Stuck in Chennai?

"Suffering is how Life tells you that you are resisting or misperceiving what is real and true. It is the way Life suggests that you are not in harmony with what is."
 ~ Adyashanti, "The Way of Liberation"

About 10 days ago I was trying to decide where to go in June - Europe being out because of the 90-day limit for tourist visits. I had a long and silly list of choices, including Pakistan, Burma, Bhutan, Iran, and Mongolia, of all frickin' places. About a week ago someone mentioned that their friend was in Bali, and bah-dah-bing! I'm going to Bali. Four days before the flight left I booked it and bee-lined to Delhi on the 12-hour overnight bus from Dharamsala. (It's a Volvo! says the advertising. Volvo may as well be Swedish for pain-in-the-arse-hell-ride based on my experience.) After minimal bus-sleep and four hours sleep the next night in Delhi, I got to the airport this morning for the first leg of my flight: to Chennai.

As I went through security for the flight to Singapore, I was a little nervous since I was leaving after 181 days in India, one day longer than the 180 day maximum stay. Turns out - I had a good reason to be nervous. I discovered the first 24 hours count as two days, not one, so I was actually two days over.

Of all the scenarios I envisioned, here's one I didn't: the immigration guy tearing my boarding pass in two, an hour before my flight, and saying, "You can't fly today, you have to go get cleared at the police headquarters in downtown Chennai." Mommy! (Did I whimper that out loud?)

The "police station" was actually the Foreigner's Registration Office, known as the FRO to those with the bad luck to have gone there. After a month in the cool mountains, Chennai was baking me like a batch of chocolate chip cookies as I wandered in with my two bags and crest-fallen expression. The place was packed with people, all waiting for the two measly counters that seemed to be processing people at a snail's pace. What is it I'm supposed to do, anyway? There's no one to ask, I'm sweating buckets, and it's not looking good for even seeing someone today.

Eventually someone came, had me follow some other guy who led me to a nice lady who made me jump through some hoops, including writing down an I've-been-bad letter, listing everywhere I'd been and what I'd been doing. Umm, I don't really do anything, I wanted to say. But when I'd told the original Immigration Monster at the airport that I'd been taking classes, he said that's against the law - you need a student visa or a yoga visa for that. I'm not always a quick learner, but I knew then that I don't take classes, not in the against-the-law sort of way. Sweaty rickshaw rides to book another flight and a copy-office clerk I wanted to throttle, and eventually: I'm flying out tonight at 12:45 a.m., just 12 hours later than the original flight, and about $75 lighter. This will be my third night in a row of crummy sleep. Pity me.

The good news: I'm staying with my old friend Ann, who I met trekking in Nepal on my first trip in 1991. She has a husband a baby, both of whom I haven't met. About a week later - I'm off to Bali, where I've only been once 21 years ago. Probably hasn't changed much. Like me.

Much love,
Dave

All the photos are from the last month in Dharamsala, India, home of the Dalai Lama.

One of the typically ornate Tibetan statues of the Buddha inside the main monastery here in Dharamsala, commonly referred to as the Dalai Lama's monastery.



On a hike to the waterfall, this little chai shop makes for a pleasant rest stop.



One of the BIG benefits of a trip to Dharamsala - the food. One of the consequences of eating the wrong food in Dharamsala - a trip to the bathroom, repeatedly. A lot of people have been sick during the three weeks I've been here. I paid my dues in Varanasi, so the Big Guy gave me a pass this time! (Did I mention that I was sick?)



A group of us walked on a little-known route to the popular destination of Triund, high on the crest of a mountain ridge. These shepherds huts are on the way. Someone described the route to me last time I was here, three years ago, and it was a bit of a challenge to figure it out again.



Three young Indian guys were happy to come across us, because they had no idea where they were going. They followed us like puppies. We checked out this small temple at the edge of the mountain, overlooking the Kangra Valley to the left and Dharamsala to the right.



Domesticated goats still feel more comfortable climbing up on rocks, even if they don't know why. It made me wonder what choices I'm making where I don't know why, or even that I've made a choice.



These are some fine looking goats.



I started to take this photo and my friends all bunched together, as people do. I said, no, stand apart like my movie star cousins do when they're taking a photo. Spread out and act like you're in the mafia, or in a rock band. Voila.



Heidi, banana-eater Bernie, Kailash, and Eyal, at a chai shop on the way down.



Closer to the center of town, this little shack hangs on the edge of a hill. It's the only of its kind that I've seen in the area.



Kids from the shack selling wooden printing blocks.



Hot day, cold water. Like, COLD. You practically get out before you're all the way in. Except for the Norwegian guy, who relaxed and floated around and said it's just like home.



Eyal relaxing.



The view from the balcony of my room on full moon.



The full moon behind dark and scary clouds, using the Illustration mode on my camera.



Tibetan prayer flags carry the printed prayers on the wind. They are typically found at holy places, temples, and high mountain passes.



Lovely Rebecca, who came up to me in a restaurant and said, "Were you on the yatra in France two years ago?" As a matter of fact - I was. We had a nice time hanging out and hiking together. The stories about her stomach problems are off limits, she told me! It's amazing that I need to be told.



Slate roof tiles, split and shaped by hand.



A big, no doubt unattractive building will replace what had been a steep and tree-covered hill. The boys are raising a heavy re-bar structure for a pillar that will eventually be filled with concrete. Not a steel toed boot in sight - everyone is in flip-flops.



What could go wrong? The owner of the property was an Indian man who lives in Los Angeles. I guess he straddles both worlds more easily than most of us tourists. It looks like a set-up for the movie The Omen.



A sweet little Tibetan nun who sat next to us on the walk around the outer path of the Dalai Lama's monastery. The first time I was here, in 1992, I spotted Harrison Ford on this same path. (Why is he telling you that nugget, he wonders?)



Monks debating in an old Tibetan tradition. One monk stands, asking questions, punctuated by a slap of the hands. From a website: "The central purposes of Tibetan monastic debate are to defeat misconceptions, to establish a defensible view, and to clear away objections to that view."



Rebecca takes a photo from the deck of the locally famous Lung Ta Japanese restaurant, where the vegetarian sushi is a winner.



The number of buildings that have gone up since I first came here in 1992 is a little overwhelming.


(The End)

"I may not be much..."

"I may not be much, but I'm all I ever think about."
 ~ Joe, last name unknown


Hey, did you miss me? What - you didn't know I was gone? Crikey, peeps, I'm still in India and have agonized over how long it's taken me to finally get out this newsletter, only to find out that you're all like, whatever. Well, maybe I'm all like, whatever about that. Yeah. What about that?

Yeah, whatever. I last wrote, on Valentine's Day, from the airport in Chennai, a whopping two and a half months ago. New recordwhatever for me on the roadwhatever. It hasn't been the easiest time since then. I was hanging out at the burning ghats in Varanasi, where the bodies are placed on stacks of wood and burned to ash or until they get tired of it and toss the leftover pieces into the river. True story. At the same time there were hundreds of naked, ash-covered holy men camping all around, after having come from the largest human gathering on the planet, the Kumbh Mela. All the tents were full of smoke from the "sacred fires" and a fair amount of the sacred marijuana being smoked. Between that, the smoke from burning bodies, and the fact that a large percentage of travelers get sick in Varanasi - I got a massive hacking cough like I've only had a few times in my life. The difference this time is that it didn't respond to antibiotics like it has in the past. Long story short - I was on antibiotics, in five different series, for five weeks before my cough really started to clear. I had six-pack abs, I'm sure, underneath the fat, and my ribs hurt from coughing so much. I was a mess. If the doctor's scale was accurate, never a given here, I lost 30 pounds (14 kilos) in three months.

One thing that surprised me was how quickly I became The Sick Guy, and that became my point of reference. Every e-mail I wrote, every friend I saw, "Oh my gosh - I've been so sick!" People were sympathetic as they backed up and tried to get away, but I wanted to tell My Story. I'm sick dangit, hear me roar, between coughs! And though I was pretty sick, probably the longest I've been sick in my life, it still wasn't that bad. It made me more compassionate for people who really have long-term chronic conditions. I'll still backpedal and try to get away, but with a soft spot in my heart; bless 'em, at a distance.

I have another more dramatic story involving concussions and broken jaws (not mine, thankfully,) but that will have to wait for my next delayed missive. In the meantime, try to remember who I am. I'm the guy who used to be sick who's in frickin' India!

Love,
Dave

All the photos below are from Varanasi, even though I'm now in Rishikesh, and have been here for six weeks. Did I mention I was sick?


You can hardly recognize me covered with all that ash. Forgive me, gentle readers, for disturbing your otherwise pleasant day with this image. These young "saddhus" or holy men (they could also be called Hindu monks) live an ascetic life. As part of that tradition, many will intentionally damage their boy-bits so they can no longer get an erection. The one in the lower bunk, shall we say, let's call him Willie, has a stick wrapped around his William while his friend stands on the stick. That's a cremation fire burning in the foreground. Wow.



This is an HDR photo of two gentlemen watching the world go by at the burning ghats. Cremation grounds seem like a funny place for hanging out, but not when you're here.



Life on the ghats. "Ghats" are the stone steps and walkways leading down the river.



There's an annual festival in Varanasi, the origins and meanings of which are still a mystery to me, where elaborate statues of the goddess Saraswati are thrown into the Ganges on a particular night. Drumming, crazy-dancing, and excitement abound.



Saraswati is about to go for a plunge. The remnants of the statues will be show up along the ghats on the next days.



Hundreds of these Saraswatis are brought to the river on this night, each with their own dance troupe!



Shake it don't break it!



The nightly "aarti puja" has been going on for as long as I've been coming. And maybe a thousand years before - I don't know.



The priests who perform this ritual are typically light-skinned and handsome.



I saw a photo of Varanasi's waterfront in 1925 and it didn't look much different than it does now.



These photos were taken relatively late at night, like 10 p.m., when hardly anyone is still around.



Looking out one of the gates to the ghats, coming through a former palace. Most of the buildings along the ghats were built by wealthy maharajahs from all over India. Prior to India's independence in 1947, these maharajahs had the status (and wealth) of kings.



It's always laundry day in front of my guest house. But today it was REALLY laundry day.



I'm still amazed that sheets, saris, and other flats clothes get laid down on the dirty steps to dry. Just to the right of the hanging clothes you can see the stone slabs where the clothes are nearly beat to death to clean them.



The Kumbh Mela was held nearby, and traditionally many saddhus come to Varanasi afterwards and pitch their tents on the ghats. It's quite a scene. Many are just covered in ash or minimal clothing. I don't know why this guy is so fancy. These necklaces are made of the seeds of the rudraksha tree. Holy as hell, those seeds are!



I still don't know who these guys are, but when I refer to them as the "feather duster saddhus" everyone knows who I mean. They make the most incredible rhythmic music, accompanied only by a tiny hand-held drum.



One of the standing babas. Baba is a term of respect for an older man, and saddhus frequently get referred to in this way. His ascetic practice is to never sit or lay down. He uses this suspended swing to support his weight, including at night when he sleeps, I gather with one leg on the ground at all times.



One of the Saraswati statues the next day. They're fished out of the water to strip them of the wood that has any value, then the rest is burned. It shows the amazing amount of craft that goes into making them.



Some babas, chillin'.



The fires you see on the left are of the smaller "burning ghat" where people are cremated, more or les 24 hours a day. The horizontal stream of light just below the fires is someone carrying a burning log across the photo as I took a long exposure.



Hey - he's not a saddhu! What's he doing here. Oh, right - he's cute, and I like him!



The well-worm door to a temple.



I'd have that sad-sack expression too if I hadn't been able to lay down to sleep for years. When I volunteered with the leprosy group in 2001 in Varanasi we had a baba like this with big sores covering both his legs. We tried to talk him into not going for his holy dip in the Ganga every day. Not a chance.



This lovely man was part of a big camp of saddhus sitting around a fire, smoking lots of marijuana, and singing devotional songs to Hindu gods. It sounds like some of the tourists I know!



I saw this guy several nights feeding the dogs just in front of the burning ghat. You might be able to imagine what the dogs eat when he's not there. It's not very pleasant to see a dog gnawing on a piece of mystery meat and imagining its source.



Just across the river from our guest house someone put on a big fireworks display.



The full moon rises on a busy ghat.



Sight-seeing on a river boat trip, as people no doubt have for thousands of years. During monsoon the entire banks across the way are under water.



A young Muslim man walks along the narrow lanes just behind my guest house. The lanes are extensive and its easy to get lost. There are some areas which are mostly Muslim, while the majority in Varanasi are Hindu. They seem to get along well generally until something happens to stir things up. There's a famous dispute overa piece of land where the Hindus think it was a temple first and the Muslims think it was a mosque first.



Moonrise past what appears to be an ancient temple, submerged in the Ganga, the local name for the Ganges.



Peace out, brother. I know what you're saying.


(The End)