(and without a doubt, future) life I am. I've begun to notice how much of my life, even here in India, is spent in my head. The phrase: Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans comes to mind. As much as you doubt that, think about your own thoughts - as you drive your car, do your laundry, talk with a friend - how much of those activities are you doing with 100% of your attention? This is the human mind and there isn't a lot we can do about it. But as I sit on the bus careening through the Himalayas on a tiny mud road, occasionally I catch myself lost for the better part of an hour in daydreams, only to shake myself awake and remind myself that I'm in India. It makes me wonder which part of my life is that actual waking state? Is it those thoughts about the future, the past, the fantasies, the plans that we are constantly making (taking up the majority of our mind's time) that is truly awake? I mean, we can go somewhere far far away on our dreams and have it seem more real than the actual world we are living in. The same goes for the daydreams. Maybe India is the dream and my thoughts are the real constant, contrary to what we've always believed. You know, the dream we enjoy so much in the middle of the night and are so upset at losing because our bladder has prodded at us long enough. Then we jump back into bed quickly to try and revive it. Each time I catch myself lost in thought, I force myself back to where I am: the comfortable bed in which I can continuing dreaming my dream of India.

(Isabelle squared taking our holy dip in the Ganga)


Stay tuned for more of Izzy's Adventures in India...... :)

A Typical Travel Day in India

If you are looking for information, and ask 4 different people the same question, you will get 4 different answers. Welcome to India!

My new Israeli friend, Yuval and I had decided to travel to Rishikesh together. I went to the tourist place in MacLeod Ganj to reserve us a couple sleepers on the night train from Chakki Bank to Rishikesh on Wednesday night. Our plan was to take the local bus from MacLeod to Chakki sometime in the afternoon on Wednesday.

I rocked up late to meet Yuval at the bus station to find that him and 3 other girls were clammoring into a cab-van because the time we were told for the bus was actually from Dharamsala (15 minutes down the hill) not Macleod. Upon arrival at the bus stand in Dharamsala, we approached 2 uniformed men that were sitting at the information table to ask whether the 3:40 bus to Chakki Bank was running. One man nodded and the other shook his head. Due to the monsoon, mudslides are an everyday occurence and buses are often incapable of crossing them, so people just get out and walk across the mud and get on another bus on the other side! (We were unaware of this at the time) One of the un-informed, uniformed men suggested we take a jeep-taxi just to be on the safe side. At this point, it's best to hear all the answers and just go with the one that you like best. We liked the taxi idea and considering there was 5 of us, it wouldn't put too big of a dent in the budget and it was the most sure-fire way we'd make our train at Chakki Bank.

Upon arrival 3 hours later at Chakki Bank train station, we were told that all trains had been cancelled from this station because about 100km North, someone blew up the track. Right, of course they did. Being stared at by every Indian in the station, we waited for 40min in the massive line trying to get our refund, combining our naive brain power with other tourists to figure out what other options we had. The thread continued to unravel as we were told that we couldn't get a refund, only our booking agent could. Well our booking agent was back in MacLeod and he would also be keeping half the refund due to the service charge. I personally think throwing money out of a moving car would be more fun!

Yuval, the 3 Israeli girls, another Amercian girl who hitched onto us and I decided to take a rikshaw (6 people and all our bags) to Pathankot, the next town over to try and catch a bus. It was now around 7pm and the public bus to Dehra Dun (somewhere in the right direction) was at 11:30pm. The 3 Israelis bailed and headed to Ladakh....And then there were 3. As we sat in the bus station restaurant, chatting and eating, I decided to pull out Yuval's guitar. Bad idea. We were barraged by about 15 twenty-two year old Indian boys who thought we were the greatest thing next to garlic-cheese naan and proceed to individually introduce themselves and shake each of our hands many more times than once, and ask us over and over our "good" names were, what country we were from, our profession and whether or not we were married (for future reference, I'm a married lawyer. It keeps things simple). When the bus finally did arrive, we discovered that there was only one seat left. But we were welcome to stand.... for 12 hours! Right.

Next plan was to hoof it over to the train station in Pathankot and see what options we had there. After inquiring with the non-english speaking clerk at the "Inquiry" booth we were helped by a random man who suggested we take a train to Amritsar, Punjab and then catch the train in the AM to Haridwar. Ok....done and done. So we caught the train at 1:30am to Amritsar and arrived there at 4am. We had 3 hours to kill until the 7am train to Haridwar and because Yuval and Rachel had already been there, they suggested I take a bicycle rickshaw to the Golden Temple. It was beautiful and it was packed with people doing their morning rituals of taking baths in the holy water, praying, chanting, circumambulating, meditating and staring at the white girl with the headscarf that's trying to fit in! Sleeping at the temple is free and tourists actually get a private room, whereas the Indians just bunk up somewhere on the floor of the public rooms.

So after that little spiritual tangent, we boarded the 7 hour train for Haridwar at 7am. We all managed to score 3 seats each to lie down on and I think I slept and sweated pretty much the whole way.(Oh and for all you devoted blog readers, I think I caught a cold from that horrific day on Triund the other day.....who gets a cold in India in August?!) Rachel, the American girl was fortunate enough to have the front row of seats in the middle of the train that faced the other front row in the middle of the train where 3 middle-aged Indian men were sitting. I couldn't help but giggle to myslef when I glanced over to see them staring at her as she slept with her head tilted back and her mouth wide open. Here in India there is no shame in being caught staring, they watch you with mindless thought much like we watch a sitcom re-run. When we arrived in Haridwar, we managed to quickly jump the next train to Rishikesh for 5rupees each in general class. This obviously led to more staring with added wonder as to why we were sitting in general class. But lo and behold, after 26 hours of travelling, we made it....Yogaville!

So that's your standard travel day in India. Having said that, I suggest that if you have any plans for India you drop them because other than your arrival and departure date, there's not a heck of a lot you can plan, but that's the beauty of it...she has her plans of her own for you ;)