Clouds and Daffodils

2011.01.03: Three Nights And Two Days

2011-01-20T17:50:00.000+01:00

Would it be the spectacular finish of our journey or an end long overdue? Before going our separate ways my sister and I would meet for one last time and spend a last three nights and two days in Darjeeling. We met in Bodhgaya, to take the train towards somewhere nearby our final destination. The evening before departure we tried to remember the last time we had spend three weeks together, as intensely as we just had done. If ever, it must’ve been at least twelve years ago, in my case roughly half a life away. Never before had we been able to study so precisely how our behaviour changed when being together. We concluded that the moments we had shared in the past weeks were truly unique.

Was everything extraordinary about our adventure? No, of course not, we’re still a brother and sister and it’s thus — at least in our case — a law of nature to be irritated by each other. This is for as long as we both can remember. I would commit unspeakable cruelties to her stuffed animals, only to gain possession of the remote control; she would tell our mother I had hit her, even when I hadn’t done anything at all. Nowadays there’s no more remote control to fight over and hitting doesn’t make much sense anymore. Today we fight over each other’s assumptions and beliefs, because we both always think we know everything better (she thinks and I know, obviously).

He tells he always has to wait for her; she tells him there’s certainly no sense in hurrying. She claims he doesn’t understand what to say and what not to say, because he just, again, insulted someone; he tells her he didn’t, because she, still, doesn’t understand what it’s about. Both think they’re better at bargaining for room prices than they really are. He argues her ideas make no economic sense; she argues his ideas are simply unfair and definitely make no environmental sense at all. Both explain each other, over and over again that the other should listen better, only then things will be understood. Both tell each other they’re still not listening: “No, you only hear what you want to hear.”

Surprisingly though (no, actually, not surprisingly at all), we told each other at tonight’s dinner we had really enjoyed each other’s company. We did so after a fairly useless but lengthily disagreement. And it’s true. I don’t regret travelling with my sister; I would do it again.

So was Darjeeling an end long overdue or a spectacular finish? Neither. We were both tired from the past travels and spend most hours of the day doing nothing substantial. Well, one morning we did wake up at four-something to see the sunrise caressing a particular mountain, but most of all, we just ate and drank. We ate wonderful food and drank splendid exotic tea, while hating and loving being each other’s sibling.

Dear Zuske, thank you!

Darjeeling - sunrise, view from Tiger Hill

Darjeeling - It was cold at Tiger Hill

Darjeeling

Darjeeling - sunset

Darjeeling - The road towards Darjeeling

Click here for an overview of all posts about my time in India
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2010.12.30: Towards Enlightenment

2011-01-17T16:09:00.000+01:00

So it came to be that the prince sat underneath that very tree for forty-nine days and became Buddha. Today an offspring of the offspring of that very tree marks that spot in Bodhgaya, Bihar. Its beauty accentuated by the surrounding temple complex: The Mahabodhi Temple. The main building has a history chronicling back many centuries. Recently, Buddhists from Buddhist countries have constructed their own temples in its vicinity. All are lushly decorated with bright colors, rich ornaments, and green gardens; they sooth my eye and leave me impressed. However, they disturb me too; here in Bihar — one of the poorest states of India — their grandeur feels out of place. Poverty is staring at me through the large eyes of two naked children, playing in a pile of garbage next to a temple.

This setting of mixed impressions and complementary feelings accompanied me in Bodhgaya. Today I attended the final celebration of the 900th anniversary of the Karma Kagyu Lineage. Actually, I only witnessed the morning ceremony at the Mahabodhi temple; it was held underneath that wonderful tree. The afternoon session was celebrated in a tent, which was so busy that I left. I didn’t want a real Buddhist to miss out, because of me occupying a seat. Besides, the early part of they day had already given me plenty impressions.

The event was very much like a birthday party: Incantations were sung, a cake was offered, many guests were invited (and had shown up), during the celebrating tea and snacks were distributed. In the end a big treat, in the form of a packed lunch, was given to every attendant. The ceremony was nice. The sun shone on a crowd that had come from all over the world, trough the leaves of the tree. A few monks and laymen were praying, but most were listening to and reading along with the incantations.

There was a wonderful, peaceful — serene — atmosphere. All ended in an anticlimax when lunch was handed out. The important guests had just left and soon I would discover it was for a good reason; a tsunami of local children engulfed the compound as soon as the food distribution had started. Security staff used large sticks to beat and intimidate the waves of little beggars; the poor ones were running all over the place, still aggressively persuading foreigners — me — to give up their lunch. I kept two candy bars and gave the rest away. I withhold my urge to take a leaf from the holy tree as I left. I had more mixed feelings accompanying me than ever before.

All in all it might not surprise you that I don’t think it’s likely I’ll return to Bodhgaya in the conceivable future. However, something exciting from Bodhgaya won’t return either.

In my bag is a small porcelain box with an ugly metal construction put around it. I bought it. It’s intriguing. It’s light green and has motives painted on its sides; underneath is a complicated red logo, I don’t know what that is yet; the top, the lid, has four colour painted Japanese women, they inspect an unrolled painting. Inside, however, are the two most interesting representations. Both are painted in blue only. One is on the backside of the lid, depicting a man and a women walking across a bridge in the forest and an old man following from a distance. Why is it there?

The reason I bought the box though, is found on the inside bottom. As if looking from behind a fence, one sees a man and a woman. They’re standing on a balcony, overlooking the courtyard and a garden; the woman is leaning with her elbows on the balustrade and the man is standing behind her. Both are not wearing anything to cover their legs; they’re — unmistakably — having sexual intercourse. What purpose does the box have?

Once I’ll know more I’ll dedicate a post to it.

Bodhgaya - Mahabodhi Temple underneath the holy tree

Bodhgaya - Mahabodhi Temple

Bodhgaya

Bodhgaya - Japanese Temple, manga version of Buddha?

2010.12.28: A Heart To Give

2011-01-11T07:42:00.000+01:00

There are wonderful things one could write about the old part of Varanasi. It’s a labyrinth of small alleys and full of shops selling all kinds of exciting exotica. Behind every corner new surprises patiently await discovery. There are many houses of worship; most shrines are of a staggering beauty. Even so, it’s only a matter of time before your eyes start to gaze upwards, where attractive old facades are waiting to please your sense of beauty. Some have magnificent colored ornaments and in between the residences a few trees have managed to grow in most unimaginable ways.

Sooner or later one is bound to encounter the Ganges. Flowers and candles seem to float above its holy water; they drift past temples, Hindus performing bathing rituals, and palaces where maharajas used to splendor. At the Ganga, as natives call it, two places are especially sacred. They’re where pious Hindus spend their last earthly moments. They do this for one simple reason: Everyone who’s cremated at these spots has a non-stop ticket to heaven. It’s said Varanasi is a city build by Gods; nowadays everyone is able to see the evidence.

My main flaw, concerning Varanasi, is that I’m not really religious — I cannot spiritually indulge myself in its holiness. Without those colored glasses I saw something quite different than what I would’ve liked. Yes, the first two paragraphs are a lie. They’re an imagined mix of omitted facts and memories covered in thick layers of make-up. Of course, I would like the city to be as I described, however, there are two prerequisites: The town has to be uninhabited and the Gods will have to wake up; they must begin maintaining what they once started.

Reality, as I strayed through the labyrinth that is the old town, made my mind wander off to Greek mythology. Do you know Thesues? Amongst others he voluntarily goes into a maze where a monstrous Minotaur roams; the creature is hungry and waiting for his prey. But Thesues has no intention of becoming an afternoon snack. On the contrary, he succeeds in killing the beast with his sword. And our hero is able to find his way out too, because of Ariadne, the Minotaur’s sister. She’s madly in love with him and thus gave him a cord before he entered the labyrinth. After a job well done, the rope enabled him to retrace his steps, back into her arms. Take a deep breath… Good… You’ve just been introduced to Walt Disney versions of Theseus, Ariadne, and the Minotaur. It doesn’t do justice to the real story. The original drama is cruel and wonderful. It must be read.

For now the point is that our Greek hero had a much easier time than I had. I didn’t have a sword, or had met Ariadne. Instead, I had found a Russian; he was just as confused as I was. Not one, but many Minotaurs chased us. They came in the form of motorcycles, which would just fit through the narrow alleys, if nothing stood in their way. And let’s not forget the shopkeepers and drug dealers; they would scream in all of my hundred ears if I had them. We found our way out by sheer luck and paying a kid to lead the way.

Some of you readers might say, or at least think: “You’re in India, shut up and enjoy it. Please, let from now on your imagination do the writing.” I would agree with you, if it weren’t for what I’ve experienced today. As I was lost as usual, guessing my way to the main road, I stumbled upon the Ganges. Specifically, I stumbled upon Manikarnika Gaht, the prime and largest location where deceased Hindus are cremated. I was standing on a platform overlooking the fires — with a certain distance between the deceased and myself — I decided to observe the ceremony involved with their funeral.

It only took a few seconds for a self-pronounced guide to present himself to me. He explained he was a volunteer and didn’t expect any money for his services. I told him: “I think. There are. Other tourists. Who will. Appreciate. Ehm… I. Mean. Like… Your story. A lot more. Than. I will.” Of course he denied this and I was conflicted: I did want to hear his story, but I didn’t trust his appearance. My curiosity got the better of me and I allowed him to talk to me. I even asked a few questions about the funeral ceremony. In the end he told me: “Burning is learning about life.”

Mostly though, I learned about his and his boss’s life. They ran a hostel that provided shelter and food to all the old and poor people who came to Varanasi to die — to be cremated along the Ganges. Everyone lived a very sober life; donations would only be used to buy wood for the ones who were ready to be burned. After a while my guide insisted on taking me to one of the hostels. “If. I. Want. Can. I. Make. An. Official. Donation. There?” Yes, that was possible and off we went. I was brought to an empty room.

Inside an old man jumped up and walked rapidly towards me; straight away I was asked for money. While my guide explained this man was about to die, an old woman came running up the stairs. I was informed she was more dead than alive too. “Now you can give money to them directly.” This wasn’t what I had asked for. The man and the woman came very close to me; she clawed one hand into my arm and he was kneeling on the floor. That moment I stopped feeling pity for them; I was just afraid to be pick-pocketed. The guide noticed my unwillingness to give and started to repeat the same phrase over and over again, using an astonishing amount of different intonations. “Give what’s in your heart.” “Give what’s in your heart.”

My heart was filled with irritation. I was emotionally and physically abused for something I didn’t ask for. A much as I wanted all the stories to be true, my instincts were telling me something fishy was going on. It got me agitated and I wanted to get it of my chest. It felt horrible to be treated in such a way, especially on a place as revered as the Manikarnika Ghat. However, telling this to the three people surrounding me wouldn’t change anything. So I lied. I told I would make a donation if the boss would see me

One minute later the volunteer brought me to the boss. He turned out to be a man sitting in a plastic chair, in between a few other men. Regardless of anything I wanted to tell him how I felt about the treatment that had been bestowed upon me. He understood only little English, but I carried on: I told him I didn’t trust him or his crew. I think this distrust is natural for most tourists — but it doesn’t belong at Manikarnika Ghat. Why didn’t he have a donation box and receipts to give? I didn’t get the feeling he understood me. Neither did anyone else in the small crowd gathered around the two of us. So I did it once more, slower and with easier words. There was a little more response, it came mostly from men who had been sitting next to the boss; they pulled their wallet and started giving money. If it wasn’t a trick, then I had just raised more money than I ever would’ve given.

It was also the moment I left. Only the volunteer followed me. He decided that a proper goodbye would be: “No donation… maybe tip for me?” Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was. Speechless. Only after a few seconds, as he kept gazing up to me, I managed to say: I’m done with you. Still, I don’t think he understood me. But I also started to question myself: Had I understood what I had been doing?

In The Netherlands I would never attend the funeral of someone I don’t know. Here I had precisely done that. And I wasn’t alone. I had seen backpackers standing next to fires, less than two meters away from a son and priest performing rites. Foreigners had been making pictures. Shady characters might hunt tourists, but tourists are haunting the death. Fulfilled with an eagerness not to me miss out anything — to experience everything they want — tourists replace what decency they might display in their home country with self-righteousness. Do, because of this, tourists deserve to be harassed? No. Gandhi himself explains this best: “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” However, I believe it’s not the scam artists, but the tourists — it’s I — who with opportunistic behavior ruin wonders. I say Varanasi is a city spoiled by tourists; nowadays everyone is able to see the evidence.

Varanasi, Ganges at sunrise

Varanasi, Manikarnika Ghat

Varanasi

Varanasi, I was watching a ceremony and this kid was extremely fascinated by my camera

Varanasi, Ganges at sunrise

2010.12.25: X-mas Party

2011-01-02T18:15:00.000+01:00

What I haven’t mentioned yet is we stayed at friends of my sister in Delhi. They’re a couple and both active in the hospitality industry. Every morning we received the most delicious chai and throughout the day we were spoiled with marvelous Indian food. For one week we were in nirvana. Oke, it was a nirvana where I managed to electrocute myself when intending to shower, but still, it was a week worthwhile remembering. In Delhi my sister and I did things on our own and her friends showed us a little around. Amongst others we celebrated one night out in one of the hottest places in town. And it wasn’t just any night, it was Christmas Eve. We attended an elusive X-mas party.

The party was a rather confusing experience. First of all the bar had two names: “The F-Bar” or “The Capitol”. Basically, the latter was written above the door, but everyone called it by its first name. The same could be said about the Christmas party; it was called as such, but it appeared to be a different party. The only Christmas tree I saw was at the buffet; it was tiny and on top of a cake. At home a Christmas party involves people wearing a Santa hat or at least Rudolf’s antlers, here it was none of that. What happened to a white and red dress code? Well, neither my sister nor I were doing any of those things as well.

The funny thing about the party was that it appeared as if the entire crowd consisted out of couples. Most were dancing together and none in a manner that could be conceived as intimate in the Netherlands. All was very timid despite one exception: Punjabi men. They wear turbans and are keen dancers; the ones who lack technique and style substitute that with vigor. Honesty obliges me to mention I haven’t got a dancing technique or style either, or that much vigor. It wasn’t necessary to make this year’s Christmas celebration special.

It was far away from home and it was a long while ago, a really long while, I’ve spend the entire Christmas together with my sister. It was also special because of the non-existent Christmas atmosphere. Only a few shops, hotels and churches reminded me of what time of the year it was. In upscale neighborhoods, where the western lifestyle is more actualized, people might’ve done some Christmas shopping, because that’s what it’s all about in my country.

What is Christmas really all about? To me the religious aspect isn’t really present in India. And what’s left is, well, first of all the birthday of my mother and secondly the idea one is together with family. My sister and I congratulated our mother over skype. The two of us were the only family we could be together with. At some point though I remembered Christmas was about generosity. Giving and receiving. I grew slightly worried; we had received a wonderful time in Delhi from my sister’s friends. I was left to wonder how to return their generosity once they would visit the Netherlands. Resting assured the largest part of this challenge is my sister’s doesn’t feel like a brotherly thing to do. Although... How can the same abundance of kindness, resources and time, as has been given to us be returned? Who knows, maybe the Eastern Bunny can help.

Delhi - vegetable market near our host's house

Delhi - vegetable market near our host's house and my shoe

Delhi - vegetable market near our host's house, but in India it's practically everywhere possible to get a shave.

Delhi - fruit market near our host's house

2010.12.23: Walking In Circles

2011-01-02T14:09:00.000+01:00

Whenever I pass a pond I want to throw a stone in it. The collision with the water is wonderful. The waves emerging afterwards have something destructive and spiritual about them. A while ago someone, who probably shared my feelings about ponds and stones, passed by Delhi and threw Connaught Place in it. Connaught Place is an inheritance of British Colonialism and now a metro station with a park on top. Around it is a large roundabout; the first circular wave on which cars surf. In between the next ones is a shopping extravaganza. The waves run furthest down south, along luxury hotels, exclusive apartments, important offices and more shops. The last days I’ve spend many hours exploring this pond. I was seduced by its debaucheries.

Ever since Jammu my sister and I have a fondness for rotating rooftop restaurants. And once I found out there was one near Connaught Place, there was no option left but to go. Together with a dear friend of my sister we went at lunchtime. Traffic noises and stench were far beneath us; thick windows excluded us from the outside world. All we could do was look around. An intriguing revelation of monuments in a city literally drowned in smog unfolded itself to us. It seemed as if buildings were swimming in it; at the horizon graceful domes of temples were rising out of a grey veil. From our high vantage point it had something mysterious if not magical.

Regrettably the food and service weren’t near as good as the view. It didn’t matter. Soon another place, also nearby that insanely large roundabout, had caught my attention. I had a drink at a rather awkward hotel bar, named “1911”. It was the year New Delhi became India’s capital and the hotel was founded. The hotel’s ostentatious mixture of colonial pride and luxury aroused my interest; a dinner reservation for one of its restaurants was made for the next day.

The establishment serving: “A culinary tour through Asia” was decorated in a most fantastic manner. One had the feeling of sitting in a Hindu temple. The ceiling was hidden by ornamented woodwork and supported by beautiful columns. The walls were completely covered in larger than life paintings depicting mythological sceneries. Only enormous wine glasses, towering on top of tables, were out of place. The mural painting I was sitting next to made up for that. It was awesome. It exhibited a man with a spear pierced in his back and blood dripping out of the wound.

If not eating, or drinking banana lassies, I would be walking past and inside shops. A tsunami of boutiques surrounds Connaught place. There are many luxury, western orientated stores, a couple of trendy coffee bars and two or three of McDonalds’s sheds. A few hotspots sold magnificent saris or male party costumes that, once in it, made me feel like a wannabe maharaja. Other outlets sold just about everything. Of course there was an underground market, a handful of government run arts and crafts enterprises and swarm of street vendors. Many Indians told me, if compared to a few other shopper’s paradises in Delhi, this area wasn’t impressive at all.

Connaught Place is for me a showcase of how India is changing. Fancy modern shops are ten meters away from an outlet one encounters in rural villages too. The metro station is state of the art, but once outside a horde of children and teenagers — who should be at school — attempt to sell things, or lure tourists to places they probably don’t want to be. A bank markets itself, in between street vendors, with the help of a dj. It’s not difficult to spot Indians who look just like westerners. One can observe how they drink alcohol and eat meat. I don’t know if all change is good. I do know it’s definitely interesting to witness.

Delhi - Tibetan refugee market

Delhi - Back alley at Connaught Place

Delhi - Restaurant decoration

Delhi - Red Fort, squirrel eating my cookie's crumbles

Delhi - Red Fort

2010.12.19: Where Winter Wives Wither

2010-12-29T18:20:00.000+01:00

About one million soldiers and six million native inhabitants live within Kashmir’s borders. It’s therefore not surprising that the military presence is overwhelming. To say the Hindu soldiers and Muslim civilians live together peacefully wouldn’t be an overstatement; it would be a misunderstanding. In the past months alone they’ve exchanged stones and bullets at such a rate that over a hundred people have died in Srinagar alone.

Right now I’m on an airplane going away from Srinagar, towards Delhi. High up in the air, far away from roads, it’s impossible to encounter barbed wire, roadblocks and guard posts. Only there I can experience a Kashmir without machine guns. I see snow-topped mountains. They’ve got long arms reaching into valleys covered with trees, water and stones. It looks beautiful. Down there old, now diminishing, communities of Hindus and Buddhist are living there along with a growing Muslim population. The army, consisting out of Hindu soldiers, is there too, to protect all. Signs tell “At your service”, “For our safety” and sometimes, when announcing the home of a certain division: “Pride of our nation, envy of our neighbour.” The contrast between the alien soldiers and local Muslim majority is immense.

Most soldiers wear a collection of camouflage riffraff, which makes me wonder if they belong to the paramilitary forces. All look greenish and a few wear a sweater my sister would like to have because it looks cool. Most locals don’t look fashionable at all. They wear, what I can only describe as, an oversized nightgown made of various warm materials. It has long sleeves, reaches lower than their knees and looks extremely comfortable. They call it a phiran. Most men are wearing this garment. Also, they seem to hide something underneath it, on their belly.

It could be a particularly nasty stone intended for throwing, but when I asked my boat owner about this he told everyone was just pregnant. They were pregnant with their winter wife. Immediately I wanted to know why he needed a winter wife, just a moment before he had told us about his family. Well, a winter wife never complains and keeps her husband warm whenever he pleases. On the other hand, she’s rather ugly and smelly; she looks like a fletched basket filled with ashes and charcoal. Maybe it’s true, and real beauty is only inside.

What I really want to know is what would come of her if her husband dies a violent death. What if he becomes collateral damage in the Kashmir conflict? Is there anything she can do? I doubt the winter lover can offer relief and support to the real wife. What about the children? Kashmir is, apart from many other things, a country of broken families.

Violence has scarred the people, shattered society into fractions and engulfed the beautiful nature in a tense atmosphere. Violence for what? Is the conflict over Kashmir just between India and Pakistan? In what ways is the other neighbour, China, involved? What about religion? Most of all, what about the Kashmiri themselves? They suffer. The conflict roams around for twenty years and for example, only in the past months alone there was so much unrest with so many casualties, that the government imposed many daytime curfews. This has brought tourism to a standstill, as well as factories and most notably the transport sector. What can be done about this anguish?

Initially I thought it would be most fair if the Kashmiri people would be given their own state. It’s not that easy. For example, as I was driven around, I saw big banners with texts such as: “It’s not Islam that should be modernized, but modern age that needs to be Islamized.” What does this entail for people who aren’t conservative Muslims? Over the years many minorities have left their homes for a safer place. Religious minorities need protection in Kashmir.

The government does offer some, which is painfully clear at roadblocks. Many removable iron fences obstructing the way contain the message: “Have a safe Yatra!” In Hindi “yatra” means journey, but I think in this context “tirth yatra”, pilgrimage, is implied. In specific seasons Hindus come en masse to Kashmir to visit beautiful, centuries old temples. Whenever I pass these boards I get the impression the army is mostly in the region to protect Hindus and Hindu points of interest. The ninety percent of the local population who is Muslim hate the army. Not in the least, I think, because the dislike is mutual. As a matter of fact, the website of the Dutch ministry of foreign affairs mentions this as well. They mention too that the army does little to protect locals or western tourists. In a way the website insinuates it’s best not to trust the army at all, even being a tourist.

I believe it’s relevant to question who the army serves and protects. At two religious sites I had very different experiences. At the Hazrathbal Mosque, I saw an uniformed man with a machine gun standing guard inside, overlooking the praying Muslims. The Shankaracharya Mandir Shrine has a strict no-photo policy, at least, for civilians. On my visit a soldier was snapping outdoor pictures with his mobile and another one was using a professional camera to shoot pictures of his colleague, who was inside with his wife and son.

Somehow I’m happy I don’t have to pass any judgement over the Kashmir conflict. For me there’s no need to dive into the many horrendous details of this drama. In my previous blog posts you’ve been able to read how I enjoyed Kashmir and it’s heavenly aspects; what I thought about the road sign introducing me to Kashmir: “Welcome to Kashmir, the paradise on earth.” High up in the air, I’m pondering over this sign once again. Now — more than ever — I ponder too over a quote out of Tacitus’s writings:

“They make a desert and call it peace.”

2010.12.18: Laughing At Death

2010-12-24T07:14:00.000+01:00

Only somewhere halfway my ride from Patnitop to Srinagar I started to really pay attention to awkward signs along the road. A little bit later I made a few pictures.

2010.12.18: Heavenly If Not Divine. Really?

2010-12-24T07:12:00.000+01:00

A man offered my sister and I a ride to Srinagar. You might think this was out of generosity, but we were invited because we had to save his life. He told us he was very tired and wanted to see his wife and children as soon as possible; essentially, two things could happen, either he would fall asleep behind steering wheel, or he would drive too fast and crash into a car and/or the bottom of a ravine. Our presence was required to prevent this. Why did we enter his vehicle? Again, there were two reasons. First of all, he only told us about our purpose once we were driving and secondly, Kashmiri have a great sense of humor.

During the five-hour drive our host fondly told about his home. Initially I thought he was one of the few, but it turned out all Kashmiri are incredibly proud of their origin. Often a man would ask if I knew anywhere else was as beautiful. Usually I told how I admired the Dutch broad skies and his reply would come immediately: “Do the Netherlands have great mountains too?” Of course I had to admit this wasn’t the case. Inevitably the conclusion would be: So it’s true, Kashmir is indeed the most beautiful place on earth. Whenever I asked where to eat good Kashmiri food the only reply I got was: “Everywhere!” Is all this pride misplaced or just?

I don’t know. Earlier I wrote about my imaginary friend who spoke to my fantasy. I got to know about how Kashmir is colored by every season. About what the past has brought and the future might bring. Apparently summer is heavenly, if not divine. Lush flowers blossom, trees turn green, the sky is azure blue, lakes flourish, mountains shine and the sun will nurture all. All will truly be a paradise. My reality however was quite different than the ravings of my non-existent friend. Dusty colors, empty trees and misty skies prevailed. It was cold, everyone told me. As matter of fact, this was repeated so often I figured it actually wasn’t that bad. I came to enjoy the promise of a beautiful summer. I would like to go back to Kashmir.

My return wouldn’t just be for the scenery, but also because of its inhabitants. The Kashmiri people I met were, apart from proud, simply kind. They were genuinely interested in me, happy to tell about themselves and insisted, of course, on giving all kinds of advice about what to do in my remaining Srinagar days. The man, who brought my sister and I to his paradise on earth, arranged a houseboat for us and insisted we would keep him up to date about our endeavourers. The owner of our houseboat was funny. This wasn’t just because he proceeded to ask an outrageous price for his services after he told us, with the sincerity of a not very good actor, he only had small profit margins because he was a good Muslim. It took a twenty-minute negotiation before we could come to an arranged that “make both of us happy”. We paid less than half of his initial offer. Also, he had a charming way of covering up for his imperfect service with jokes and naive lies. Nonetheless I wouldn’t mind staying at his houseboat again.

The people I met had some kind of — I still don’t know how to pinpoint it — purity or innocence or clarity or maybe just likeliness about them I hadn’t yet encountered in India. Even Indian tourists I met in Kashmir seemed to be nicer than the ones I met in other regions. This is surprising because the whole of Kashmir is practically a militarized zone. More about soldiers and such in my next and final post concerning Kashmir.

Srinagar - Moghul gardens

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2010.12.17: A Promise Of Snow

2010-12-18T11:53:00.000+01:00

“Why is it so foggy in the afternoon?” “It’s a promise of snow.” Good guides don’t talk much. My sister had made an excellent choice. Yesterday we visited Pahalgam and today we had a trip to Sonamarg. It was wonderful. Although, I didn’t see many sheep, but since when do I care about that? Here are a few pictures:

Pahalgam:

Typical Kashmiri road

Pahalgam

Pahalgam - Women do a lot of heavy work.

Pahalgam

Pahalgam - A promise of snow.

Sonamarg:

Sonamarg

2010.12.15: My Imaginary Friend

2010-12-18T11:35:00.000+01:00

Our gondola operator has one of the most fantastic smiles I’ve seen in a while. He’s old, grey hairs come from underneath his traditional hat and time has carved his face. His movements though, are still powerful. Even stronger are his eyes. One can see many twinkles boiling inside them with a bright intensity. And then there’s this mysterious yet boyish grin; putting all his wrinkles in a wonderful non-symmetrical alignment; showing off white teeth; raising the right part his upper lip a little higher. He accentuates all by tilting his head slightly to the left. This smile welcomed my sister and I as we went offshore, to one of the famous houseboats in Srinagar.

Today my imaginary friend had the same eyes and smile. I needed an unreal companion, because I wanted talk with someone — someone who wouldn’t appeal to my sense of reality — but to my fantasy. Kashmir’s inhabitants and signs along the highway claim I’m in “The Paradise on Earth.” And what a paradise it is! My friend tells me how Srinagar looks in the different seasons, especially during summer, when flowers flourish and trees aren’t naked anymore. I’m being told about what used to be and what the future could bring.

Due to political unrest, apparently there are Muslim festivities until Friday, it isn’t possible — or in other words: there are too many safety concerns — to explore the old city. Today we had a boat tour on Dal Lake and tomorrow we’re going to watch some sheep.

Awake your buddy; dream a little too.

P.S.: He told me they call him Timmy.

Gondolas, or shikaras, as they are called here.

Dal Lake

Dal lake

Dal Lake

Sun and the ceiling of our room.

2010.12.13: Cucumber Time In Jammu & Kashmir

2010-12-14T13:38:00.000+01:00

Every year in the Netherlands there is a time when newspapers have nothing noteworthy to write about. This period, when even news about cucumbers is considered worth publishing, is coined as: “Cucumber time”. My sister and I are in such a period. The only things we’ve done in the past two days is a little travelling, eating, watching James Bond movies and more eating, especially candy. However it seems it’s not just cucumber time for us. Today we’ve had our fifteen seconds of fame.

We were recognized out of a newspaper article. A shopkeeper pointed it out and I was stunned. Yesterday, when we had a bus transit in Udampur, two men started to take photos of us, not one, but a many. Later they introduced themselves as journalists and invited us for drink during which one would ask questions. So we had a drink and talked a little, mostly about tourism in Kashmir. We found it rather funny but, all the time, alarm bells were echoing in our heads.
Our safety, as is mentioned in the article too, is a major concern to us. Partly we rest assured on the agreement to tell as few people as possible about our plans — where we’ll be going and what we’ll be doing to tomorrow. Consequently we avoided most questions with replies such as: “We came here to relax and therefore we decided to seize the day. It means we make plans as we go, we have no schedule.” Well, this response is actually true. Nonetheless, it came as a surprise that we found ourselves smiling on page two of a Hindu newspaper.

Our piece ended with the claim that we were here to learn about Kashmiri culture. Are we? Our intention is to mostly enjoy nature and monuments. We’re tourists, we want to marvel at things. The newspaper article shows it can’t be that black and white; sometimes we’re the attraction and are being gazed at by groups of people. Often people come to shake my hand and take a photo with their mobile phone. Out of the blue people ask where I come from and insist on making small talk. Whether these things are done out of genuine interest or for commercial gain are sometimes unclear.

These rituals are nothing new — every tourist experiences them — however the only Westerners we’ve met here are ourselves. Practically everyone looks at me; I feel as if I’m blond with voluptuous curves and forgot to put on my clothes in the morning. Let’s be honest, it’s not always unwelcome attention, but it also takes time. My sister and I feel, being the only ones to whom this attention can be given, that the people who give this to us deserve some in return.

Being a tourist here brings responsibility. We’ve got to catch a bus. Cucumber time is over.

P.S.: photo of the article will be posted soon

2010.12.11: Jai Mata Di

2010-12-14T13:01:00.001+01:00

A monkey stole my flowers… I stepped in mule dung not once, but at least a hundred times; a few strange men offered me candy. And it was worth it. Today my sister and I went up to the Shri Mata Vaishno Devi Shrine. This is one of the most revered places in India and it’s a cave in mountain. It’s where a manifestation of the Divine Mother has meditated for about nine months. It’s there that a man was beheaded with such a force that his head flew for about two kilometers through the air. Every day an average of twenty-two thousand pilgrims undertake a twenty-six kilometer hike, some barefooted, to make a wish at the shrine.

Legend has it every wish made at the presence of the Divine Mother in the cave will be granted. This, of course, raises the question why so few people in India have won the lottery. Well, legend also has it no one can decide oneself to go to this place. Only after hearing the Call of Mata, a calling from the Divine Mother herself, one will be able to complete the pilgrimage. Her presence in the cave will also take care that “moskh”, enlightenment — the purpose of life — guides your wish. I know this to be true, I had thought about a very selfish wish beforehand and had strangely forgotten all about it when I was supposed to make it.

This undoubtedly was because I’m not a Hindu. Also, I was still busy contemplating about all I had encountered during my climb. My sister and I had started at half past seven in the morning and could've either travelled by helicopter or mule, or on foot. We did the latter but grew worried when it appeared we had entered a family entertainment park. Shops were all over the place. Some sold pilgrim paraphernalia or toys and cloths; others offered photo moments or a haircut. There were of course also many cafeterias and a few travel agents. It seemed as if the path to enlightenment had been materialized.

However the higher we came, the fewer shops we encountered. The roads became less crowded and the temperature went down. All had become more serene. More pilgrims were mumbling, or shouting, “Jai Mata Di”. Unfortunately it’s still unclear to me what the precise meaning is. People either didn’t understand me, or explained that the meaning was so intense it was untranslatable. A rough translation could be: “praise to the Mother”. The fun thing was that it also served as a greeting; many times we got a 'Jai Mata Di' thrown at us and we returned most, sometimes to great excitement of the receivers and then we would exchange Jai Mata Di a few more times.

Our day was marvelous. Even despite the most unwanted attention of the many mule porters, who at times practically blocked our and got physical. In total we walked more than thirty-two kilometers, climbed well over a thousand stairs and went from 740 meter above sea level to about 2000 and back. More important: we witnessed many devoted pilgrims complete their calling and had some wonderful conversations and lessons about India and being a Hindu. There were some splendid views and I received two lucky coins. The coins are special because legend has it, that once I'll put them in wallet and don't take them out, my purse will always be filled with money... Some legends are better then others.

Now the warm sun, underneath which we climbed the mountain, is long gone. I look out of my hotel room's window and see an the illuminated the path to the shrine circling up the mountain. Even at night people will climb the roads, tread the stairs and chant: "Jai Mata Di!" and "Jai Mata Di" is what I whisper in return. I’m left with a genuine feeling of happiness and gratitude for this day.

What more could one wish for?

P.S.: The candy was delicious.

Add caption

2010.12.09: Up North

2010-12-14T12:59:00.000+01:00

Warm days and cold nights; today my sister and I have arrived in Jammu. I welcome the mountainous and rough landscape with a certain excitement. What could there be behind that top? Have you heard how quiet it is and smelled the fresh air? The crowded rickshaw ridden and stinking cities are behind me.” This is what I had hoped to write. The reality however is grim; I’m at the hotel with a sore throat from all the smog; we have no cell phone coverage due to imposed restrictions; more people than usual look unkind — The Dutch ministry of foreign affairs advices not to travel to Jammu and Kashmir.

Basically, we’ve been wondering whether to turn back or not. It might not seem like a difficult choice to make, I mean, with the ministry’s advice and all. The fact remains that we’re here now. We’re here and our instinct tells us we can be here. However, we continuously consider all options and, more importantly, have established two codes of conduct. One about preventing the unimaginable from happening and another one concerning what to do if, god forbid, the unimaginable does happen.

With this out of the way I would like to tell you a little more about Jammu. Expectations had definitely been devastated, but time hadn’t been wasted. When we were looking for an internet café, two local girls told us about a garden that was a must-see. The park was build underneath a fort overseeing a barren valley. The entire area turned out to be a couple’s retreat. Many can be found lingering on the grass or the benches, holding hands or just sitting close to one another. In between a few bushes was more privacy and those spots were therefore reserved for more intimate moments.

Next to the park, a poster claimed, was India’s largest underground aquarium. The place practically begged to be visited and off we went: descending into a giant fish’s mouth. It turned out to be a collection of aquaria with many beautiful small fish. More macabre though were the posters on the walls. First they promoted the practice of having a “domestic fish”, they continued to explain about evolution, tanks, feeding and different kinds of fish. I was left to wonder from what perspective their teachings should be perceived, after seeing the final three placards. Those contained tips and tricks on how to prepare, cook and eat various sea creatures.

It wasn’t with eating fish, but with lamb — on a rotating rooftop restaurant — that my first day in Jammu came to a spectacular end. My sister and I went to the most exclusive place in the town: The Falak restaurant at the KC Residency. We were placed at a window table and as the time passed a counter-clockwise 360 view of the city was presented to us. It’s needless to say that the evening together was wonderful, with nice food and a splendid view.

Site for a yearly five day prayer.

Cave inside a temple.

2010.12.07: Still On The Road

2010-12-08T08:55:00.000+01:00

Being driven on the Indian road is a little like going to the cinema. Sometimes beautiful landscapes unfold themselves before you. Soon after, or at the same time, it might appear you’re involved in an action packed high-speed car chase; it doesn’t matter in what lane anyone drives as long as things go as fast as possible. The roads have, in case you wonder or pray, you’re dreaming, very convenient placed bumps and holes. Whenever the bus hits one you’ll instantly know you’re awake and, usually, a few seconds later you’re still alive. It could of course also be that a horror movie was scheduled. You travel at night and the only lights, which come from your own car, illuminate gloomy shadows lurking behind trees. Or was that just a monkey? Probably you’ve been watching something romantic all along, because you witness a magnificent sunrise or sunset and see how a couple embraces each other on a motorbike. One thing is certain: India’s roads are never boring.

Another thing, which is certain, is that most Indian buses are home to an incredible draft. I got to endure this on my first ride, a ten-hour night trip from Agra to Haridwar. Actually, the bus itself was quite awesome, having regular seats and cabins, where one could sleep, on top of them. I was in the last bed at the end of the bus. There I could hear the engine sometimes literally echo in my ears and frequent bumps and braking made me bounce up and down. The draft however was the worst, because I didn’t have a blanket or sleeping bag to cover myself with. It’s needless to say that I barely slept and felt rather miserable, not in the least because I had caught a tremendous cold.

Things got better in the morning when my two-day travel companion gave me a wonderful candy bar and a magnificent sun warmed me up a little. Within minutes I was on the bus to Dehradun — where I hoped to meet my sister. Soon I had fallen asleep. A little bit later though, a loud “bang” and “ziinnggggg” woke me up again. A ferocious brake of the bus had made my head swing forward against a hollow metal pipe. The collision hurt a lot and from that point onwards I was obviously fed up with busses.

Once I arrived in Dehradun I spend an entire day in bed. The city was uninteresting as far as the hammering in my head and relentless coughing were concerned. I did have a nice dinner though. The next morning I wanted to leave as soon as possible to Risekesh, which I did. I was in a far better mood and I enjoyed my bus ride. (Photos are at the bottom, including my not very flattering self-portrait.) It was already evening when I met my sister. We decided to go Amritsar, where the golden Sikh temple is, as a one-day stop on the way Jammu.

Getting to Amritsar proved to be more difficult than we thought. We spend a good six hours in buses, going from place to place, in the hope of finding another bus that could bring us to the city with the golden temple. In the end we got to a train where we both had a surprisingly good night of sleep. Now I like buses. Happy End? I think so.

2010.12.06: On The Road

2010-12-06T12:47:00.000+01:00

The Lonely Planet mentions that India thrives on its railroad network and now I can tell you: so do India’s cockroaches. However it doesn’t take long to get used to those tiny creatures. It’s not as if anyone has a choice. Soon I decided to name one, who was exploring an area not far away from my bag, Timmy. Then I wanted to settle on a different name for its companion, who was busy sightseeing nearby my right shoe. They were surprisingly hard to tell apart, so difficult that even Timmy1 and Timmy2 wouldn’t make any sense. As time progressed I noticed Timmy and Timmy were far from alone.

To be honest, I’ve only been in one train so far and I bought a cheap ticket. Completely different experiences than the one I had must be possible too. The thing is, that after being trapped for half an hour, all what I would’ve considered to be an unacceptable nuisance at home, becomes acceptable and, if I might say, even enjoyable to witness in India.

Whereas in the Netherlands talking into your phone can already be a reason to be frowned upon, in India it’s a coming and going of noises nobody appears to really care about. Sometimes it’s the train itself, for example when the carriages bang a little into each other, usually it’s just people talking and listening to music. Now and then a beggar drops by to ask for alms and, regrettably, not waking up that loudly snoring person. Unfortunately though snoring is not the most obnoxious sound. Omitting incredible burps, farts and ear-splitting nose sneezes is something quite a few people seem to find normal.

The rail catering is very present too, selling hot and cold beverages as well as food hidden in boxes with “Meals on Wheels” written on it. They’re loudly bringing attention to their wares and sometimes literally run from bench to bench. Of course there are more salesman on the train, offering anything from lottery tickets to toys or batteries. And, on top of all that, there are those annoying tourists, like me, who are being taught how to count out loud in Hindi.

Apart from these sounds there are also many odors your nose will be forced to make acquaintance with. However, let’s not indulge ourselves in them. I think that it suffices to mention that they range from: “Delicious spicy dinner” to “Things that are supposed to be disposed in the toilet, but aren’t.” and “There’s a reason some people close their window.” I began to feel disappointed.

This feeling reached its boiling point when I was in a bicycle rickshaw on the way to my hotel in Agra. I was wearing my large sunglasses and thinking: “Sheesh, what is this man slow.” The driver in question was quite old and sometimes got off to push his vehicle rather than pedalling it, even though we weren’t going uphill. Every few seconds or so coughed up a nasty cough. I paid the rickshaw driver about four times the price we had initially agreed upon. Maybe he was a brilliant actor, but I think he was seriously ill. Because the ride took so painstakingly long, I had plenty of time to ponder over my first thoughts and to realize how disappointed I was in myself.

Not disappointed for noticing what’s different than what I’m used to, but for translating these impressions in mostly negative or mocking representations. I was angry with myself, for hiding behind sunglasses, rather than facing the harsh reality directly. Afraid as I was to allow it to look me straight into my eyes. Instead I had it gaze at its own reflection. I was concerned about what I might had turned into. Had I transformed from a sad and lonely alcoholic in Moscow to a heartless tourist in India?

The simple truth, I decided after I had taken off my sunglasses in the rickshaw, is that I wanted to be this heartless tourist. I hadn’t travelled all the way to India to have my heart ripped out, to see how all of my happiness would be squeezed out of it, because I considered the living conditions of some Indians I encountered downright miserable. On my travels I wanted to see beauty. I put my sunglasses back on and paid off my conscience by paying the driver a sixty-rupee tip, that’s about one euro.

If a little disappointment now and then is a prerequisite for me allowing myself to shut down certain emotions and enjoy my holidays, then, that’s a price I’m willing to pay.

So, travelling by rickshaw is pretty fun, although they’re not as much the death trap I had hoped they would be. I can’t really decide on how to describe it, I think I’ll try to take some pictures in the days to come to illustrate it. Something else about being on the road in India is that I think that all the traffic fumes I inhale make my throat a bit sore. This is however a wonderful excuse to drink a banana lassi. Banana lassies are amazing and if lucky topped with coconut chips and a few raisins.

2010.12.04: Behind The Shades Of India

2010-12-04T08:37:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I got introduced to a part of India that was absolutely marvelous instead of dirty and smelly or noisy. I got to tour Agra Fort. And today India became even more exciting when I visited the Taj Mahal. Ignorant of topography when I was little (actually I still am) I thought this mausoleum was the ultimate thousand-and-one-night castle and hidden somewhere in Persia. I imagined Scheherazade sitting at a window, telling her stories about Ali Baba, while she now and then glanced at her predecessors’ bloody heads, which were displayed on lances along the calm water. Nowadays I, of course, think I know better.

Now I've taught that a Mogul ruler build the tomb out of love for his deceased wife. Because he didn’t want anything else to be build as beautiful as his wife’s last resting palace, he cut of both hands of its main architect. What a cruel love that was. The Mogul ruler’s son was less mean, or maybe not. Because, after a few years, he did imprison his father in the Agra Fort and took over his reign. Being a good son though, he gave him access to a private mosque and kept him in the highest tower. From there his father could oversee the Taj Mahal and yearn for his beloved wife. But an encyclopedia will do a far better job explaining this, or you can look it up on Wikipedia if you must.

Here are a few pictures you might enjoy:

Agra Fort:

Taj Mahal:

I’ve managed to bury the cable, which connects my camera and laptop and allows them to exchange sparks of happiness, somewhere in the deep belly of my backpack. At least, that’s where I hope it is. Basically, I’ll first go to a place I cannot pronounce tonight and from there I’ll go to Dehradun. Once there I’ll allow my bag to explode on a comfy empty bed and will conduct a search for that tiny wire before I'll go to sleep.

...

Found it!

2010.12.02: A Swarm Of Angry Ducks

2010-12-02T12:56:00.000+01:00

It wasn’t new to me honking car horns is the number one national pastime in India. The superfluous noise making should, or probably did already, inspire a conductor to make a symphony. However I wouldn’t have thought the yearning for attention was so excessive. In extreme moments it feels like a horde of extremely loud wasps is following me wherever I go. In more quiet times it just seems I’m in the middle of a pond full of angry ducks, who are vigorously quacking at each other. I’m happy to be in India.

Yesterday I arrived in Delhi. The airport looked brand new and conspicuously clean. When I was squeezing my hand luggage into my backpack, spreading out some belongings over a few seats, a cleaner, leaning on his broom, looked at me from a distance. I was uncertain if this was out of fear for me dropping some rubbish on the floor or maybe hoping I would do exactly that. Probably though, he wondered why foreigners always bring so much useless stuff along.

However, please, allow me to defend myself. During my travels in the Middle East I had an eighty-five liter backpack, the one I have now only has space for thirty-five liters of things I cannot live without. In other words: I used to travel with 245 percent more luggage. I met a girl from Canada in Moscow, her bag is only one third the size of mine. It makes me wonder how she manages. I witnessed her profound love for walking, which might be very healthy, unless all the inhaled car fumes kill you first. There are no hard feelings because she introduced me to a few wonderful Indian dishes and knows how to make coffee.

Today we experienced a little bit of Indian bureaucracy attempting to buy train tickets at the train station. The tourist offices couldn’t sell anymore, because they had reached their quota. An Israeli complained to a sales clerk: “This is no logic.” The reply came quick and left him baffled: “There is no logic here.” Someone coming to India looking for logical logic will probably be disillusioned. Although Indian variations on logic are interesting and I hope to find many of them. “The Shelton Hotel” is a fine example. It worked on me, until I actually saw their restaurant where we wanted to have a bite just for the fun of it, well that was until I saw their kitchen...

As I write this I’m on a roof terrace and a girl has just sat down on an opposite table. She is wearing a black shirt that propagates in pink letters: “Great Kisser”, I think that the pink heart underneath this bald statement is meant to convince everyone of this truth. I’m just happy I finally saw someone who buys that crap and actually wears it. (To any reader who has these kind of t-shirts too: No, it’s not me, it’s you.) There’s probably no need to mention she was American.

The thing is that I don’t see many tourists here and I hope that there will be more in the rest of India. I might become a little lonely if not. Or maybe I should buy a “Great Kisser” t-shirt too.

As I write this I notice that I have written about things that might not seem very beautiful, but let me comfort you, the combination of these moments does make me smile.

Now I’m off to Agra to see the Taj-Mahal at sunrise.

2010.11.30: Goodbye Home, Welcome ... ?

2010-12-02T12:54:00.000+01:00

The first half of my flight to New Delhi would be operated by KLM and end in Moscow. Part two would be handled by Aeroflot. Aeroflot? Yes, Aeroflot, you heard that right. No, I haven’t got a sudden death wish. Yes, I’ve read those. No, I don’t take those Internet comments too serious. No, I’m not worried at all. Ehmm… Yes, now I’m in Moscow. Why? Do you really have to ask? Well, I’ve got a delay of almost ten hours and no one can say with certainty that my flight will depart tomorrow. You were right. Happy now?
Luckily, Aeroflot, being the fine company that it is, arranged a hotel for the transit passengers without a visa for Russia too. We arrived at two o’clock in morning and the hotel had a wake-up service scheduled at half past four. However, there were food and drinks present and our host even served them at that late hour. As a matter of fact I’ve been a little preoccupied with food since last night when my mother made a delightful pizza.

This morning KLM offered me this cookie:

The cookie led me to question a great deal of things. Since when is it that traditional homemade things are being made in a bakery and since 1880? How come the cookie is broken? Vandalism or terrorism? Was it a coincidence, intent or an accident? There was too much time to think it over. Only with one hour left I started to wonder what I should do once I arrived for my transit in Moscow.

One recurring aspect of the many possibilities I imagined was that I should drink vodka. After all, I would be in Russia. Shopping for this spirit turned out to be quite awkward. The terminals were modern, clean and empty. It seemed that in the afternoon there were more shop attendants present than passengers. No one however replied to a smile. Women just stared into nothingness with an icy look. Some men were more responsive, but with a look I could only translate as: “Are you gay or is something else wrong with you?” But that wasn’t all. The terminals were set up in a way that one had to pass a great deal of shops. Most of the many shops were called “Duty Free Moscow” and sold exactly the same products.

Some shops were identical twins and others only differed in size and floorplan. On too many shelves the same luxury articles were attempting to seduce me. The little choice between things to buy made me think of the Soviet Union. Only now everyday products, that must’ve been of at least some real benefit to humanity, were replaced by “Johnny Walker Blue Label” and “Chanel No. 5”. Repulsed by this senseless repetition I bought only a small and cheap bottle of vodka not any caviar. Well, caviar was a whole bloody lot more expensive than I wanted it to be anyhow. Instead I decided that eating pickles was the Russian thing to do. Of course there were no pickles to be found, that would be something normal people might buy. I settled for pickle-flavored chips.

Had I become a sad lonely alcoholic? Killing time by sipping booze out of mini bar bottles? I don't know, but I would've drank mods had I already known about my impending doom. I had just finished my pickle flavored chips when a two and a half hour was announced due to a “defect”. The additional seven hours of delay where announced when the two and a half hour had passed. Now the plane would now leave at seven in the morning. It was a minor nuisance that we didn’t receive anything to drink or eat in the more than four hours we had to wait before we got to the hotel. The politeness, or lack thereof, of the Aeroflot staff was something else.

“No English” “go here” “go there” “wait” “just wait”. “Why do you ask me?" "Ask someone else!” I once read somewhere that people who don’t speak English very well may sound impolite, because they just don’t know enough words to communicate in anything else than commands. Here everyone’s body language left me in no doubt: the language barrier was no issue here. No wonder, I figured, the Kalashnikov was invented in this country, so many people to shoot at and so little time.

Of course there were many positive things to my unanticipated interruption. First of all I went outside while it was claimed to be at least minus thirty-five degrees Celsius. I’ve never been in a such a cold in my life. Everyone was omitting a lot of smoky heat as if we were all wandering cigarettes. At the hotel bar, while I was writing this, a travel agent approached me from Belgrade, Serbia. After reading two or three sentences he concluded that I wrote very nicely about food, as good as a journalist. It was very very very good, by the way his name was Alex. He was in Moscow to attend a basketball game and gave me his e-mail and website at least three times. When we left the hotel he and his buddies were still drinking in the hotel lobby, singing native songs and saluting to Mladic.

It was clear to me I was abroad in strange territories. More important though, than meeting drunk promoters, I met a few other stranded passengers. It’s true that I mostly made small talk, but the collection of French, Czech, American, Dutch, German, Canadian and Indian people I spoke with reassured me. They reassured me, with their humor and stories, an adventure was about to start.

P.S.: I just arrived in New Delhi

P.P.S.: The Aeroflot staff on the airplane were actually rather kind, although still not smiling.

Click here for an overview of all posts about my time in India
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Welcome!

2010-01-09T09:21:00.000+01:00

I see my toes. One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine ... Ten? Ten! Ten is right there. Yep, still got them all. When I look up I see a wall, it's white. The walls to my right and left are white too. So is the ceiling. Strange, my bedsheets are red. My teapot has orange, yellow, purple, light green, red, green, turquoise and white stripes. The table is brown. If there would be a television then it would be white, just like my fridge. My t-shirt is white too. My candles are white, the cookie jar is white, some books are white, my mobile is white, the radiator is white, pillows are white, roughly 2% of my socks are white, the boiler is white, the kitchen paper is white, my rice cooker is white, my toothpaste is white, yoghurt is white. My plates are not just white, they're white and blue. I've got one plant, it's green and it's alive. In the far right upper corner of the room is a small spider, it doesn't move, but it must be alive too. The spider is black. Most wires are black.
Coincidence?

Wasting time is the only luxury everyone can afford.

Enjoy it!