I never know how we do it, but somehow we navigated the completely unintelligible and seemingly illogical and unnecessarily loud station to hop a bus to Pushkar, backpacker Mecca of India. The town is a reputably holy city situated on a lake in an oasis of a valley out in the desert that was overrun by hippies back in the sixties and is thriving off of the residual crunchy Westerners that pass through out of curiosity.
On the bus we met two Danish girls named Gunovar and Heidi, and a charming French fellow named Lionel. I made characteristically awkward conversation, but we got to know them pretty well and I really fell for those European suckers. They all were in the disorienting period after graduation, and they are still searching for an authentic purpose in life in the face of many friends who have gone for phony ones. The other man next to me on the bus was a gregarious yet wise businessman from Jaipur who said he tried to really connect with people all the time and used me as an example. He taught me some acupressure points and read my palm…he said some things that struck me as wrong, and a few things that struck me as something he might say to anyone at all…buuuutt he said that I’d been living on my own, away from my family for some years and it’s going to stay that way for awhile. He said that I like to be alone, and that I can get very angry sometimes, and that I worry too much. I have a good, clean heart and a simple, too-trusting mind that combine to help others take advantage of me, and I’m destined to have a very healthy home-life whenever I settle down. The alone-ness prediction made me a little sad because I’ve been looking forward to a time when I can live in a community…and I like to think of myself as someone who enjoys the presence of others. What's a lonely cowgirl to do?
Annyway. The Pushkar lake, once you get away from the crowds of good-looking young men hired to woo lost backpackers to particular hostels, is incredible. The pace of life is slow and there really is an undeniable Good Vibration in the air. Maybe it’s all of the carcinogens that have been peed into that water over the years. Our room had four double doors that opened out onto the lake where we could watch everyone doing Puja and bathing early in the morning. There are enormous fish that jump four or five feet out of the water every once in awhile. We watched the sunset from the Eastern steps as jugglers and musicians and little boys painted blue like Shiva ran around jingling their jars of change. Maybe we lingered too long at dinner, maybe we didn’t.
The next morning we woke up at five to climb up a "mountain" to the Saraswati temple. As I gazed up at the holy moon I stepped in some holy cow shit, Aristotle-style. The sunrise was incredible, rivaled only by the one I saw from the top of Dragon’s Tooth back in ol' Virginny. We gave into temptation and had breakfast at the Pink Floyd Café, with shit-tastic service, bugs in the coffee and nutella served on stale Garlic naan. To its credit, the café did name all the rooms after albums and the bathroom was called "Paradise" and there was a room designated for drinking "Very Special Lassi," but overall the view from the roof was its saving grace. It’s pretty hilarious to find which random artifacts of American culture have been smuggled through international borders.
One of our companions had been suffering a terrible urinary tract infection for a week and hadn’t been able to decipher the Indian medical system enough of figure out that she could buy whatever prescription medicines her little heart desired. I stood there helping her understand the funny little pharmacist’s accent as he asked "if the pee is flowing freshly or it is burning" over and over and over again.
At the Brahma temple I didn’t have a scarf to cover my head, so a random guy took off his shirt and draped it over me. The line between people laughing with me and people laughing at me was definitely violated, and the line between being a respectful observer and an obnoxious American was trampled.
We again took forever at the sunset and dinner, and then they all came back to our hotel room to share stories of China, where they’d been traveling for weeks, of the incessant spitting and the women who never cut their hair…they all really enchanted me with the notion of going off backpacking on my own. I think it would be great to go off somewhere by myself, but it never occurs to me. This summer I had some sort of a vague desire to be more self-referential, to not need others’ company and approval so intensely, and I’ve definitely moved in that direction. I guess it all comes at a price.
Ajmer, the city nearby, is closer to reality but the people there were so much more friendly and easier to trust than in Jaipur. They told us the wrong directions and welcomed us into shops to drink chai for the sake of conversation…the city was beautiful, and the Muslim sector was distinct. Muslims account for a small percentage of the population here in India and they certainly suffer from the side effects of the conflict with Pakistan, but this community in Ajmer was so joyful and true. It was strange to see butcher’s shops and animals being skinned on the street. My vegetarianism of old is back with a vengeance. Damn it.
The Durga of the Sufi Saint Chisti was one of the most amazing places I’ve been in my life. There are several tall archways that bring you out into a large foyer all in marble and turquoise, with people carrying platters of rose petals to the shrine and incense beckoning everyone to think about the present moment for awhile. A student of the Koran showed us around and took us back to his room, and we sat and listened to people singing with an accordian for awhile. I guess that wa the first time I really experienced the intense joy and sense of community that strict religious practice can bring. They are definitely onto something.
We ran into the "Robson United Methodist Church," which of course threw me into all sorts of annoying philosophical questions about colonialism and missionary work and development and all of that crap. Then I bought some ice cream. We scoured a park for any evidence of the "paddle-boating" so celebrated by our guide book, but when we found the lake the water was so green that Libby's gag reflex wouldn't let us think twice about hopping on the pink plastic swan bobbing through the trash. On the bus on the way home I talked awhile with a guy who was broken-hearted because he'd fallen in love with a Muslim girl but their families would never let them marry. I had to bite my tongue to keep from shoving him in the direction of 'following his heart.' It's really hard for me to decide what my place is here...my Indian friends told me, more than anything else, to come here with an open mind. They're right, because there are so many things that rub me the wrong way and can incite a violent reaction from me if I let them, but really, we all have to pick our battles. If I got upset about everything there is to get upset about, about our servant getting paid $26 a month for twelve hour days without a days off, about the women being treated like so much flesh, about the corruption of government officials crippling what could be an incredible democracy...I'd go insane.
After I sat by my cell phone worried to death about my friend who'd called from a rick shaw taking her somewhere she didn't know, the whole experience of how truly awful men can be has gotten overwhelming. I can't remember feeling this angry or helpless since I was in preschool. Why do men think they can treat us this way? Beacuse they can. Because we can yell and scream all we want and they can go on jeering and grabbing to their heart's content. Indian girls are almost always expected to be home by sundown, and who's to say that they should have more freedom if it comes at such a high cost?
Eeeven so. I saw a dog happily trotting around with its skull cracked open and its brain exposed the other day. "Hold my chocolate bar, I'm going to save that puppy. Yesterday, after a glass of orange juice at a club decorated with cobwebs and skeletons, Vijay scooted me around on his motorcycle to see the city all lit up for Divali. It was really fun, but I think I'm going to abstain from motorcycles in Indian traffic from now on.
On the bus we met two Danish girls named Gunovar and Heidi, and a charming French fellow named Lionel. I made characteristically awkward conversation, but we got to know them pretty well and I really fell for those European suckers. They all were in the disorienting period after graduation, and they are still searching for an authentic purpose in life in the face of many friends who have gone for phony ones. The other man next to me on the bus was a gregarious yet wise businessman from Jaipur who said he tried to really connect with people all the time and used me as an example. He taught me some acupressure points and read my palm…he said some things that struck me as wrong, and a few things that struck me as something he might say to anyone at all…buuuutt he said that I’d been living on my own, away from my family for some years and it’s going to stay that way for awhile. He said that I like to be alone, and that I can get very angry sometimes, and that I worry too much. I have a good, clean heart and a simple, too-trusting mind that combine to help others take advantage of me, and I’m destined to have a very healthy home-life whenever I settle down. The alone-ness prediction made me a little sad because I’ve been looking forward to a time when I can live in a community…and I like to think of myself as someone who enjoys the presence of others. What's a lonely cowgirl to do?
Annyway. The Pushkar lake, once you get away from the crowds of good-looking young men hired to woo lost backpackers to particular hostels, is incredible. The pace of life is slow and there really is an undeniable Good Vibration in the air. Maybe it’s all of the carcinogens that have been peed into that water over the years. Our room had four double doors that opened out onto the lake where we could watch everyone doing Puja and bathing early in the morning. There are enormous fish that jump four or five feet out of the water every once in awhile. We watched the sunset from the Eastern steps as jugglers and musicians and little boys painted blue like Shiva ran around jingling their jars of change. Maybe we lingered too long at dinner, maybe we didn’t.
The next morning we woke up at five to climb up a "mountain" to the Saraswati temple. As I gazed up at the holy moon I stepped in some holy cow shit, Aristotle-style. The sunrise was incredible, rivaled only by the one I saw from the top of Dragon’s Tooth back in ol' Virginny. We gave into temptation and had breakfast at the Pink Floyd Café, with shit-tastic service, bugs in the coffee and nutella served on stale Garlic naan. To its credit, the café did name all the rooms after albums and the bathroom was called "Paradise" and there was a room designated for drinking "Very Special Lassi," but overall the view from the roof was its saving grace. It’s pretty hilarious to find which random artifacts of American culture have been smuggled through international borders.
One of our companions had been suffering a terrible urinary tract infection for a week and hadn’t been able to decipher the Indian medical system enough of figure out that she could buy whatever prescription medicines her little heart desired. I stood there helping her understand the funny little pharmacist’s accent as he asked "if the pee is flowing freshly or it is burning" over and over and over again.
At the Brahma temple I didn’t have a scarf to cover my head, so a random guy took off his shirt and draped it over me. The line between people laughing with me and people laughing at me was definitely violated, and the line between being a respectful observer and an obnoxious American was trampled.
We again took forever at the sunset and dinner, and then they all came back to our hotel room to share stories of China, where they’d been traveling for weeks, of the incessant spitting and the women who never cut their hair…they all really enchanted me with the notion of going off backpacking on my own. I think it would be great to go off somewhere by myself, but it never occurs to me. This summer I had some sort of a vague desire to be more self-referential, to not need others’ company and approval so intensely, and I’ve definitely moved in that direction. I guess it all comes at a price.
Ajmer, the city nearby, is closer to reality but the people there were so much more friendly and easier to trust than in Jaipur. They told us the wrong directions and welcomed us into shops to drink chai for the sake of conversation…the city was beautiful, and the Muslim sector was distinct. Muslims account for a small percentage of the population here in India and they certainly suffer from the side effects of the conflict with Pakistan, but this community in Ajmer was so joyful and true. It was strange to see butcher’s shops and animals being skinned on the street. My vegetarianism of old is back with a vengeance. Damn it.
The Durga of the Sufi Saint Chisti was one of the most amazing places I’ve been in my life. There are several tall archways that bring you out into a large foyer all in marble and turquoise, with people carrying platters of rose petals to the shrine and incense beckoning everyone to think about the present moment for awhile. A student of the Koran showed us around and took us back to his room, and we sat and listened to people singing with an accordian for awhile. I guess that wa the first time I really experienced the intense joy and sense of community that strict religious practice can bring. They are definitely onto something.
We ran into the "Robson United Methodist Church," which of course threw me into all sorts of annoying philosophical questions about colonialism and missionary work and development and all of that crap. Then I bought some ice cream. We scoured a park for any evidence of the "paddle-boating" so celebrated by our guide book, but when we found the lake the water was so green that Libby's gag reflex wouldn't let us think twice about hopping on the pink plastic swan bobbing through the trash. On the bus on the way home I talked awhile with a guy who was broken-hearted because he'd fallen in love with a Muslim girl but their families would never let them marry. I had to bite my tongue to keep from shoving him in the direction of 'following his heart.' It's really hard for me to decide what my place is here...my Indian friends told me, more than anything else, to come here with an open mind. They're right, because there are so many things that rub me the wrong way and can incite a violent reaction from me if I let them, but really, we all have to pick our battles. If I got upset about everything there is to get upset about, about our servant getting paid $26 a month for twelve hour days without a days off, about the women being treated like so much flesh, about the corruption of government officials crippling what could be an incredible democracy...I'd go insane.
After I sat by my cell phone worried to death about my friend who'd called from a rick shaw taking her somewhere she didn't know, the whole experience of how truly awful men can be has gotten overwhelming. I can't remember feeling this angry or helpless since I was in preschool. Why do men think they can treat us this way? Beacuse they can. Because we can yell and scream all we want and they can go on jeering and grabbing to their heart's content. Indian girls are almost always expected to be home by sundown, and who's to say that they should have more freedom if it comes at such a high cost?
Eeeven so. I saw a dog happily trotting around with its skull cracked open and its brain exposed the other day. "Hold my chocolate bar, I'm going to save that puppy. Yesterday, after a glass of orange juice at a club decorated with cobwebs and skeletons, Vijay scooted me around on his motorcycle to see the city all lit up for Divali. It was really fun, but I think I'm going to abstain from motorcycles in Indian traffic from now on.
posted by Sandy at 4:16 AM
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