THE TRAVELER

Rishikesh and Manali

The trains in India are a bargain, which makes last minute tickets exceedingly hard to get.  Luckily. I got a first class single seat, from Delhi to Haridwar, one of the four holiest Hindi cities in India, and the nearest train station to Rishikesh.  Known as the Yoga Center of the world, as well as a very holy Hindu city, Rishikesh is a rabbit warren of hotels, guesthouses yoga centers, ashrams, and little Hindu holy shrines tucked in among shops selling tourist junk and religious objects for pilgrims.  Across a walking bridge over the Ganga River near its headlands is located a large temple and a smattering of shops, guesthouses and local restaurants.

A crush of people, cows, and motorcycles cross the bridge daily.  Numerous times during the day the bridge is so full everyone just stops moving; much like stagnant L.A. rush-hour traffic.  Among all this, people occasionally decide to take family portraits on the bridge to get the Holy Ganga River in the background.  It is amazing that both the bridge and peoples’ tempers survive.  Rather than anger, some groups sing, while others recite little poems, which I assume, are prayers. They recite these in unison over and over as if in a perseveration of the soul, (which I believe if translated into English has, ‘a get me across this lousy bridge before it breaks and we all fall to our deaths’ kind of theme). 

During particularly holy periods or festivals, pilgrims from all over India flock to these holy cities, big and small and I happen to hit one of those weekends.  The color and style of many pilgrims’ clothes, mostly the women, often indicate the area from where they hale.  The red saris and valed faces of the women of Rajasthan are the most obvious.  Yet white worn by men who have recently lost a family member is also prevalent.  Another common sight among these religious souls is an elderly person squired through the throngs by an adult child or relative.  For most, because of financial reasons, this might be their once in a lifetime pilgrimage and not one pilgrim that I observed seemed to miss any of the little shrines stuck between the bigger more obvious commercial enterprises that filled the town. 

My guesthouse, the HARI OM, which cost about $11 US a night, was clean, had a hot water geyser, and was located directly on the Ganga River.  Often in the evening, I would sit on the chair in my room with my feet on the windowsill, and watch the river as it rushed by in torrent-like fashion racing down to Haridwar and Varanasi eager to carry the ashes away of those in wait for reincarnation to pursue their souls. 

 I had envisioned that Rishikesh would be somewhat idyllic. After all isn’t yoga a relaxing stimulant for the body?  One would think it would be taught in a restful environment.  But no, like the river there is a restlessness about the place created by the way the shops and guesthouses are jammed together, having to step over their piles of dung left by the wandering cows, the constant noise of motorcycles roaring through the main street, and the accumulative noise from the overwhelming crowds wandering throughout the town.  Added to that, my room was airless, humid hot weather was encroaching, and there was lots of dust, the evil attacker of my sinuses.  What was I to do?  I could move up the hill to another location, but as luck would have, it wasn’t until I was riding out of town, heading for my next destination that I found the appropriate location, too late.  

I had hired a car and driver and off I went to what I was told was a cooler, beautiful, less dusty atmosphere, Manali in Northwestern India.  Well two out of three aren’t bad. Yes, once I arrived, it was cooler, and located among exceedingly beautiful pine forests marching up magnificent, mountain sides with distant snow covered peaks, and numerous streams of melting snow.  But the roads to get to Manali were some of the worse I have experienced in India.  The mountainous terrain on which they are built, and the avalanches both contributed to my arch enemy arriving again, an incredible amount of dust. By the time I arrived in Manali after a seventeen-hour drive, the polyps in my nose hung down to my knees.  Breathing through my nose was impossible and breathing through my mouth uncomfortably dicey.  To top this off, we arrived so late (around 10:30 pm), The Drifter’s Inn Guesthouse, rated number one in Trip Advisor, had given away my room and was rude about it.  So Dragon Guesthouse kindly took me in but at an exorbitant rate. 

There are two Manalis; New Manali, which is a class ‘D’ Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and Old Manali, about a mile up the mountain from the main Manali tourist trap.  Old Manali is a lovely little hillside village, which spiders here and there up the mountainside with a small crowded tourist hamlet located at its base. 

The morning after my arrival my first job was to move to a less expensive room, still pricey for the area.  My second, to call friends to determine the feasibility of coming home, having polyp surgery then returning to India and continuing my travels.  A working plan developed determining where I would stay and have the surgery done. Then the light bulb struck! 

Was there a Tibetan Doctor in the area?  There was a Tibetan community.  Yes!  The MEN-TSEE-KHANG Tibetan Medical & Astrological Institute of H.H., the Dali Lama had a doctor and hospital located near the monastery in south New Manali.  I was there in a shot.  These doctors are amazing.  They listen to your problem; actually you don’t even have to tell them the problem.  They figure it all out when they put their fingers on your wrist.  Listening to the magical pulses embedded there, these doctors diagnose your problem as well as explore your medical future.  Although Dr. Lugyal and I had a bit of a language barrier, my description of the problem and his prescription of the appropriate medicine worked.  The little buggers have been sucked back up into the nether lands of my nasal orifices and I am no longer a mouth breather, day or night.  This obviously freed me from the expense and perils of surgery and the flight home.   So I could again continue on my journey. 

But enjoying the Manali area was my immediate goal.  I casually walked up mountain roads and paths visiting Hindu Temples, riverside venues, and little village hamlets.  I ate river trout cooked numerous ways at various restaurants, ate honey-peanut cookies from the ‘German Bakery’ (not), and Pizza at Casa Bella Vista, a charming but pricy, mountain guesthouse with a wonderful vegetarian restaurant.  Gilli the owner claims they serve the best pizza in India.  So far it’s the best pizza I’ve had in the India or Nepal, but India is a vast country and I have much pizza tasting to do before I give it my final stamp of approval.

Fourteen Km from Manali is Solang, one of India’s best-known winter skiing resorts.  Having previously been to the charming ski resorts in Switzerland and Austria, I looked forward to seeing one of their Indian counter parts, a charming little skiing hamlet.  Boy, was I in for a brief shock. There was no village at all, rather a large meadow filled with Zorb balls, Para Gliders, children's games of chance like ring toss, bounce houses, jewelry sellers, locals with angora rabbits for photo shoots, outside restaurants and a ski lift.  

So what does one do when they've been duped?  Go with the flow.  I went Para Gliding!  Wow it is one of the most wonderful things I have ever done.  It gave me an extreme sense of relaxation and freedom.  I will certainly Para glide again, as it has become my old age extreme sport. 

I only have two more tourist goals here in Manali, to visit the last temple in the area and to ride the yak.  I have three days to fulfill these dreams.  Wish me luck!

THE TRAVELER

New Delhi

Wait!  Have I arrived in the right city?  The shinning new airport terminal patterned after Bangkok’s airport edifice is a delightful shock.  In fact, because of the 2010 Common Wealth Games, Delhi has received a much-needed facelift.  Not only is there a new airport terminal, but also a new Train station, a wonderfully extended metro system (now one can even go to and from the airport), and the shabby streets previously full of beggar children performing tricks among the moving traffic for small change have been replaced by lovely tree-lined boulevards empty of any distractions.

Although Delhi was much improved, marvelously clean and shinny, for me it had lost some of its lackluster grubbiness of my past visits, and I felt like a third world emigrant magically dropped into London’s Harrods Department store.  But when the taxi finally arrived in the more earthy Paharganj backpackers’ area, and I saw two cows outside the Rama Krishna Ashram metro station, a pile of cow dung nearby, and the hole-in-the-wall tourists shops and tea stalls, I felt immersed again in the Delhi I had previously experienced. The western poseurs wearing caravan pants, with beards and single dreadlocks down their backs, head kerchiefs and tattoos, still roamed the area.  Many were traveling with their ‘ladies’, who were also clothed in ‘1960s’ regimental dress; opaque harem pants or long skirts, Indian shirts, bangles, ankle brackets, and lots of body piercings.  While a marinade of sihdus (supposed, and some very real holy men), draped in various shades of orange to soft pinks carried their miniature silver buckets and red powder throughout the area hoping for donations in exchange for placing a red dot blessing on my forehead.  It was all there, thank God, and happily I settled into one of my favorite guesthouses, Cottage Yes Please, located on the edge of all this lovely madness. Then I immediately headed across the street for a delicious Indian dinner.

 Delhi was getting hot and I only remained for a short visit to make arrangements for my friend Nancy Jo’s and my travels together in October.  After going out to Khan Market for a delightful but somewhat disastrous shopping trip (I can’t resist the goodies at Fabindia and Anoki), I was off by train to what I hoped would be the cooler climes of Rishikesh, advertised as the yoga center of the world.

THE TRAVELER

Kolkata

What do you do about a problem named Kolkata?

From the moment I rode out of the train station on the way to my hotel, I developed a love hate relationship with Calcutta/Kolkata.  No matter how many pictures and movies I have seen in the past, they are no comparison to the impact of seeing the people living out their lives on the grubby streets of this city. 

Upon arriving at my hotel, the Aafreen, Lonely Planet’s budget top pick, I knew I could not stay in this area or in this hotel.  The staff was surly, the paint peeling off the walls and an ant family living in the woodwork, joined me on the bed as I took a short arrival rest.  Immediately after the staff delivered my bags to my room, I got a cab and headed out to the Swiss Street area in the southern part of the city to check out Trip Advisor’s top pick of Kolkata guesthouses, the Bohdi Tree.  It was more than anyone could wish for, in a section of the city where street trash was the exception rather than the rule.  Here was this lovely enclave of only five rooms set within a former private home and art gallery.  The room was over double the price from $20 to $45 a night, but it was lovely.  There was WI FI in all the rooms and each was decorated with a different theme (I stayed the Bengali room), a staff that really tried to make me happy, and the frosting on the cake just, it was a couple of blocks from the Kolkata metro. Oddly I arrived without a reservation and they just happened to have a five-day opening. Eureka!

 Grungy is the best adjective I can think of to describe the rest of Kolkata.  Whether it’s the streets, the museums or most of the city.  In the poorer neighborhoods around Sudder Street, Kolkata’s nearest to what could be called a backpackers’ area, the street people were rampid.  Some live under black tarps, small protection from the elements, while others just live in the open. Covered or not, street people have placed nails in the walls and along fences on which they have strung a piece of rope for hanging their clothes and/or laundry.  Faucets imbedded in small rectangular lipped areas on the sidewalks are large enough for two men hunkered down to take care of their morning libations; their soapy bath, brushing their teeth, washing, their hair.  Seeing my camera, two men smiled and waved me over to take their pictures.  People sat on stools along the street getting haircuts and beards trimmed. 

Paan sellers called Paan Whallas sort large piles of leaves, sprinkle each with different favored essences, pack them with tobacco, then roll them to sell throughout the day to those who imbibe in the soporific addiction these rich green leaves gave to the chewers. Also called betel nut, not only does it give the chewer a relaxed high, it also stains their teeth brown with hints of red around the edges and over the long-term ruins their teeth. 

Every so often on the sidewalk, I would see what I call a ‘pissarteriam,’ a three sided tile enclosure about shoulder high, built with the opened side backed to the rest of the sidewalk and the buildings, for people (I think only men but I’m not sure) to relief themselves.  On the street side of every ‘pissarteriam,’ there was a metal plaque stating the name of the politician who provided the facility, his title or position in the government, generally a Councilor of a particular district. As political office holders can never let any political opportunity go to waste.

The next morning before checking out of the Aafreem, I took a couple of hours to photograph life on the streets around the Sudder Street enclave.  Again, I found my pictures did not do justice to the horrible reality of theses peoples’ lives.  Children naked or only wearing only bottoms playing a version of ‘Ring A Round the Rosy.’ People sleeping on the sidewalk where ever they found a spot to lie down a piece of cardboard or small blanket the size of their body. Women and children searching for scraps of wood they can use to make fires in their braziers along the street side of the sidewalks to cook the family meal.  Makeshift food stalls where one can buy a chapatti, curry, or rice dish for a pittance.  Dogs, lots of somewhat emaciated dogs, mostly brown and white, sleeping here or there, or off on some special business moving slowly because of the execrating heat. 

Most people when they saw my camera, were thrilled to have their pictures taken, and loved seeing the outcome.  Less than one percent demurred and would simply refuse, shield their face or turn their back.   During the few instances when I was asked for money to take a picture, I didn’t take the shot. 

Kolkata is the only place left in the whole world that still has human rickshaw pullers.  Although the government has considered stopping this inhuman occupation, it is still a necessary evil because of the monsoons.  During these periods of heavy rains the water is too deep in which to drive a car and the human rickshaw pullers are the only transportation available other than the metro.

Kolktata is considered India’s cultural center.  And there is a decadent elegance to many of the old colonial buildings originally built by the British now left to decay by the Kolkata community.   The Indian Museum building is in desperate need of repairs and even the displays are a shambles.  Although I was told that the museum has it’s first ever curator (out from England), and it is going through the process of major repairs, it was a sad example of a museum. Not much work was happening, but there was scaffolding and one lone man was painting a wall within the building when I visited.  There was also one air-conditioned room with a well-done modern museum display. The Academy of Modern Art was also closed because of a major theft and I was told they too have been bequeathed an amount of money from the government for repairs. 

The Victoria Memorial is a lovely piece of architecture, with displays of the history of Calcutta.  As Kolktata was the original base for the East India Company and eventually the first seat of the British Government in India, the pictures and information are really quite interesting.   There are also rooms of poorly displayed paintings of little interest. Outside are beautiful gardens with large pools of water surrounding the whole edifice?

Neither the policemen nor the taxi drivers know where they are, and communication with each group is almost impossible.  Street signs are rare, yet every taxi driver will tell you he knows exactly the location of your destination and regularly gets lost.  Typical taxi adventure - destination the Marble Palace: the first taxi driver, not only chewed paan as he drove but also slowed down and talked on his cell phone to run up the meter while driving in the wrong direction.  Eventually, when the car was at a stop light in the middle lane of a very busy main street, I simply left some money on the seat, got out and walked across lanes to the sidewalk.  The second driver, who had the directions explicitly explained to him by two locals who spoke English and knew the area, and also set a rate of 50 rupees with the driver, passed the final turn to my destination.  Then he stopped to ask directions from another man who fortunately (?) spoke English.  Here he decided to raise the price to 100 rupees.  After much conversation between themselves, the English speaking man ask my next destination and informed me that as a woman alone it was obvious that I would need this taxi driver’s services for the rest of the afternoon.  At that, I got out of the taxi, handed the driver his 50 rupees and walked away leaving them both with shocked looks on their faces.  Helpless female tourist I am not.  Within ten minutes I found my destination was a left turn and a short walk of three blocks. I was there in a trice.

The communist party has been the elected government for thirty-seven years. I was told that prior to their coming to office, Kolkata was a financial powerhouse, while under communist leadership business and industry stagnated.  In May of this year the communists were usurped and a socialist government was elected.  From newspaper articles, I got the impression much of the city seems to have hopes for better times ahead. But isn’t this always the way with any new administration in any government.

I will return at least once more to see the few things I missed, the Kali Temple, the Harikrishna Center, the Botanical Gardens and the Park Street Cemetery.  But as a regular stop, I think not.

THE TRAVELER

The Mystery of the Karmapa

Rumtek Monastery has a problem.  They have two instead of one Karmapas.  How could such a crazy thing happen?  That’s what I have been trying to figure out my self. Here is how the situation is presented by the members of the current Rumtek Dharma Chakra Center communities (resident monks). 

One Karmapa was appointed by the Dali Lama and is considered by the monastery lamas and monks as their real religious leader (Ogyen Trinley Dorje).  The other (Thayer Dorje) was appointed by some mysterious person or body and considered a ‘fake’ by the Dali Lama and the Monastery members.  The Karmapa considered legitimate by the monastic community stays in Dharmsala with the Dali Lama, while the other is at a monastery in Delhi.  The one considered ‘fake’ was supposedly appointed is said to by a mysterious Rampoche.  The ‘fake”, Thayer Dorje is said to be of Tibetan or Sikkim origin depending on to whom you talk.  While the one supported by His Holiness, the Dali Lama is definitely from Tibet.

Until this situation is straightened out, neither seems to be allowed at the monastery. There are soldiers guarding the monastery who say they are there to protect a tourist mecca, while the monks say the soldiers are there to protect the monastery from the bad (Thayer Dorje) Karmapa. 

I ask one of the lamas who was in an official capacity about the situation, and he would not talk about it; He was totally noncommittal.  He said he did not know who appointed the other Karmapa.  There are calendars and signs throughout the monastery with the picture of Karmapa Trinley, who was supported by the Dali Lama, stating ‘bring our Karmapa home.’  I actually have one of the calendars.

What is the real story?  Dump ta dum dum!  Dum!!!!!  Actually during a brief Internet research I found out the real the answer.            

After his escape from Tibet in 1959l, the 16^th Karmapa Rangjung Ripe Dorje built Rumtek Monastery as a home and religious center for his Black Hat order of Mahayana (Tibetan) Buddhism. The monastery was set up as the ‘Karmapa Charitable Trust.’ When the 16^th Karmapa died in 1981, per his wishes, trust board members ‘assumed the management of Rumtek.’

Second-ranking Lama, Shama Rampoche of the of the Trust was entrusted with finding and recognizing the late Kamarpa’s rebirth which is part of the Tibetan tradition dating back to the 12^th century.  Before Shama Rampoche found the re-incarnation of the 16^th Karmapa, two other Rampoches stated they had found the real Karmapa, a nomad boy, Orgeyn Tinley, from Tibet.

HH Dalai Lama as well as surprisingly, the Chinese Government also backed this child. 

Historically, each of the four autonomous schools of Tibetan Buddhism are responsible to elect their own leader, which means even though the HH Dali Lama is considered the overall head of Tibetan Buddhism, he has the spiritual authority over only his own Gelugpa school.  This means he has no religious authority over the other three schools.

After much legal wrangling, both at the monastery and through India’s court system, the case finally went to India’s Supreme Court.  The courts backed the ‘Karmpa’s Charitable Trust, which means the monastery monks/lamas and HH Dali Lama’s candidate Ogyen Thinley lost.  The winner, considered the ‘fake’ Karmapa, Thayer Dorje is the by Indian law, the legal Karmapa, but unacceptable by the Rumtek religious community.

Note:  Reference – Indian Supreme Court decision on Rumtek -07/22/04

THE TRAVELER

Rumtek Monastery, Sikkim

On May 10, I rode 129Km (about a four hour drive) north of Darjeeling to the Indian Protectorate of Sikkim in northeastern India to see the chham (mask) dances at Rumtek Monastery, the capital Gangtok, listed in the book, One Thousand Places to See Before You Die, and to ride a yak at Tsomgo Lake.  Sikkim borders China, is predominately Buddhist and, my young Bhutanese monk friends tell me, it is similar to its neighbor, their homeland, Bhutan.

Although circuitous, the road to the border of Sikkim is much better than the one I traveled from the Indian boarder to Darjeeling.  At the border between India proper and Sikkim, I had to clear immigration just like I would to go into a new country, giving them an extra picture and photocopy of my passport.  Even though I was traveling north, because much of the southern part Sikkim is at a lower altitude than Darjeeling, there are tea plantations, and at lower elevations along the roads are Palm and banyan trees, bougainvillea, hibiscus and many other plants native to south Florida. I learned from the ‘moss man’ (more about him later) that this was called a Mountain Tropical climate.  At one point we stopped on a high cliff to see the convergence of three major rivers, which was quite beautiful.  At the turn off to the monastery the whole road went to hell.  There were areas where the road was just dirt or large sharp stones, and some of the runts in the road were so deep the car actually bucked as we drove over them.

Upon reaching the monastery I found that Sungay Guesthouse, where I had arranged to stay and supposedly right next to the monastery, was actually at the bottom of a very steep hill.  It was inside the monastery gates but I refused to walk up that hill daily.  Being told that another guesthouse was much nearer; we drove up to check it out.   As I walked out of the second one, called Sangay, a veritable hellhole, (probably why it cost only 150 rupees – about $3.00 a night), a man leaned into the car window and said, “there’s a guesthouse right at the monastery.”  I thanked him and up we drove.

Eureka!  A habitable room, well not quite, I mean I really could not put my bare feet on the floor; there was no hot water shower, only a hot water faucet and a large and small bucket set.  A dirty gauze dust laden cover was over quilt and a very large, very fast spider in the corner of the ceiling, but it would do. The sheets were clean; one side of the gauze quilt cover was torn, so I took the liberty of helping along the damage and removed a very clean quilt from its dirty cover.  I carry flip-flops with me just in case of emergencies like these and they solved the floor problem.  The cost was 300 rupees, about six US dollars a night.  Conveniently, there was also a restaurant used by both the monks and the locals (see the pictures), albeit most of my friends wouldn’t eat in because of sanitation concerns, but I could walk across a cement parking area and I was in the monastery.  I took it for three nights. ---- Twice, I found other little creatures trundling across my sheets but I removed them carefully before I got into bed, so as not to hurt another living being.  After all, they were not what I consider in the insect/bug universe my worse enemies, cockroaches and mosquitoes, which I kill on sight.   Any one who has been so bad in their previous life that they are reincarnated into a cockroach or mosquito needs a second chance and I always give it to them when I can.

That evening when I went down to order dinner in the kitchen, hanging over the stove were strings of disgusting looking greasy, wine colored sausages.  It was then and there that I decided I would be absolutely full vegan (not entirely - I did eat egg the next morning for breakfast).  While I waited for my dinner in the dinning room, six young monks ask me to join their table.  These young men ranged in age from 15 to 19 and were here from Bhutan to study in the academic school or Institute.  They told me there was no religious/academic education at this level in Bhutan and that they were to study at Rumtek for eleven years.  The fee paid by each of their families was 1500 rupees ($35) for the full eleven years. After finishing their studies, they each planned to go back to a monastery in Bhutan and become teachers.  They wanted to know where I had been so I showed them pictures of the places on my computer.  Interestingly, although they had all seen television, they had never hear of the Great Barrier Reef, and were surprised at the pictures of coral and to learn they were living beings.

Chham Dances

On the eleventh the monks began with their daily puja at 3:00 am, ending at 6:30, so when I awoke at six I could hear the drums and horns of the prayers.  It was really the chham dance dress rehearsal day on the 12^Th

After the dances, the young Bhutanese monks took me to the Golden Stupa. Inside a glass-enclosed room, which is always locked is the large stupa. The monks prevailed upon the grossly fat old monk (lama?) who sat in the corner reading his mantras to let us in.  He not only opened the room but also locked the outer door to the stupa entry room so we were the only visitors.  On the walls around the center stupa are bust effigies of all the sixteen former Karmpas of this monastery, the bust of he current 17^th Kamala, a Buddha bust statue, and two other scary effigies that were a mystery to me.  Inside the center stupa laid the body of the 16^th Karmapa.

Rumtek Monastery consists of five distinct parts, (1) the Academic School or Institute where monks study Tibetan, Sanskrit, English, grammar, Buddhist philosophy and mantras, then there is the separate (2) Ritual School where another group of monks learn the mantras, dances, chants and music of the religion, (3) the housing for all the students, (4) the monastery itself, which is the focal point and meaning for the religion, (5) the Golden Stupa and (6) the Karmapa’s, house which is currently falling apart (more about this later).  Each school has about 200 students, and there are over 400 additional Lamas at the monastery.

The next day, the 12^th, the monks had their puja from midnight to 3:30 a.m., then prepared for the mask chham dances.  They started at 6:30 am with the Black Hat dance (Rumtek monks and lamas are of the Black Hat Sect), and then we saw the Skull Dance, which is always fun to watch (I had seen it previously in a monastery outside of Leh).  The monks continued their dances until 4:30 in the afternoon.  There are eight major chhams and each have a distinct meaning.  (Hopefully you all get the photos I send, if not seek out a friend who does). There are scary masks, lots of jumping and whirling, and very colorful costumes – some of very old silk that have been used for many, many years.  Behind where I was sitting just happened to be a room of unfinished masks which were obviously made right on the premises for either the dances or for tourist sale in the local shops.

Dignitaries from the High Court of Sikkim and also from Bhutan came and were seated in a special area. They were given gift snack boxes, box juices and lunch.  I rushed down to my very own elegant restaurant and they made me a bowl of veggie chow mien, which I carried back to the dances and ate as I watched.

The next day there was a famous Rampoche giving blessings but I had to leave because I had already arranged a driver and tour to Gangtok.  I was sorry to miss it but having just been blessed by the Manang Rampoche in Kathmandu, I figured I could survive a missed blessing – but maybe not – who knows.  But I was blessed by the opportunity to meet, Sungay’s (one of my young Bhutanese monks) adopted Gangtok family and have my picture taken with them.

Gangtok

It is my guess that the author of the book The Thousand Places to See before You Die, who suggested Gangtok as one of those places, has never been there.  As Gangtok really has no distinguishing features except as a way station to plan treks and get the paperwork done for permission to go to other parts of Skim.  The hotels, although a few quite nice, were generally unpleasant or booked. It’s about three or four kms long covering three very hilly streets.  The amusements around the area were under-astounding and there weather in May was just ‘warm.’   There is no commercial transportation to there except jeeps/cars.  But because I did not get permission to go yak riding on the day I requested (had to leave the next day to catch a train), I may go back, but that would be the only reason.

Note:  I am not an authority on Buddhism but I know there are two different major groups: Theravada, which is practiced in parts of Southeast Asia (Thailand) and Sri Lanka, and Mahayana which is the Tibetan Buddhism we hear so much about and also practiced in Korea, Japan and parts of China.   In Tibetan Buddhism there are four main sects: Yellow hat, Red Hat, Black Hat and White Hat. The Dali Lama (he’s a yellow hat) is the highest reincarnated lama. There is a Puncha Lama (the current one and his family have been hidden away or killed by the Chinese Government and another  has been put in                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              his place – now about 22 years old, a puppet of the Chinese government –and leader of one of the four sects ), Karmapas (here the highest is a young man who escaped from his monastery in Lasa at age 15 and now has a monastery in Dharmsala in Northern India –he is now about 26 - leader of one of the four sects) are the next highest level of reincarnated Lamas who are also heads of important monasteries throughout the Buddhist hierarchy.  The fourth Karmapa is of course the head of the Black Hats of Rumtek but there is a mystery about him (see next entry).  Next are Rampoches who head monasteries under the Puncha Lama, the Karmapas and/or the Dali Lama. There is also a title for a pre-monk but I don't remember it off hand.

Levels: Monks, Lamas, Rampoches, Karmapas, Puncha Lamas and Dali Lama.

At Rumtek I was shocked to see a monk who was four years of age. He was visiting with a group of monks from another monastery in the area to see the dances.  I was told he was placed in the monastery at the age of three.

THE TRAVELER

The Road to Darjeeling

May 2^nd, I flew to Bhadapur in southeastern Nepal.  India borders Nepal at the flat, dusty, agricultural town of Kakarbhitti, thirteen miles from the airport.  There is a free flow of Nepalese and Indians across the border daily; in cars, on foot, bicycle rickshaws and on bicycles over-laden with goods. The driver of the car sent by the hotel, although he lived 146 Km away in Darjeeling was also exempt from immigration, and when we crossed the broad Mechi River Bridge, the actual border between the two countries, he removed the Nepalese plate from the front window of the TATA Spacio and drove with only the Indian plate on the rear of the car. 

One thing I observed, was that although Lord Shiva had declared that cows should be free, on the Nepalese border side people tethered their cows, while on the Indian side cows roamed free in fields, on roads, in traffic.  As we went on our way the road remained flat until we eventually turned and began an uphill climb.  Between the curves and switchbacks so tight they reminded me of coils of the west Indian cobra, I once found in my Dominica kitchen cupboard, sharp rock-sized unpaved gravel sections, super-sized potholes and the driver’s joy at passing the caravan of TATA SUVs and TATA Jeeps also Darjeeling bound, I felt like a passenger in the La Mans with added obstacles.  It was while we were traveling higher and higher up this cliff hanging mountain drive, that we encountered stupid goats. Goats that just stood in the road seemingly unable to move unless the side of the car brushed their tails causing them to jump out of their animal ‘haze’ into reality. I have definitely decided that a goat will NEVER be a Rhodes scholar.  Actually the nuances of the one cat we saw was much more clever. In what might be considered a game of chicken, he sat down on the opposite side of the road his back to the passing cars and his tail extended straight toward the side with the oncoming traffic.  It was as if he had measured the distance and as we passed, he didn’t flick a whisker but just sat there and nonchalantly washed his paw.

After four harrowing hours of near carsickness, we reached Darjeeling in a cold rainy drizzle.  Fortunately the comfort of the Snowlion Home Stay, a room service dinner, aglorious hot water shower, the room heater and a hot water bottle made for a cozy arrival.   

Darjeeling, like Kathmandu and Timbuktu, has always had a mystical ora for me.  But I found that it does not have the class of Shimla, (the British Indian Government’s former summer capital in northwestern India), nor the weather.  Mainly because much of the old colonial architecture has been replaced with ugly cement buildings. Like many hill stations, it is chilly, hilly and riddled daily with afternoon rain which leaves the spectacular views and the cool summer climate the main attractions; a summer respite from the oppressive heat and humidity of Calcutta and its southern neighboring states. 

I spent much of my time at the hotel recovering from my second respiratory infection, maintaining the same pattern as I did in Pokhara; a short walk daily to the Mall to look at the view and watch the kids take pony rides, then back to the hotel.  Not my original plan but it had to do.  As soon as I was better, I expanded my walks to the Zoo to see the snow leopard but he sat far away in his enclosure with his back to me.  At the Mountain Museum, there is equipment on display used by Tenzing Norgay, the sherpa who guided Sir Edmund Hillary to the top of Mt. Everest summit, in 1953.  During my walk to the zoo, signs on all the electrical poles screamed ‘LUZ COZI innerwear’ and I mused, ‘where are mine now that I need them.’ Even though I had long silk underwear LUZ COZIS sounded so, well snuggly.  But I didn’t see any in the mall shops or stalls. What a tease.

On my last day I walked down the steep hill to the train stations, a dreary, dirty cement box, to get a ticket for Calcutta for May 16^th.  Then I walked the Mall up to Observatory Hill, a killer of an up hill walk, where I was rewarded with a small yet unique, round green Hindu temple surrounded by Tibetan prayer flags, magnificent views and renewed wheezing.  Damn!

I had already seen a couple of baggers placed outside shops one without legs, and other smaller ones ‘rolling’ down the main Mall street making high pitched sounds to be more noticeable with tin cups in their hands.  But walking up to the top of Observatory Hill was the first place I saw the traditional Indian/Hindu baggers who follow the seasons traveling from resort to resort lined up along a walkway.  An obvious sign that Darjeeling’s tourist season had begun.

Many of Darjeeling’s locals are former Gurkha’s; retired members of an Indian/Nepali regiment of the British military.  Darjeeling, India is one of the two recruiting stations (the other, Pokhara, Nepal).  Entry into this crack military unit is so rigorous applicants often break limbs or worse during the selection process.   Because of the area’s relationship with the Gurkhas, the locals have labeled this corner of Northeastern India, Gorkhaland and occasionally these inhabitants, fomented by the retired Gurkhas, cause strikes or minor insurrections in an attempt to secede from India and become it’s own country.

Darjeeling is also known for its excellent boarding schools, many started by the British so they would not have to send their sons back to England.  Currently there are numerous boarding schools for both boys and girls, but St. Paul’s is the most famous with such a rigorous curriculum that children throughout India and as far away as Thailand are sent there to study.

Tea plantations surround Darjeeling and I had hoped to visit one, but my plans changed.  Having already been to two, one in China, the other in Sri Lanka I was not too disappointed.   Because of a festival at the Rumtek Monastery on May 11^th and 12^th, I decided to leave Darjeeling a day early for Rumtek and then go on to Gangtok, the capital of ‘Sikkim.  Lama chham dances at Rumtek seemed much more exciting than a vat of roasting tea.

THE TRAVELER

Osama bin Laden

NOTE before I begin:

So you won’t miss anything, in the last two days I have put the following five articles on this blog. 

 Oh My God!  I need a Facelift

Mt. Everest

Extra Facts and Thoughts

Climbing for Water

Osama bin Laden

Here in Darjeeling, India I get the BBC, McNeil Report from PBS, and bits of ABC, CBS and NDTV, yet the local Indian newspapers have some very different facts than presented in the international media, which I thought might interest some of you. 

Unless otherwise stated all of these quotes are from the May 6, 2011, Calcutta paper The Telegraph, -quotes:

“Saudi Arabia and Turkey separately played significant roles in persuading Pakistan to give up Osama bin Laden and facilitate his elimination by the US, according to pieces that are slowly fitting the puzzle of Sunday’s anti-terror operation in Abbottabad.”

“it was necessary for them to take the al Qaida bull by its horns as part of a bigger strategy to manage ‘the Arab Spring’ which is threatening established governments from Oman to Morocco.”

“It is well known that Packistanis serving in Bahrain’s police brutally put down the recent Egypt style Shia protests in the island kingdom. The forces sent by Saudi Arabia to reinforce Bahrain’s security were also reported made up of significant numbers of Pakistanis.”  

“Similarly elite units of Pakistan’s army protected the Saudi royal family for decades because the Saudi rulers did not fully trust their own citizens or even those from other countries.”

“By all accounts, Gen. Ashfaq Parvez Kayani, Pakistan’s chief of army staff, would not be averse to reinventing Pakistan’s role in global security affairs on these lines.  After all, that is how Pakistan has all along remained relevant to the world:”…  article continues to explain that in 1971- “Islamabad was the secret gateway for”. “Kissinger’s visit to China” … to arrange Nixon’s visit … “to open Sino-China relations.”

 “Saudi Arabia has always been a factor in Pakistan’s domestic politics.  No Pakistani leader either from military or from civilians can ignore Saudi ‘advice’, although Riyadh’s plea to spare Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s life” [the Pakistani’s government’s position is she was killed by terrorists] “is a rare instance when such advice was rejected by Gen. Zia.”

My take on this, for what it’s worth, is with the new Middle East rise of people wanting to reorder their governments, it seems that Saudi Arabia and Turkey hope to weaken the al Qaida element in these uprisings, and Saudi Arabia also just might want a ‘friend’ on their side in the future.   Bahrain has large US military bases in their country and would like it to remain that way (consider the financials of this situation).  Saudi Arabia, Turkey and Pakistan are all strong centers of Islamic Sunnism.  In Bahrain the ruling monarchy is Sunnis, but the majority of citizens in Bahrain, those who were rising up against the government and monarchy, are Shia.  

The current take by the Saudi Arabian government, to I suppose cover its tracks in the affair is (from The Bengal Post, May 6, 2011)  “Dubai: Al Qaida chief Osama bin Laden was betrayed by his deputy Ayman al Zawahiri who led US forces to his hideout as the two were involved in an intense power struggle, a Saudi newspaper has reported.”

I read in the May 7, 2011 Telegraph, that Zawahiri and bin Laden had their falling out five or six years ago, so why would Zawahiri give bin Laden up now?  Just a thought?

Also reported in The Bengal Post, May 6, 2011 newspaper: 

“NEVER-BEFORE-SEEN CHOPPERS USED”

“Washington: US elite Navy Seals used top secret, never-before-seen stealth helicopters to swoop down on an unsuspecting al Qaida chief Osama bun Laden in his Abbottabad safe haven and shoot him dead.  One of the secret choppers was disabled during the raid by the seals, blowing it up in an apparent bid to ensure that the frontline technology did not fall into non-US hands. US media reports.”

Also, The Telegraph, May 6, 2011 stated:  “Osama appeared to be lunging for a weapon ----- an AK-47 and a Makarov pistol were within arm’s reach.  One Seal or more,

who are expected to take split-second decisions opened fire.  The first bullet struck bin Laden in the chest. The second struck above his left eye, blowing away part of his skull.  But a Pakistani official claimed Osama was killed in cold blood.”

As for shooting bin Laden dead, I believe that not one of these countries, particularly Pakistan, wanted him to come out alive because of the tales and/or information he might tell. 

I hope I haven’t bored you, or given you info you already know.  If you are interested, you can go on line and read the whole article(s) I have quoted and also follow these papers’ articles about the topic.  

PS:  On a lighter note: The Kathmandu Post has the best, bar none, horoscopes I have ever read.  You can go on line and read these daily too if you are so inclined.