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| Approaching the Himalayas. About 13000' |
Written 7 December: I've just dumped a
bucket of brown, tepid water down the drain, the accumulated filth of
four days in the high desert of Spiti, where running water is limited
to an icy spring during the winter months. Our Himalayan excursion is
winding down and today we venture to the much anticipated hot springs
of Tattapani, where I plan to soak until I blister.
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| The Buddhists seem fond of violent iconography. |
The trip started in the Kinnaur
district of Himachal Pradesh. I take back all of my previous
admonishments of temples. Within 24 hours, we'd smugly informed our
guide Vikas that the temple/gompa circuit wasn't our bag and that our
interests lay solely in food and nature and physical exertion. He
told us, “is no problem," then promptly dragged us to an
850-year-old temple where we begrudgingly removed our shoes and
toasty wool socks to walk on frigid stone floors. The craftsmanship
and artistry of these buildings are incredible: intricate wood
carvings depicting demons, animals, and gods. This is snow leopard
country, but alas our wildlife spottings were limited to a few foxes.
Anyway, the religious testaments proved to be more interesting than I
imagined, due in large part to their age. Most every temple, gompa, and monastery
we visited was created nearly or over a thousand years ago. I was
struck by the idea that the culture still practices their religion today in
very much the same way they did when construction began. These are
not archaeological sites preserved for tourists but living
embodiments of an extant way-of-life, still frequented by the
faithful.
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| Carved Ganesh |
We initially signed on for a 6 day
trip, but extended it to 11 days. We spent many, many hours in the
car, driving the tortuous Hindustan-Tibet Road. The
villages we visited rely on agriculture and tourist dollars to
survive. Kinnaur and Spiti, the two districts of Himachal
Pradesh--H.H. Dalai Lama's stomping grounds (oh hai Jaci!)--we
traveled through, are geographically isolated and thus less
influenced and diluted by broader Indian and world culture, as
evidenced by the languages, dress, and dietary choices of their
inhabitants. In spite of the recent additions of satellite TV and internet connections,
the people we saw live within the limitations of their environment to
an extent I'd never witnessed. In Spiti, where there's a dearth of
vegetation, dried donkey dung fuels the fires. The matriarch of the
family with whom we stayed didn't see her first jeep until eight
years ago, upon which sighting she asked, “what kind of animal
is this?” Meat is consumed out of necessity, as the harsh climate
restricts the growing period to a few months at most. I saw the best
treatment of animals in this part of India, probably because they're
so intimately tied to the survival of their masters. During the
winter months, the women knit socks and work on their looms while the
men tend to the animals. The women also spend hours each day
preparing food. Work distribution seemed to fall more heavily on the
women. I don't know how this changes during the summer months. It was
fascinating for me, as the product and sometimes participant in a
culture that romanticizes homesteading and old-timey skill sets, to
watch people live this life not out of fashion or nostalgia, but
rather out of absolute necessity.
The highlights of the trip for me were hiking and bouldering in the Himalayas, but of course.
17 December: The hot springs were
great. The sulfurous water was pumped directly to the hotel room, and
I took the most satisfying shower I've had in 2 ½ months. The
springs themselves are directly on a river, just below the sand. We
enjoyed the peculiar sensation of standing in the icy river as
geothermally heated rocks burned the soles of our feet.
Afterwords, we returned to Shimla to
plan the next leg of our journey. We had tentative plans to volunteer
at Navdanya organic farm for a couple of weeks, but we didn't hear
back from the organizers until we'd already left the region. Farm work
is still a possibility for January. In order to catch our connecting
train to Pondicherry, we had to spend a couple of nights in the
hellhole that is New Delhi. It proved to be another onslaught of
culture shock as we again acclimatized to the noise, filth, and human
suffering of the metropolis after weeks of calm. In Delhi, we met an
Indian man in town on business. We spent most of our time hanging out
with him and I taught him some yoga to relieve residual pain
from a previous accident. He was so pleased with the
results that we now have a standing invitation to his hometown of
Raipur where he wants me to teach to the locals. We're considering.
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| Lunch at a Dhaba |
After over 40 hours of open-air train
and bus travel—black boogers, sooty clothes, books devoured—we
made it to the Indian Ocean and are happily residing with a family in
Pondicherry. We met Shyam, the son, through couchsurfing.org, so this
stay is gratis. It's also the nicest, cleanest accommodation we've had
in India. We have our own room and bathroom, though we share most
nights with other surfers: last night a Chinese girl, tonight an
Australian. The town was colonized by the French, so in many ways
this feels like a European trip, what with English-influenced Shimla
preceding Pondicherry. The region is lushly tropical, with lots of
coconut and banana trees. The days are humid but breezy. I'm teaching
yoga to the family and Vadim in the mornings. It's good
practice for me and I'm grateful for the opportunity.
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| The fecundity of South India: an errant watermelon growing on scaffolding. |
Alas, my camera battery gave out before
I made it to the Himalayas. A photo can't do it justice anyway. I'll
really try to get back in the habit of snapping pictures while I'm
here.
