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...... :)