Nubra

Once you’re here, you have to be here everywhere. And this is why, as I’ve mentioned before, five of the Ladakh area sympathizers decided to share a private car and go over the (supposedly) highest motorable pass in the world and take a look at the valley beyond. The Nubra valley, as it is called, is of rare beauty, quite austere, some might say, because it only has sandy grey and brown toned plains with little vegetation and imposing mountains on all sides but the Pakistani side, which obviously has those annoying people, of which Indians are not really fond of. Well, most Indians because Ladakhis don’t seem to have much to say on the matter.

The five of them decided they would get the ridiculously expensive inner permit in Leh (if prepared, one can get it in Delhi for free), go see the Nubra valley and then sneak a peek at Pangong Tso, a beautiful salt water lake at the Chinese border. As four of the five members of this massive expedition were staying at the same guesthouse, they agreed to meet in front of said guesthouse at a reasonable 10 AM. But, after intense banging at and shouting and pleading through the adamant, indifferent door of the special Russian, the expedition decreased to only four members (more comfortably seated nonetheless) and the driver.

Mahindra is one of the largest automobile manufacturer in India. This particular model can easily seat seven people (driver included, although driving on the wrong side of the road), but the five characters spread evenly throughout the car, the driver (Tsering) on his designated seat, the will-be-car-sick-if-not-seated-in-front German lady on the front seat, the taciturn (because of technical reasons – read: lack of English speaking skills) Russian behind the driver, the nice Romanian (ahem) next to him and the other Russian way in the back, needing to continuously bother the nice Romanian to get in and out of the car. Also getting a comfy seat between the Russian and the Romanian was the nice Romanian’s backpack, because she realized that, at minus something degrees, as it may be when confronted with lots of snow and ice, many packed items (like plastic toothbrushes and even laptops) may freeze, so it’s better to have them placed somewhere with heating, which the car company solemnly (and accurately) promised.

And off they went, on a completely traffic-less and curve-full road, higher and higher to about 5000 meters; where they stopped. And it took about 10 minutes to uncover why: Khardung La; the highest pass; 5603 meter high. Not open because of repairs; repairs because of landslides; landslides because of bad weather; bad weather because of wrong season. And they were told: it’s going to take some hours to start again; some excruciating hours, because of the altitude (that they were not told). Several cars – there were more already waiting by the time this particular German-Russian-Romanian expedition arrived – turned around, only to try again the next day. But they waited, going through never before experienced physical changes, like headache, sleepiness and a particular sluggishness of all functions. It was a tragedy, more agonizing than summiting the nearby Everest, but our heroes prevailed and, after 3 hours, were able to continue with their quest. They stopped on the highest point, partly because the members wanted to shuffle around, partly because the driver unsuccessfully tried (again) to fix the snow chains on the wheels of the car.

And, after colliding with just one lorry on the way down – only a minor headlight less, the Mahindra expedition carried on, drove off and down and finally, after some 2000 meters downwards, the members regained their mental faculties and their normal bodily functions. Some 90 km later, they reached their proposed destination, the village of Diskit, where the brothers cheerfully shared a room and the women, congealingly, another.

The next day only brought more adventures for our main characters, as they visited the hot springs in Panamik, basically a concrete basin in which local women wash clothes and funny foreigners immerse themselves only to resurface lobster-red and pleased with the experience of bathing at minimum 45^o C.

They then expressed their wish to see the Diskit monastery religious ceremony, where they discovered that they had been misinformed and the ceremony for the day had already taken place. The next day would bring more Buddhist ceremonials, whose exact time they scrupulously committed to memory. As entertainment is scarce in a city where the lights literally go out at about 7.30, our heroes retired early and complained about the cold. They received a complementary candle, maybe for lighting their way, maybe for warming themselves up, but the official reasons remain unknown. We’re only referring to the women’s journey; the men’s remains a mystery. We only know that there is some morning yoga going on…

Getting up in the morning right underneath the Karakorum Mountain Range was exhilarating for our team, so they acquired fresh energy to participate in the gompa ceremony, which offered great new information about Buddhist life: the whole valley gathered for this specific ceremony, which they quietly watched on the monastery premises, looking at masked men, demons and other protagonists hopping and dancing to the sounds of traditional instruments played by monks right under their sunburned noses. Three hours passed and our lead characters delightedly watched the ceremony, enchanted and captivated beyond all words.

Only when the ceremony was over did they return to earth and decided they should see the desert; and the camels. Some of the members decided to ride the camels, the talkative Russian walked beside them and the nice Romanian only took pictures and, for reasons known not even to her, she decided not to ride a camel. Which she surely regrets, because look how cute they are:

And then they went to Turtuk; but they never got to Pangong Tso.

Ladakh

They say, that while in Ladakh, if your body were in the sun and your feet were in the shade, you could get sunburned and frostbite at the same time – I can vouch for that.

Sitting in a valley at 3500 meters, Leh is famous for that. It’s very hot during the day, when the sun shines (and only while being in the sunshine) and incredibly cold at night, with temperatures dropping below zero even in September. Not only that, but the lunar landscape overloads the mesmerized, wide-eyed looks of all visitors that get here; and they’re not many, mind you, more foreigners than Indians and even those are scarce this time of year.

All roads tend to be longer than usual around here – I can vouch for that.

The longest road: from the post office, where my special bus dropped me off, to the old bus stand, through the main bazaar and way up to the guesthouse; not more than 1 km but literally breathtaking. Who knew that walking through a town as ‘high’ as this would make me look like a snail with low blood sugar!? And the headache! The constant throbbing that just won’t stop unless you’re perfectly still and that miraculously, savagely appears when your breathing is a little deeper than usual (which it has to be, so that your body can pump the necessary blood).

One’s head is one’s worst enemy – I can vouch for that.

Although I’m sick and there’s nothing more I want in this world than just lie in bed and drift into a restless sleep, I cannot shake the Russian with too many stories, who’s happy to hear himself speak (mainly because he’s been ‘meditating’ in colorless silence for about two weeks). When I finally escape and lie down, crushed under too many blankets but still surprisingly cold, I find that I cannot not hear my head pumping away to eternity – yes, my head, which, throughout the night will only thrust harder and harder and will steal away my chances of blissful rest. This is the normal state, to which I have to get used to, at least for the first 24 hours and from which not even the miraculous Tibetan candy offered by the same goofy Russian, a special candy with great healing powers (and no, this is no code name for hashish), can lift me out of.

Autumn in Leh is beautifully soothing – I can vouch for that.

Trying to ignore the headache, the shortness of breath and the sudden rushes of blood to said head, I wander through the sunny, winding streets of Leh, now mostly abandoned by tourists and locals alike, who flee from the vicious cold. The grey brick houses, the white-washed gompas and the sacred little stupas, the green and yellow poplars all come together to create an astounding foreground against the more impressive, completely unbelievable blue sky and guarding, serious mountains.

The sun shines 300 hundred days per year, but it was only partly sunny when I was roaming through the streets of Leh. Basically, I mostly got the other 65 days – I can vouch for that.

Clear, unbelievably deep blue skies are Ladakh’s trademark. It’s almost unimaginable that such blue skies exist anywhere but in children’s paintings. Yet the purest skies are as common as stepping into cow dung (or donkey dung). And the fluffy white cumulus clouds make a nice contrast and can only enhance the fairytale blue. That is, until the heavy, grey, snow filled clouds invade the whole sky and threaten to ruin your stay.

The lack of sun means the inevitable presence of low temperatures – I can vouch for that.

Although, as I've said, the percentage of sunny days was to be in my favor, somehow, there were some sun-less days. And that can only mean cold days. Nevermind the fact that, after sunset, temperatures abruptly drop and no amount of blankets would get you to go outside in your underwear. Or completely clothed, for that matter. This is reason enough for all Ladakhis to spend their winters indoors, sleeping, drinking chai and occasionally visiting each other. Also, they have the belief that a good home is a windy one, and my room was especially good, since they gracefully omitted the glass to some of my windows.

The best friend of Ladakhis in particular and Indians in general is the radio. But not any radio; a radio at high volumes that also buzzes and screeches – I can vouch for that.

Even though a lot of guesthouses have closed down for winter, out of the remaining homes you can usually hear shouts (the normal way they talk to each other) and radio shows turned high, so as not to miss a word. And, even when people want to have a conversation, the radio will still be on, at no lower decibels than it was before.

Ladakhi people are no ordinary Indians – I can vouch for that.

First of all, Ladakh is not India. Ladakh is simply Ladakh, a state which happens to be part of the Indian country. There are a lot of Tibetan refugees and the population is mostly Buddhist. Not only that, but Ladakhi people are honest, simple and somewhat deaf, this, possibly, being the reason they like shouting at one another. Weird, though, their hearing problems disappear when speaking to foreigners, with which they are able to have a moderately loud conversation. The 'whereyoufrom?'-s and 'yourgoodname?'-s are not as fashionable as in other Indian states, which is comforting and startling at the same time. My efforts in trying to explain where this Romania thing is situated were less needed and, thus, heavily avoided. Much like their mountains, they are rough but pleasant, which only makes me want to get to know them more. The peculiar combination between open-mindedness and shyness, with a pinch of religious zeal sets them apart from any other type of Indians, their uniqueness being dully noted among travelers and well-known to relapsing visitors.

Ladakh is worth seeing. Again. And I can vouch for that!

Leh

Your pupils dilate. Your heartbeats have increased and, after a moment of gasping, the breathing becomes regular but hurried, like an accelerating sports car. Neurochemical reactions take place in the brain and dopamine and endorphins are released, like bubble bath in the bathtub. Muscles become tense, being able to lift the heaviest mountains.

Your head is spinning, moving in an upward spiral closer and closer to the sky, just like the most fearsome whirlwind. You feel a rush invading your body and you cannot control your emotions. You feel like crying; you feel like laughing from the most hidden depth of your body. You might even start shaking or getting goosebumps. Your lungs carry the air as the wind carries fallen autumn leaves through the chilly air. You are weightless, yet you’re bolted to the place where you stopped moving, and still, you feel like a spindle in a child’s hand.

Then you feel small. Tiny. Just a speck on the endless bedspread of life. You are meaningless but you can give meaning to everything, you are purposeless but all has purpose for you. Your senses have sharpened and you feel the air embracing you, the wind enchanting you with its whisper, the earth filling your nostrils and your mouth with its peculiar aroma. And you can see; your eyes can finally comprehend the splendor, the magic of life. The supernatural of nature. You are but human. And this is the universe. And there are no words big enough...

The Fuck You! Story

So we’re on our back from the end of the world, or, at least, the end of India, see? The end of India being a place called Turtuk, which is the last visitable village in India, direction Pakistan. It’s been only open to tourism (meaning the road has been more or less built until there) since two years, so it’s a pretty virgin destination. And foreign tourists don’t even get to see the border because the last 7 km are, for them, me included, off limits, unless they have a strong desire to get shot. Still, the border is 90 km further than it was in 2010.

So, there are five people in the jeep, see?: two Russian brothers, Robert and Albert, tall and English-speaking and short and non-speaking respectively, a German lady, complaining-er than even I, who will be the subject of a later paragraph, a Ladakhi driver, who seemed to always mock us in some way, and yours truly, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as ever. This was the formation which started out from Leh, over the 5600 meter Khardung La pass and into Nubra valley to gaze at the beauties of the cold, lonely desert encircled by snowcapped mountains. Not that there’s no desert right next to Leh, but the desert beyond the pass was special-er.

So, after staying in Diskit for two days, we headed to the end of India to spend our last Nubra valley day there, see? On our way, we aw-ed at the most impressive mountain scenery

marveled at the cold beauty of the landscape

and waited for the herds to come home from their summer-long holiday at the grazing grounds (the road being as wide as the backside of two yaks and a donkey next to each other)

So, Turtuk is in full autumn now, see? Which only made it more beautiful and our host proudly showed us around the village which seems to be both reanimated from the Middle Age, and the perfect advert for an ethnic museum. It seems that everything they have is locally produced and the only thing they want is chock-o-lat or p’n (pen) – the un-photographable kids told us so.

So, whenever they don’t use bizarre trunks of wood to built their houses,

the weird-looking slab on the right side of the door is actually the end of a wooden beam 

the Balti – the local population, use other, unconventional materials to build their homes, see? The most common one is discarded canteens, which, apparently, are really good at insulating (?)

Speaking of which, it took us – me and the German lady – a very long time to choose a room in one of the three guesthouses available in Turtuk (and I really think three guesthouses to a population of about 300 families is a good percentage), because all the rooms that weren’t the Russians’ room was not going to be good enough for us; my German roommate did not seem pleased with any room, so we moved around the guesthouse quite a bit. Also, sleeping at 10^o C can be a tad tricky, as there’s no heating and the blankets have a tendency to smother you.

So, this is the paragraph dedicated to my German roommate: around 50, relocated in Venezuela, which she loves, the only inconvenience being she cannot quite live there right now, as it’s very dangerous because of the unstable regime and the frequent kidnapping, with some plastic surgery done (yes, I’ve seen them and yes, they’re not real!) is having a hard time adjusting to Indian life: this is a little different than the perfect weather and temperature in Venezuela, it’s a little different than the perfect, spice-less food in Venezuela, it’s nothing like the perfect cappuccino in Venezuela, the roads are a little bit rockier than the perfect ones in Venezuela and, in general, this is not perfect Venezuela, which, in turn, is not perfect because it’s not safe… Go figure!

So, there’s a gompa in Turtuk, see? That’s a Buddhist monastery. It’s placed on a hilltop, of course. And it’s quite nice, except for the fact that it’s deserted. The whole population of Turtuk is Muslim, and they have two or three mosques scattered throughout the village. But the gompa is there, standing proud and, unfortunately, lonely, but has some really nice views:

So, the next morning we leave Turtuk and we're on our way back from the end of the world, see? And our driver shows up with a friend, to which we gladly give a ride back to Diskit, while having to stop on the way to leave some eggs (!) in some village. And in the same village, a Ladakhi woman comes up to the jeep and asks us for a ride to Diskit. She seemed really desperate but our English-speaking Russian refuses her point-blank: 

‘We pay forr comfort. We not want crrowded carr!’

‘But please, my mother is sick…’

‘Sorrry. No.’

‘But I missed my bus and have to get home…’

‘Why not go with bus? Wait forr anotherr carr!’

‘But please’ she turns to me.

‘I’m sorry, he said no…’ me, looking down to my Indian-made Columbia sneakers.

‘Please…’

‘No’ the Russian goes again.

‘Well, well… well FUCK YOU!’ door slams in my face.

So, this was my first ‘fuck you’ in India, which I did not extend, but receive and, coming from a young, well-spoken, pleasant-looking Ladakhi, it came as quite the shock! 

So, the Russian only got silence afterwards.

See?

Busses II

After filling up the entire bus to impossible numbers, the driver and his ‘mirror man’ decided to shove even more people inside, regardless of whether or not they fit in. Yelling the destination(s) in the faces of all the people on the side of the road, they managed to get many more people on the bus, either standing or being held up by all the others, acting like a huge untamed ocean wave; children flew around from one set of hands to the next, feet were trampled just to make room for oversized rubicund females and meager, pointy male limbs, and bags were plopped around in the unwelcomed laps of the fortunate sitting travelers.

This rolling circus got under way with no concern for the general verticality of its wobbling composing parts – that is, the driver wanted to demonstrate his Schumacher-ish abilities, all the while experimenting with G-forces through unexpected brakes and consequent accelerations that repositioned some stomachs in their respective throats. Naturally, this mechanism only shortened the way to the all to obvious inelegant release of nourishment (i.e. vomiting) of some less prepared participants: a teenage girl and a young boy both lost the battle with emancipated stomach contents, which, with the help of countless curves and hairpin bends, found their way on the steps of the bus (notwithstanding the traces left at several windows).

Crowded as it may have been, people still could fall around, so the obvious solution was to get some more people in, so that none could move a muscle more than the trajectory induced by the road. At least the smoking stopped when the breastfeeding mother got on! This is to say partially stopped, as this bus in particular seems to have been quite different. Also, the fact that the journey took place at night did not in any way mean that you could for one second close your eyes.

There are 360 km only (Indian phrasing) from Jammu to Srinagar, yet the first 50, to the place where the extra people (read: three thirds of the standing people) got off, took little under 3 hours, so no wonder that the estimated time for the entire journey would be somewhere at 13 hours!

It was going to be a lovely next 10 hours because the driver was in obvious need for some good music, so he switched off the lights and turned the volume higher to some Hindi wailing, happy, sad, troubling, all at the same time.

Alas, all stopped abruptly in just a few minutes and everybody got off: flat tire. Flat. Out of the blue, because driving like a maniac on both sides of the road, regardless of pot holes and trenches or, for that matter, the mere existence of asphalt tends to cause such misfortunes to one who is gentle and kind to machines and his peers (about 50 men and 3 women – the permanent travelers on the bus).

It took more attempts to fix the flat tire, mainly because using old, sun scorched rubber to mend the holes in your current tire is like trying to save a drowning man by giving him some water. Still, while all this was painstakingly going on and because the ‘repair shoppe’ was conveniently placed next to some food serving cottages, some tea was served (the kind that gives you indigestion – true story!), some words were exchanged (the kind that imply some getting to know each other), and some good reading material was offered (the kind with light, optimistic subjects: The Divine Eye – a tiny insight on Hinduism’s beliefs, ending on a happier note, presenting Wisdom Bytes, such as ‘Belief in fate and God’s grace do not coexist’, ‘If life is a working day, then death is a holiday’ and an all-time classic ‘If the snake of suspicion raises its head, it kills the relationship’).

Things did not get a whole lot better after the tire was fixed and the bus was on its way because:

• -       there was the same (the same!) music;
• -    there was little to almost inexistent space caused mainly by the end board in front of seats number 4 and 5 (the worst seats on the entire bus) and by the backpack under the seat, which resulted in inevitable bruises on both knees constantly hitting the board;
• -     there was the fat companion who kept searching for a good position to rest, thus further limiting the possibilities for normal breathing
• -     and, last but not least, there were frequent stops in order to relieve Indian gall bladders or let the goat herds pass on the freakishly narrow motorway, as they had no other possibility of going neither left – high rocky walls, nor right – sheer drops hundreds of meters into the valley.

The odyssey ended in the late hours of morning (about two hours later than expected) in the beautiful bus stop 7 km far from Srinagar, a place where pilgrims bow and kiss the earth under their feet once they get there because they got there.

Nothing's sure but death and taxes

And AMS. Really.

The Tip on Tiptoe

I was hoping to sleep in, at least today, but noooo. It’s impossible because my soon to be ex dorm mates feel the burning need of exchanging cooking recipes at 6.45 AM! Okay, maybe not cooking recipes; what you usually exchange is travel plans and ideas.

I sigh. I get up. I pack. I leave. On the bus again. And in ‘just’ under 4 hours I’m at the southernmost point of continental India, Kanyakumari, a place where you can see the seas meet (well, seas, oceans, bays, whatever - Arabian Sea, Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean). And I get to go by ferry on some heavily statue-ed islands (more like rocks, for that matter), and I get to be guided through the Gandhi memorial by this elderly guard (who asks me for money for clarifying the 10 framed photographs representing crucial points in Gandhi’s life), but most of all, I get to see the sun set over three seas (well, seas, oceans, bays, whatever). Moreover, I get to see it without a charged battery in my camera. Which only shows one more time that any camera will die when you need it most. Still, it was absolutely lovely. As was the 180 rupee beer I had while waiting for the next train to come.

So, after two busses, one rickshaw, one train (short trip) and another one (full-nighter), which is supposed to come sometime soon, I really want to lay down somewhere, just to remember the feeling of being horizontal, which I don’t think I’ll experience anytime soon.

Well, this is the slow, really slow train to Madurai, which not only looks like it’s never ending (passenger trains have innumerable carts), but feels like it’s never going to get there. It’s not bad, really, if you count out the mini-cockroaches, but there comes a time in the day when you really wish for privacy in a land where they don’t even have a word for that. And you also (belatedly) wish for some sunscreen or some after-sun soothing lotion, which would attenuate the familiar aches of facial sun burning, a thing which I get when being utterly unpredictable and totally irresponsible, by walking towards the sun, but hoping you don’t become red like Little Red Riding Hood’s hood (remember the sun setting in Kanyakumari? Well, you have to get to the view point somehow and I obviously chose the direct route). What happens is I become red. Glowingly so. Because Western skin just doesn’t have a switch to turn off sun burning. At least my skin doesn’t.

To sum up: the way to Madurai is long. And aching. And red.

Oh, and that black spot you can see in all the pictures? It's in all the pictures in lovely Kanyakumari because I didn't have the slightest idea it was there!

Caution: Yogis Ahead!

Well, if one ashram wasn't enough, I decided that I had to visit another one, so that my karma scale would prove that I can be reincarnated in something better in my next life (see? I'm getting the hang of all this Hindu philosophy stuff). This would be a good opportunity to practice my yoga skills (all my 10 day yoga experience from Thailand), as this particular ashram prides itself with being one of the most renowned yoga centers in India. Also, in Varkala, I've met lots of escapees from the yoga center, who, despite having left mid-course, encouraged me to go see what it was all about.

The last kilometer, from the bus station to the yoga retreat, I accompanied a thousand year old swami, who proceeded to recount (while waving his staff at unseen butterflies or some spirits of the forest) how he can only spend two days at any given ashram and then has to find somewhere else to go, with no money and no way of getting any. As I would later find out, there were posters all over the ashram telling people not to encourage begging swamis - not that he was implying anything, mind you, but he did strike a sensitive chord and I would have given him something,  if he just asked.

Sivananda Yoga arrival: namaste! Welcome and just fill in these first fifteen forms and then we'll have a nice chat. Leave your valuables here, get your sheets, blankets and mosquito net over there... Oh, yeah, look at the nice people who breathe in their one-two-threes – hooold the breath – EX-hale – the starting scheme of yoga practice... You must get up at 5.30, do some chanting and meditation for one and a half hours, get some tea and then you get two whole hours of yoga practice. 10 AM is brunch hour, one of two meals per day, which you do not eat until you Hare Rama for 10 minutes and then you have some Karma yoga – odd jobs in the name of collective good –, cleaning the girls’ dorm room, along with 7 other girls. If you’re up to it, you can get a yoga coaching class at 12.30, where you can practice your asanas with the help of a 76 year-old teacher (more on him later). There’s some tea at 1 PM and then you have other ‘classes’ for another two hours. At 3.30 you start the afternoon yoga classes, eat dinner at 6 and then chant some more. It’s advisable you be inside by 9 or 9.30. Lights out – 10.30. This would have to be your schedule for the next 2 weeks (that’s how long the courses take) but only three days are compulsory.

Knowing all this, I shuffle to the dorm room with backpack, sheets and all and look for a free bed. It’s almost 10 AM, so people are showing up, all sweaty and shanti after the morning yoga session. After asking around I ponder the information: there’s a beginners’ class and an intermediate/advanced one, but the teachers from advanced afternoon are far better than the beginner ones and morning classes are better with the beginners. Having had all that practice (10 days – one and a half hour a day), I decide I can easily go to the intermediate course and show them how it’s done. If it’s too hard, I’ll stick to the beginner’s course for a while.

The class after brunch is something about some meditation related stuff but I cannot get over the sheer boring abilities of the British teacher, who can probably get people into a meditation state just by talking to them (any escape will do!). It’s like listening to lullabies with no meaning whatsoever. Like most other people (we’re about 50 all in all and there’s just a handful who take notes from the class), I manage to instantly forget what this lady is saying the moment she says it. This reminds me of the imprint of children’s faces on windows: they disappear the second they take their faces away.

Yoga practice on the other hand is promising: two rows of about 10 mats facing each other in a large hall, where the teachers wear wireless microphones, one giving the instructions, the other one checking for accuracy. Everything starts with the breathing.

First breathing exercise: breathe out from the stomach.

inHAAAle, hold-the-breath… and EX-hale, EX-hale, EX-hale, EX-hale, EX-hale, EX-hale, EX-hale, EX-hale.

inHAAAle.

Breathe normally. (Repeat until you turn green)

Second breathing exercise: holding the breath.

inHAAAle, hold-the-breath. (Stay like this until you turn green).

Third breathing exercise: breathing through one nostril.

Plug your left nostril with your right thumb and index finger.

inHAAAle-right OM-one-OM-two-OM-three-OM-FOUR, hold-the-breath, EX-hale-left OM-one-OM-two-OM-three-OM-four-OM-five-OM-six-OM-seven-OM-eight.

inHAAAle-left OM-one-OM-two-OM-three-OM-FOUR, hold-the-breath, EX-hale-right OM-one-OM-two-OM-three-OM-four-OM-five-OM-six-OM-seven-OM-eight.

inHAAAle-right-OM-one…

(Repeat until you’re out of breath completely and turn turquoise).

Finally, the breathing exercises are over. You get to REEE-lax. REEE-lax. REEE-lax.

And then and only then it all starts: various asanas and yoga exercises which leave me breathless and confused, like a prisoner who managed to escape his chasers but can still be in danger of getting caught. I swim in my own, personally produced puddle of sweat and all my clothes stick damp to my skin, while the class culminates with the final relaxation, which could take me to the land of (totally deserved) sleep, were it not for the evening mosquitoes, which decide to make me their dinner. Intermediate, you say? Well, guess again!

I’m quite speechless (and breathless) by the time we finish our evening class and am happy to really relax while having dinner, which, by the way, although it is served on the floor (on plates of course, but with the plate in front of your crouching self on mats) is quite delicious (and varies from one day to the next). The after dinner social encounters under the main tree bring me face to face with normal people (mostly), but definitely not the type of nutcases I’ve met at Amma’s. And then there’s the evening satsang (the meditation and chanting mantras), which cannot not get intense giggling out of me because I find them utterly entertaining. It’s what I imagine (and have witnessed in a number of American flicks) gospel looks and sounds like, complete with the clapping and the rhythm induced bobbing of heads all around the meditation hall. Day one will end abruptly, as I’m grateful for the sleep I’m getting the instant I let my head meet the pillow.

Day two: wake-up bell, 5.30. Which is not entirely bad, because I’ve finally had eight hours of sleep, rest and a short panicky moment sometime during the night, when I wake up only to find a shadow looming over my mosquito net. It is just my cubicle mate who was probably curious to see how Romanians sleep (compared to Brazilians), so I hope I performed well and I exemplified the ‘good’ sleeping methods. She admits in the morning that she couldn’t sleep and didn’t know what else to do than just haunt other people’s good night’s rest.

The two hours of silent meditation and reading only brings about more fun Kodak moments, so all in all, it’s a pretty nice wake up. Well, because I am already sore from the previous day yoga class, I swallow my intermediate yoga level pride and opt for the beginners’ class. Alas, this is my mistake (although they explain the breathing exercises and I finally understand what I was supposed to do the previous day): it takes forever to get through the two hours. Not that it is easy, mind you, but the pace is that of an overweight turtle heading to war.

The day’s karma yoga is a tad different, as it requires all the students to make a human chain to bring firewood from the forest. Since I arrived I haven’t been wearing shoes and this is definitely a moment when I truly wish for some. Because I end up closer to the forest end of the chain, basically in the jungle, having to take exactly three steps over and over again, always cradling a different log in my arms, from one British weirdo to the next Canadian teenager. It takes a pretty long time to get this done and part two of the action is supposed to take place the next day. You see, we settle for taking the logs half way to the kitchen, so the firewood would only arrive in the kitchen the following day but some devoted karmic yogis decide we should finish the job. Unfortunately, half of the population vanishes right after the intermezzo, not sticking around for the second part, so the chain has to expand its fewer links on a bigger distance, thus making me (as well as everybody else) take more steps with the same logs. Still, we prevail and we’re rewarded with tea and fruit.

However, I decide that four hours of yoga a day are not enough, so I attend the special coaching class, where I just find two other girls and the septuagenarian teacher, a skinny, toothless imp, with a volleyball-shaped belly and elastic limbs. Whose only words for me are ‘Yesss, yessss. Very naaissss!’ I should mention that he is stating the former while pushing my shoulders and forcing my forehead to touch my shins (this being a particular asana he had us do). He is immune to the cries of the other girls, who tearfully try to make him stop before their tendons break. He does not stop. They do not break. Still, the little Smeagol enjoys his torture and grins the whole hour, even when demonstrating the head stand and wiggling his legs at the same time. I couldn’t do it. The head stand. He helps. Yessss, yesss.

Our old timer yogi will appear again the next day as the main character in madam British teacher’s show-and-tell asanas. Which is as boring as always, but you have to hand it to the old man: he’s doing asanas as well as I can scratch my nose!

On this second day, however, there is no madam Boring-You-to-Death, but instead there is the Ayurveda doctor, who tries to explain the benefits of this ancient art and probably does, only it’s in his own, special language, which, at times, resembles English. The only thing I get out of it is that Ayu means life and veda means knowledge and that’s about it.

Evening yoga time. Which to choose? Boring beginners or adamantly advanced? It is a hard one, especially since most of my muscles have already jammed in various contracted positions. But I am here to get out of my comfort zone, right? To achieve greater skills and better health, right? To improve my mental and physical state, right? Right! So I go with the intermediate. And cheat a little bit.

In the evening, instead of the never ending satsang, we get to make a field trip and walk while meditating (ahem!) to the dam close by, where we have yet another session of chanting, accompanied by the eternal clapping and the impromptu smacking of rocks to the rhythm. At least it is completely dark so the show is considerably less harmful.

My observer from the first night does not miss her cue this second night either, only this time I wake up while she is munching on something, which she laboriously keeps extracting from a squeaky plastic bag.

I go through the same motions on the third day, skipping the extra coaching class for the benefit of my already aching physical state. Also, it’s the swimming in the nearby lake that is one highlight of the day. And I swim to the other side (sarong over swim suit, strangling my neck, so as not to offend any – inexistent – Indian bystanders), which is considerably further away than I estimated. And as soon as I get there and try to catch my breath, in sails a boat full of broad-smiled Indian tourists, whose intention is to practically stop on top of me. I sigh and start swimming back as quick as possible. Who knew that the exact place from which I wanted to admire the pretty lake (it apparently stopped having crocodiles in it about two years ago) is a damn docking point?

The other highlight is the evening satsang. Tomorrow’s Friday – free day and field trip day, a day when most yoga students run for the soothing beaches of Kovalam and Varkala. And don’t come back. So everyone’s chipper and crisp while chanting the evening mantras (which will accompany me all through next week: Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna…). And how could you not be in a playful mood when you realize that your yoga gurus are actor Michael Clarke Duncan and a fat, bushy browed Michael Jackson?

Oh, and the Smeagol I was telling you about? Here he is:

Caves

So, if you really want something out of this world in this continent-country, it's definitely the Ellora Caves near Aurangabad. What you get to see is completely insane and totally amazing. I don't think photos do them justice but I'll try anyway. Let's start at the end, with the Ajanta Caves, but let me just mention the middle part, in which I tell you just how I panicked because my camera battery refuses to charge and how many times I've visited the Nirala Bazaar in downtown Aurangabad to find a charger that is actually able to charge my battery (not like the first copy of the original charger I purchased, which turned out to be a first bad copy because it did not work. Period). I also tried charging the battery at a cell phone ‘pump station’ that, apparently, does just that: charge batteries, cell phone batteries for some fee, but I didn’t get to find out how much it cost, because my battery could not be charged there. Hence the need to go to a place that has some form of officially recognized status as a photo camera sales department or something. They tried to sell me an ‘original’ charger but I settled for that infamous copy, which didn’t do anything apart from flashing a pretty green light all night long.

Anyway, Ajanta and its caves is 100 km away from Aurangabad, meaning 2.5 hours by bus (and why not? by now bus and train riding is my second nature!), where you have to fight your way to a seat and if you're not lucky or strong enough, you'll end up sitting in the aisle and being trampled by stampedes of Indians. If you happen to be a foreigner, you’ll get the conductor’s seat, the best in the house and you’ll nick everyone’s retina by just sitting there happily.

The minute the bus leaves you by the side of the road in a dusty cloud of dirt, the friendly Indian will jump out of nowhere, willing to take you into his hands, plant a small, shiny crystal in your palm, explain where the other bus will pick you up to take you to the mouth of the caves, and make sure that you will not forget him when you return, eagerly scratching the itch to buy memorabilia from his precious stone shop.

You’ve done this the previous day: cave by astounding cave, you walk into them all, to see 2000 year old paintings in temples carved in rock by persistent ancient Buddhists and/or Hindus, whose carving methods can make any architect or engineer drool in awe at their patience and ingenuity.

You see, they started from top to bottom, being able to construct something structurally sturdy as well as aesthetically impressive. The end result would be this:

Yeah, I know, you’re speechless, but wait till you see what I saw the previous day, which was more carving, less painting and more height, I mean depth…

And then there’s the off-the-beaten-track temple, where you get to because some local liked you enough to take you there and, even if you refuse to swim in the lake or to smoke some weed, he’s still quietly enjoying your company, while your jaw drops open at the beauty of the temple.

That’s it. I pamper you too much with so many photos!

Crazy Costly City Cruising

or How to Strangle a Rickshaw Driver Because He Just Wants Some Business, Tells You He Can Take You To The Pickup Place, Even Agrees On a Price but Then Gets Lost and It Turns Out He Didn't Have the Slightest Idea Where You Wanted to Get to in the First Place

or Why I've Used Up Every Single Romanian Curse Word and Phrase Known to Romanian Man While Applying Them on Said Rickshaw Driver, Especially After He Decided to Up the Price a Little (Saying He Wasted Too Much Petrol Driving Aimlessly Around), and Therefore, Thought It Wise to Express My Displeasure and Disagreement

or Trying to Not Lose the Bus That Cost Me About as Much as Two Nights in Some Hotel Because Some Rickshaw Driver Thought it Funny to Fuck With My Frustrated Self

And that's just the end of my stressful day in Hyderabad, but quite enough for a post title.

if you're ever in the mood for a rushed and hectic trip through a little rising star of the Indian hi-tech urban clusters, try Hyderabad and the suspense of its unknowables.

Because four hours of fussing, turning and commuting from one railway station to another (and, trust me, it's not like the next one is just around the corner, except maybe when the corner is 3-4 km away), yes four (4!) hours is not enough to settle the mere matter of purchasing a train ticket for the same night out of the damned place to another place.

People with experience in Indian Railways matters will surely laugh at my gullible hopes in imagining that such an endeavor can easily be solved! I cannot begin to emphasize how these people pretend to know stuff but are, in fact, clueless. After several visits to his counter (and lots of waiting in line at other counters and not getting there because I realized mid-queue that it's useless to still wait at said queue), this particular employee tells me in a hushed you-did-not-hear-this-from-me voice to go to the main train station in Hyderabad to maybe get a special, last minute ticket (this whole discussion having taken place in Secunderabad, obviously, Hyderabad's hapless relative).

So, after countless checking if Indian queues actually work (which they sort of don't), the Chief Reservations Supervisor tells me to go to yet another station in Secunderabad, where somewhere on the first floor there will be somebody who can maybe help. If you think this sounds complicated, reality was something like putting on your favorite prepubescent shoes and running around the block in them. I have no doubts that, sometime after the sixth hour things would have fallen into place, but my nerves got the better of me and I decided I'd prefer to visit something in this place.

Meaning: I took my backpack and away we went in the heart of the city to the Andhra Pradesh State Bus Stand, where I was informed that there is no direct bus going to the required destination and, if I wanted, I could get a private bus to take me there. Only, as I've already mentioned, that bus fare's price kept changing from one minute to the next and ended up costing about a week's accommodation in Hampi, or what I wouldn't give to see a Ştefan Bănică Junior concert (III category ticket). Still, we shook hands on it and then I proceeded to inform the employee that I intended on visiting Ramoji Film City before my bus left. After he changed some facial colors like you would flick through a menu, he firmly forbade me to go. Because it takes two hours by local bus to get there, minimum four hours to tour the entire thing and another two hours to get back. I might just pull it off if I were to take a taxi (that is: not rickshaw, but a full-sized car) for about as much as i would have given for a byron concert - twice! I tried explaining that I still have six hours to go, if not more and, if he would just let me go, I would not waste time with discussing it but actually doing it, but all was useless. I eventually broke loose and started pedaling towards the local bus station.

Let me tell you something about this matter of the film city: apart from Bollywood, there are other capable companies that can provide nourishment for Indian television aficionadoes, one being the Ramoji company. Its film city has been acknowledged by the Guinness World Records as the world's largest film studio complex. Get ready to experience larger-than-life entertainment, thrills, fun rides, food and excitement! - or so their flyer states. So it's obvious that I wanted to get a piece of the (movie) action!

It did take an hour to get there and I spent about three inside and it was quite enough, as it basically is a half-breed between an actual movie studio and Disneyland and it's a favorite holiday destination for thousands of Indian families. So, me and this crowd of Indians had a 4D experience in the Ramoji Towers, where they simulated our ascent in an elevator and the disaster that followed, complete with noises, flickering lights, rain and a free fall, which plucked an assortment of squeals of joy out of the Indians' throats. 

Up next was a sort of merry-go-round that took us through various toy countries with waving toy people, from Ancient Egypt to the present UK, with llamas and penguins being the undisputed highlight:

The really interesting bit followed next and it involved the actual making of a movie, Indian nonetheless, as it is, just like real Indian flicks, obviously made out of layers slapped onto one another. There was this girl from the audience that got on a makeshift carriage in front of a green screen and, with the help of a guy, who doubled as the rocks on the road (by shaking the carriage left and right), ran away from her subsequently added followers.

The clatter of hooves and jingle of bells was added by getting some kids to rattle some keys and play with halves of coconut shells on gravel.

And, with the right soundtrack, the girl became a real life Indian movie star, or at least she had the grin that said so and everybody clapped until their hands were on fire.

By this time I had had enough and, after strolling around the 'city' only to find some troublesome statues, I was on my way back. Not before I saw young Darth Vader, who really convinced me to join the Dark Side (which I did, later in the story, when I ran into my wonderful rickshaw driver):

The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant
next to the power of the force!!!

My way back would have been much easier if I had found something to come back with, but the juice seller next to the station assured me that there will be a bus coming my way at around 4.30 (I had to get to the pickup place at 5.30), but it was too close to my deadline. My salvation materialized in the form of a Nepali girl, who gathered all her courage and asked me where I was going. She helped me get to the right bus station in time but from there to the actual pickup place was still a way to go. 

Enter the rickshaw driver! My nemesis, my foe and my reason to contemplate murder, because we drove round and round, asking the entire hoi polloi of rickshaw drivers where this godforsaken place is, I even handed him my cell phone with a puzzled private bus company employee at the other end to get some reference points and still he did not get it. 

If you're on the edge by now, let me calm you down and tell you I did not, in fact, miss my buss. Mainly because it did not leave, as stated, at 5.30 PM, but at 7 PM. 

India's quirks - my mental spasms.