The Taj Mahal: A Diamond Wrapped in a Filthy Rag

Let me ask you this: would you wrap the Hope Diamond in a filthy rag? Would you dress a beautiful woman in a burlap sack? Would you hang a Picasso in a broken, plastic frame? Okay, so that last one would be kind of a statement, but nonetheless....if you take a beautiful thing and encase it in filth, it remains beautiful but it displays a great lack of respect for said thing. So is Agra, the filthy, corrupt packaging that holds the Taj Mahal. The streets  overflow with garbage and cow dung resulting in a city that consistently smells of a toilet; the tourist industry is so corrupt they have gone so far as to poison tourists in restaurants only to guide them to a "reputable" doctor who feeds them "medicine" keeping them sick for days and then presenting them with an outrageous bill, and the government isn't known as a place desperate tourists can turn for help.

That said, the Taj Mahal truly is exquisite, as cliche as that may sound. Just like the Grand Canyon, no photos or descriptions can prepare you for the emotional blow to the senses that this wonder delivers. Were I an architect I could tell you measure by measure the exact ratio of perfection. I am not, so I can only describe how the building holds no real color but rather reflects the changing colors of the day: gray in early morning, bluish-violet at dawn, orange at sunset. Floral inlay and Koranic scripture graze the inside and outside of the entire building and are neither overworked or inconsistent. The symmetry of the entire structure is obvious even to an untrained eye, except for the tomb of Shah Jahan laid next to that of Mumtaz Mahal, his beloved and the alleged inspiration for the mausoleum.

Set against the Indian sky, which is never truly blue due to a heavy layer of smog, and rising up above the Yamuna River, like the Giant Buddha in Bodhgaya, the tomb floats, no foundation firm enough to hold it down, no earth pure enough to maintain it. The motivation in building the Taj Mahal is, of course, suspect (Said to be a tribute to eternal love for Mumtaz, his  "favorite," but one of many wives who died giving birth to his thirteenth child, later research has discovered that the design of the building is identical to that of an ancient Muslim ideal of the righteous seat of god, set in the gardens of heaven. It appears that the Shah had grandiose ideas about his own power and where he should be laid to rest.) but it isn't the impetus that moved me but only the product. Something  so perfect given, not without cost, to the world exists specifically to whomever beholds it. Like a Mont Blanc upon which to project your dreams. Like the Grand Canyon, a scale with which to measure your ambition. My memories will not be kind to Agra the city, but I will reflect on the Taj Mahal as though I witnessed it in a vacuum, at no particular time and in no particular place. It can and does exist in the light on a city sidewalk, anywhere I happen to be making my way.

Varanasi/Benares/Kashi: City of Light, City of Temples

Varanasi, the city known as Benares during the British Raj, and referred to as Kashi by many locals, is one of the oldest cities in the world, and probably the oldest city in India. It holds significance for Buddhists and Jains, but is definitely the most important Hindu city in the world. The city is made up of clusters of stucco buildings seemingly dropped haphazardly amidst winding alleys and streets crowded with shrines, cows and heaps of garbage. But where the balcony of gutters and rooftops that serve as playgrounds for monkeys open up, the marvelous Ganges and stone ghats provide evidence of something holy at work. Across the river a white sandy plain faces the city, offering up a door to the space the buzzing city desperately needs.

In the evening the ghats that are vacated during the oppressively hot day cloud with boys playing cricket, orange-robed sadhus seeking donations and pilgrim bathers, both human and bovine. All taking advantage of the relatively cool evening air and preparing for the evening arati, the Ganga Puja, which the city is famous for. The riverfront and our airy, balconied room in Vishnu Rest House (painted blue, of course) evoke a villa on the Riviera.

From our room you can hear the slapping of clothes on the Dhobi Ghat. In the distance a prayer call blasts through a fuzzy loudspeaker. From the river, from the boat slowly rowed upstream, the colors from the ghats bleed into the dark green water. The sarees, scarves, orange blossoms, candles, even the incense seep into the stench and cover the reality of the sacrifices. Groups of pilgrims with shaved heads and bare feet tramp from ghat  to shrine to ghat bathing, praying, chanting, finally visiting the burning ghat to pay last respects to the body that brought them here. In the early morning hours small wooden row boats cross to the empty desert facing the city. Other boats row languidly up and down the bank, making way for funeral processions, swimmers and fish that flick their tails at foreign passengers.

You feel like you are being led somewhere that you didn't ask to go, or that you did ask but had no preparation for. You are surrounded by those who know, or maybe their faith is so strong they have convinced you they do. The shit, trash and screaming hawkers do not bother them like they bother you. Perhaps they know that these are trials you must endure to end at that stillness we have all come here seeking. Perhaps they wear no shoes so as to be closer to the suffering, for if they suffer more now, if they die more here, they will rise higher there, where their feet touch only clouds and rose petals. Perhaps that is why they stand before shrines built into corners of shit-strewn alleys and touch the feet of Lord Ganesh. Perhaps that is why, when they think they see God, they lead their family to the river to drink. Perhaps I see the same thing, but offer my devotion like a blind, mute servant sitting with closed eyes to better absorb that aroma of conviction in the wind.

Scenes of Bodhgaya

*******For those of you who don't know the importance of the town Bodhgaya, it is the place where the historical Buddha is said to have reached enlightenment. The famous peepal, or "bodhi," tree that now grows in the spot actually grew from a trimming from the original tree which now grows in Anuradhapura, Sri Lanka, having been salvaged and shipped there after King Ashoka uprooted it before his own conversion to Buddhism. The tree grows next to the seat where the Buddha sat and realized his great truth. The tree and seat live within the Mahabodhi Temple complex in the center of town, now surrounded by temples from over fifteen countries, and vendors selling everything from pressed bodhi tree leaves, mala beads and CDs of Buddhist and Vedic chants.***************

Scenes of Bodhgaya

Mahabodhi Temple

AN exquisite, tranquil harbor amidst a corrupt capitalistic tourist market. The ancient temple like a stone, riveted pyramid acts like a paternal hush over the touts and hawkers. Stupas, palms and the ubiquitous orange flower trees surround the simple shrine and the tree itself, with its many trunks and even more branches and leaves the shape of fat raindrops. Everywhere else in India you will find crows and unruly lines but here there is order and patience and rest. The grass around the lotus pool where the Buddha is said to have bathed is full of young boys taking pictures with their cell phones. The temple and tree half of the complex is for the meditators and scholars. During evening prayers a recording of a Tibetan prayer plays over the loud speakers, monks and laypeople surround the tree at its base and on platforms amidst the stupas and groups of devotees circle the sacred ground in a kora counting mantras on their mala beads.

Life
Walking back from the Mahabodhi Temple through the fruit market, we heard the jingling of bells and quickly got out of the way for a bearded man swaddled in orange robes riding a great brown stallion against the traffic of rickshaws and horse-drawn carriages.

Orange clad sadhus seeking alms who repay in mudra.

Bristly pigs rifling through an open air trash dump near the exquisite Japanese temple. Big mama pig nearly attacking her baby for infringing on her stash.

Wiry cycle rickshaw drivers with sunken cheeks pedalling through the heat and dust in plaid sarongs and cotton headwraps.

Pretty lady lamas with shaved heads in white robes. The one, in particular, who meditated next to me at the bodhi tree who wore a washcloth over her face to keep the flies away.

Two goats resting back to back by the CD and mala vendors under a bit of shade.

Three young men riding a camel down Bodhgaya Road. Old men with scarf headwraps driving horse buggies of wrapped parcels. A city buss full inside and bearing thirty men on top.

A stray dog taking a bath in the black, dirty gutter alongside the road.

Little vendor boy throwing water on an old beggar man and laughing.

Boys of twelve and thirteen selling maps, postcards, CDs and, famously, the three young men who lavished us with compliments and smiles for over one hour only to lead us to their school and ask for a donation of three thousand rupees.

Walking back from meditation at the Root Institute for Wisdom Culture after dark. The dirt road crossed by frogs, lizards, and dogs. And then, a blackout and we must feel our way to the light.

Descent to the Gangetic Plain

We were welcomed to the state of West Bengal, in the town of Siliguri, by a barrage of auto-rickshaw (a three-wheeled motorized vehicle with a seat for the driver and two seats in back-looks like a three-wheeled motorcycle with a metal enclosure) drivers. We haggled the price down a bit and hit the road for New Jalpaiguri Railway Station (the closest to Darjeeling) where we arrived on time, but not after breaking down near a busy bazaar and waiting for the driver to finagle some magic with the engine. At the station we got our first taste of the crushing poverty that often proves too much for many a Western traveler; within minutes we were surrounded by skinny, barefoot children who looked like they may never have had a bath and some of whom didn't have any clothes on. A little girl of about six with no shoes, wearing a cheap brown dress with pink sequins followed us around for fifteen minutes after I, naively, gave money to a toddler with no pants or diaper. We learned our lesson that, however upsetting the situation, we cannot help them all and would have to choose our battles. This will be the last I write about the child beggars who you will find everywhere (though in smaller numbers up into the Western Himalayas), simply because it is heartbreaking to recall, but I will say that what is most upsetting, and upsetting to admit as well, is that these children don't seem like children (of course, my idea/image of children), but rather specters or shadows of children. There is  a blankness in their eyes and a realization that the only language they may speak, either in English or their own tongue, has to do with begging, simply because that is their only route to survival.  Of course, what we all want to do is scoop them up and whisk them away to a magical place to feed, clothe and bathe them, but that cannot be done in one day and I cannot be so arrogant to assume that a little money or one meal from me will change their life. What the real answer is is for wiser people than me to realize.

We were grateful to find our names on the reservation chart, meaning that we had made it up from "wait list" to "confirmed." The second class a/c car consists of open compartments of two sets of bunk bed style cots facing one another, and on the other side of the aisle rows of sets of bunk beds. We had our compartment to ourselves for the first few hours, save for a few cockroaches, a mouse and a healthy dusting of dirt on the floor, but after dark we were joined by two gentleman from Patna on their way home. Sleeping was aided by earplugs (one of the men was a snorer) and my scarf wrapped around my eyes as the men didn't turn the light off for several hours. We slept so soundly, in fact, that we awoke in a panic to find the men gone, thinking we had missed our stop, but realized it was the next station. On my way to the (squat, Indian style) toilet, I caught the front page of the Times of India  which reported the assassination of Osama bin Laden. I didn't know what to make of this, heading to a very Muslim city in a state known for kidnapping and murder, but was reassured by a phone call to my brother who reminded me that most Muslims hated bin Laden. And, true enough, the only trouble we had in Patna was the bothersome experience of buying a ticket to Gaya. Luckily, a gentleman pointed out the "ladies only" line which was shorter, and promised less groping than the all male general lines, however I still had to deal with a very pushy grandma in an orange sari.

Only realizing after the fact that our fifteen rupee tickets to Gaya were located in the unreserved sleeper class, we lined up to push our way through the mob to seats but to no avail. The seats were taken and we were left in the open area reserved for handicapped people. We found some newspaper to lay under our bags since the floor was filthy and I played with standing or squatting to decide which would be the most comfortable for the four hour journey. Some nice gentlemen noticed our predicament and made space on their bench for one of us and, the Bear, being an old-fashioned gent, allowed me to take the seat. I was amused to learn that one of those nice gentleman, Asif, sold Amway products and was on his way to Gaya to meet with some people in his scheme.

We journeyed through rice and wheat fields and the open car filled with men selling cucumbers with salt, a popular chickpea and vegetable snack wrapped in newspaper, lassi, chai, water, toothbrushes, children's toys and wallets. There was also an old man with an open wound and a blind man with a song. A little boy came through sweeping the floors with a broom, and looking for pay, until an older passenger grabbed him and yelled something in Hindi. I asked Asif to translate and he said the man told the boy he should be in school instead of begging. The temperature rose through the early morning hours to over 100 degrees and the air coming in through the open windows offered little reprieve.

Finally in Gaya we negotiated a fare with an auto rickshaw driver to Bodhgaya, eleven kilometers to the south, and endured the dusty, hot ride through the plains and over a dried up riverbed. Our first hotel choice was booked, and the second was overpriced, so we finally gave in to the driver's suggestion of a third hotel, despite the fact that we knew he would get a commission, but the rooms were cold and musty. We got out of that rickshaw as the driver became somewhat hostile when we didn't chose his hotel. Another rickshaw took us to the Deep Guesthouse where we were happily greeted by the friendly Ranjeet and his plain but clean and cheap rooms. And so began a day in another new city.

Babes in Tealand: How to Make Tea in Five Seconds

The following morning we tried, in vain, to take the Toy Train up to Ghoom Monastery from where we could walk to the Peace Pagoda. Honza battled with a group of Indian tourists about the formation of a line and I learned from the ticket seller that a) bureaucracy exists even at the "World's Most Tourist Friendly Train Station" and b)all trains to Ghoom that day were booked.

Instead we walked up the bustling and noisome Hill Cart Road to the Happy Valley Tea Estate, a welcome change from the meat-selling stalls and car exhaust. Another disappointment awaited us, however, as we realized it was Sunday, and the day before May Day, which meant the factory was closed and the tea pickers had the day off. We were still able to receive a free tour from a very knowledgeable third generation tea estate worker from Nepal.

The Meaning of Flush
First Flush: Tea picked in the months of March, April and May. The finest quality, usually shipped out to fine tea shops including Harrod's of London
Second Flush: Tea picked during the monsoon months, second best in quality.
Third Flush: Autumn picked tea, worst quality, probably the tea you find on your grocer's shelf, also the tea Indians mix with milk and spices and call chai.

Black, White, Green
A tea leaf contains a top, fine tip, plus two leaves, one higher up on the stem than the other. The tea that comes solely from the tip becomes white and green tea , which is not fermented. The tea that comes from the tip and is then fermented and heavily processed is black tea, first grade. Tea that comes from the second and third leaves and is also fermented is black tea, second and third grade. The finest tea, from the tip, and picked during first flush should be so high in quality that you can brew it in 5 seconds, and not have to add any sweetener or milk. Hard to believe, but a retired tea worker named Kurush brewed this right in front of us and we then enjoyed the finest cup of tea we'd ever had. We also bought 100 grams for 400 rupees, under the table, after being told that the money would go straight to the workers.

Brought back to reality by a wrong turn and a walk through a crowded slum where little boys played cricket in bare feet with a busted tennis ball and a PVC pipe and then the odors of Chowk Bazaar, we later learned that all trains to Patna, where we needed to go to connect to Gaya, and then Bodhgaya, were booked on the day that we wished to travel, but that we could book waitlist tickets for the following day, which we did. The next morning we skipped yet another trip to Tiger Hill to catch views of the Kanchenjunga and Singalila Ranges due to another bout of cloudy weather, and then trekked to Chowk Bazaar to jump on a circulating Jeep looking for passengers to Siliguri where we could catch our train. We bid farewell to Darjeeling, a city that surprised us in its unkempt streets and crowded slums, not knowing that the density and overwhelming sights and smells would only increase the further we ventured into the Ganges Plain.

Babes in Tealand: A Day as Colonialists

We awoke the next morning to a rain shower and a giant spider friend who had crawled through the hole in the wall under the sink which a lot of low budget Indian places use as a drain, for shelter. After checking in at the miniature train station that runs the Toy Train to see if we could buy tickets from New Jalpaiguri station (we couldn't) we stopped in at the Dhirdham Temple, which was built as a replica of the great Shiva Temple of Pashupatinath near Kathmandu. We met a toddler running a toy race-car along the walls of the temple garden who coyly posed for pictures, and a father with his young daughter all dressed up in a lacy yellow dress, stopping in for late morning prayers.

We lunched at Glenarry's, very easily the nicest restaurant in Darjeeling, and enjoyed excellent service, white table-cloths and a silver tea-set. Later we realized that the middle-aged man seated at the table next to us is a well-known film director, Arjun Something, but I have yet to figure out who he is.

In the afternoon we visited the zoo, famous for its Red Panda and Snow Leopard Breeding Centers. What can you say about a zoo? A zoo is a zoo, good or bad, in Darjeeling or Washington, DC. But we did finally snap some shots (and some mojo) from that elusive beast, the Red Panda! (Photos to come)

Have I mentioned the phenomenon of many Asians taking photos of western tourists? Those of you who have traveled in Asia are familiar with this, and I got a taste of it myself while traveling for work two years ago, but India has taken this to a whole new level. In the best situation, the person asks politely to pose with you for a picture; in the worst, they just snap a shot of you on the street with their phone and act like nothing happened. Up until this point in the journey, I had had many unwilling shots taken and had posed with a young lady at Rabdantse, with a three year old girl and her mother at Hanuman Tok and now, with four biochemists from Bangladesh at the Darjeeling Zoo. I posed with some other, unknown men, later when the Bear forced me to pay 30 rupees to dress in the traditional Darjeeling teapicker costume and pose with a tea basket on my head.

In place of dinner we splurged on high tea at The Elgin Hotel. For 375 rupees each we enjoyed two pots of Darjeeling's finest, scones with butter and jam, cucumber sandwiches, vegetable pakora and shortbread.  The hotel is truly exquisite-potted palms, velvet brocade loveseats, mahogany armoires with Buddha statutes, and, all over, black and white photos of old Darjeeling and colonial life, as though the decor and service were not enough to remind you of the Raj that was. For those two hours, maybe for that entire day, maybe we had a taste of what the colonialists saw in that land that they bought and conquered, maybe, but probably not. As we left the hotel we asked how much a room for one night would cost and had to lift our jaws off the floor when met with the response of 6800 rupees per night.

Babes in Tealand: A Stopover in Darjeeling

The road to Darjeeling lead from Pelling to Jorethang, on the border of Sikkim and West Bengal, and then, in another shared and smushed Jeep, along the bumpiest, narrowest, and steepest road we had yet traveled. Luckily, the rough part of the journey was short and decorated with scenes of the steep and emerald tea estates on the outskirts of the hill station. The green hills were a brief respite between the rickety road and the smoggy gridlocked center of Chowk Bazaar. The Jeep emptied us in the middle of a traffic jam (or just regular traffic, depending on your cultural background) and we dodged motorbikes and Jeeps to get to the other side of the street only to met with a row of putrid stalls displaying sides of beef, chicken parts and stagnant fish, all covered in flies and laying on newspaper above their own guts on the grimy floor.

After asking directions we climbed the steep and winding road with our heavy packs to Andy's Guest House where Mr. Gurung, the owner seemed to be waiting for us on the balcony. We booked a double (as in two single beds) that featured clean, wood-panelled walls and a bucket that we could fill with hot water between 7 and 9 am for 400 rupees (about $9). The entire lodge is immaculate with an extraordinary rooftop viewing area that I think must be the highest point in the city.

The rest of that first day was spent eating Tibetan food at Dekevas in the Clubside area and checking out the vendors along Chowrasta, where I bought a purple scarf and played with our negotiating strategy.

Pelling to Pemayangtse: Last Days in Sikkim

We arrived by shared Jeep in Pelling by 9:30am. The Jeep, of course, was full to the brim, at one point we had 12 people, including one man standing on the spare tire rigged to the back door. The Jeep also acted as, not only human transport, but mail service, bringing letters, packages and even verbal messages to the towns along the way.

Pelling isn't as beautiful as Yuksam, but it does offer incredible views of Kanchenjunga, at least until about 11am when the clouds come in. We ate a second breakfast on the terrace of Hotel Kabur while our room was being cleaned (by a ten year old girl named Lakshmi) and noticed that the owners were consumed with an elaborate funeral on television. Later, as we tried to enter a bank and found it closed, we learned from the very helpful man  at Pelling Tourism that Sai Baba, the self-proclaimed incarnation of the original and revered Sai Baba of Shirdi, had died the day before and the government had declared a public holiday for his funeral. The entire town was shut down and shrines to Sai Baba were paid tribute by lit candles.

The following day we woke early and began the walk to Pemayangtse Monastery, the most historically significant in Sikkim. Aking the way we stopped for  tea at the Lotus Bakery, run by and in support of the Denjong Padma Choeling Academy for orphaned Tibetan children. The Bear had some sweet baked goods, despite the fact that we had already had breakfast in the room (our new habit to save money-we bought oatmeal and use the amazing Jetboil to cook it along with tea).

The road to Pemayangtse was uphill and flanked by wild daises and prayer flags. One bay of flags was captioned by a sign explaining that the flags stood for the alleviation of suffering of all sentient beings. The monastery itself contains three levels, all made from sturdy wood and connected by ladder-like staircases. The top floor was like a transparent arc of relics, holding items historically significant to the place such as drums, hats, animal carvings, shoes and prayer scrolls. The temples of the first and second floors display life-size representations of the various manifestations of Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambhava) and the Buddha himself. The useful offerings were laid out: bowls of water, fruit, rice, money. What most fascinated me were the intricate and mostly fading painting on all of the walls-in the second floor temple the paintings depicted scenes of the historical Buddha's life, and village life centuries ago. A king perched beneath snowy mountains receiving his subjects. Elephants and horses carrying lamas and royalty-once even a decrepit naked man carrying a king. My favorite room, however, was the temple next to the main second floor shrine which showed only paintings of the Buddha, always in siddhasana (the "perfect seat") but with carious mudras and at times accompanied by an animal friend. The hundreds of duplicate Buddhas served as a reminder of the eternal nature of the Great One's teachings.

After leaving the monastery we continued down Geyzing Road to the ruins of Rabdantse, the one time capital of Sikkim which was attacked by Nepalese forces in the 18th century. Lined in stone walls, the scene was remarkably similar to Vysehrad in Prague. We walked the remaining five kilometers to Geyzing past cow stalls, chicken coops and people carrying leaves from the forest on their backs.

In the evening, back in Pelling after yet another blackout, we wandered from hotel to restaurant in search of the  traditional Sikkimese millet beer, tomba. It was finally found at a crumbling roadside cafe, Alpine Restaurant, where the only other patrons were four young men smacking their lips with some kind of greasy chicken dish. The drink, which took fifteen minutes to prepare, was served in foot tall bamboo mugs. The "beer" is actually cooked and fermented millet doused in hot water sipped through a bamboo straw fashioned to keep the grains from entering. It tasted more like a warm wine than beer and apparently is meant to be enjoyed for several hours, and the owner was surprised to see us leaving after only fifteen minutes.

The next morning we said our goodbyes to Sikkim, with the hope of possibly returning some day not too far in the future.

Yuksam, the Village of our Future

After spending the day wandering around the quaint, homey village of Yuksam we were ready to buy property and set up a hotel. The village itself sprawls across sloping hills in terrace farms and well-built wooden house. Often, the mist of clouds fails to climb above the peaks and so rests in the valleys giving the town a pleasantly eerie feel. There is a small temple devoted to Guru Padmasambhava, a post office, several shops selling clothing and general goods and a large Tibetan monastery on top of a hill. Goats and chicken inhabit nearly every dwelling and prayer flags are always within view.

We walked down the state highway almost out of town and immediately were inundated with school children just dismissed from the secondary school. A little further down we spotted a gathering of long, white flags and decided to make that our destination. We came to a house, which seemed to be attached to the property that housed the flags and a smiley woman washing clothes said we could pay them a visit. We walked down a tiny path, passed an old man breaking stones, to the heart of the flags which encircled a water tank and then led through a field of baby corn stalks and down to what appeared to be a cemetery or memorial ground. We stood for awhile and enjoyed the silence and few raindrops that had begun to fall.

On the way back into town a small, elderly man called to us from a storefront, "Come here, I want to ask you something." We ended up engaged in a fi\fteen minute conversation with the gentleman who, we learned, is  a Hindu retired secondary school teacher who sired ten children with his wife of another caste. "There are only two kinds of people: male and female. Everything else: caste, religion, race, doesn't matter," he told us. He also told us that he had traveled all over India but no place was quite like Sikkim, no place so kind. Although we hadn't yet ventured into the heartland, we had to at that time agree.

Goecha-La Trek Days 8, 9 and 10

Tsokha

We found ourselves back in the comfortable and comforting former Tibetan village of Tsokha. From Tsokha we could see where we came from and where we were going. Our rustic shack stood amidst a Tibetan gompa, chortens, horses, dogs, dzos and happy trekkers and their relentless crews. The cabins are small, wooden with aluminum roofs. Wooden frames enclose yards where animals feed on fresh grass and hay. Prayer flags waver in the thin, misty air and the only sounds are the gas stove and happy chit-chat of our crew. The mountains to the north and south seem infinite, we are swallowed up and humbled by our insignificance.

Sachin

Nearing the end of our journey we spent one last night in the tent, in Sachin where we stopped for lunch on that first, brutally long day. It started to rain after lunch-we ran to our tent for cover but found it to be leaking so I plugged up the holes with toilet paper and the Bear covered the fly with an emergency blanket. The camp was dense, our dinner tent as well as one belonging to another group stood five feet away and the dzos and their poop just across the washing spring. We had to walk down a steep embankment to use the toilet in the woods, along with the horse and dzo poop. I tried not to think about the cleanliness of my boots. The condition of the ground means another hope of practicing some yoga was squashed.

In the morning before trekking down to camp the Bear took a group photo which amused the entire crew. Our cook, Bibi, even changed his shirt for it. The walk down was slow and lovely, the magpies and butterflies following us all the way, and Skorice, the stray dog who had led our way the day before and I had since adopted, brought us all the way down. At one point we were crossing a rickety bridge over a rocky river and Skorice stopped and began barking at something in the woods on the other side. We thought it may be a bear so we shouted and beat sticks on rocks to alert our presence. There was no bear to be found but Skorice did a good job of alerting us to groups of dzos and horses rounding the coming curves.

Yuksam

The night in Sachin was bittersweet: after dinner the crew brought us a cake upon which was written "Happy Trek" and we all crowded into the dinner tent to share the cake and tea. We thought this the best time to give them their tips, though after their gesture, ours seemed cold. Suresh gave a speech about how on the trek we are all family and, me being me, I teared up a little bit. The next day, our last, the Bear gave Suresh one of our flint stones since we noticed that he likes to make small fires on boulders. The Bear showed him how it works and he called the process "magic." The hike back definitely felt like jungle, the heat increasing the closer we got to Yuksam and the flies mixing with my horribly dry skin. Suresh pointed to the jungle on the other side of the river that has not been developed for hiking and said that the place is not for humans, but rather for tigers and bears. We spotted a large bee hive inside a cave on that side, hanging down in thick, loose waves like laundry. Skorice, the dog, followed us all the way to the village of Yuksam and we finally parted ways unceremoniously.

In Yuksam we checked back into the Demazong Hotel, thankfully into a different room, though this one came with a nest of chirping birds right in the hallway in front of the door. The feeling of taking a shower after ten days is indescribable. We each lingered in the steam for much longer than the current water shortages in Sikkim allow. We got to say goodbye to our crew on the main village road, though we didn't really know what to say. It is, after all, just a job for them, without as much sentiment or meaning as it holds for us. All I could say was that I hoped to see them again.

Goecha-La Trek Day Seven and Eight

After trekking back through the now sunlit Samiti Lake we are a well-deserved breakfast at camp, packed up and started out for Kokchrong. Five minutes into the hike the clear sky that we had been so grateful for showered us with the round, soft-hail-like snow we had become accustomed to at high altitude. Snow and wind blew right in our direction and we shielded our faces with sunglasses and tightened hoods. We met up with the speedy Suresh at Thangsing who told us to go on ahead since I told him I thought I remembered the way down. Luckily, our cook who came before left clear footprints in the snow which we followed closely just to make sure not to meet the fate of the infamous German hiker who, two years earlier, split from his group and was never found.
We descended back into the forest, once covered in lichen, now blanketed in a rich cover of snow. Under forest cover the storm was more bearable and the snowfall lessened the lower we hiked. AT the bottom of the hill the footprints became clearer and the gushing river led us across the three bridges to the three-room loft shack at Kokchrong where we found our faithful dzos munching grass in front and our crew brewing tea for us inside.

We didn't see Suresh again until morning, since he climbed down after dark and then early in the morning climbed back up to Thangsing to retrieve his forgotten camera. The crew got a laugh as we asked for the tent to set up in the drafty room since without it the temperature hovered around eight degrees.

The next morning we set off after breakfast along the short-cut to bypass Dzongri and take us back to Tsokha. We hiked somewhat leisurely to Phedang Meadows through rhododendron forest full of the colorful magpies and blood pheasants we missed at higher trails. Suresh would come and go, sometimes surprising us from the forest above the path where he had scurried to take a picture of a bird or pick up a piece of rubbish left by a thoughtless hiker ("dirty people" he would say). The lower we got the more vegetation we spotted: bright lavender blossoms, the occasional magnolia, or, my favorite, the yet unidentified green patch of shiny moss like a tightly woven fern. Finally, after we passed some fresh trekkers making their way up to Dzongri, whom we envied for their look of naive enthusiasm and their smell of soap and water, we were rewarded with the many rhododendrons that had blossomed while we were up top: hot pink, baby pink, white (which we were told are poisonous), purple, scarlet.

The muddy path became muddier as it started to rain and we covered with ponchos and took our time coming down. Tskoha was a welcome sight, as was the comfy, but still drafty hut where we ate dinner by candlelight and relaxed to the sound of dzos, ponies and cows grazing in the mist below the now far away mountains.

Goecha-La Trek Day Seven

From Lamunay

We camped this night in between the cacophony of the river and the silence that hangs around Mount Pandim. It never got above 8 degree Celsius all day and the night, of course, was colder. We decided, with Suresh, that after the Goecha-La trek we would have breakfast at camp and then head for Kokchrong due to my intolerance to the cold and the Bear's high altitude headaches.

From Kokchrong

I never knew cold until this morning standing on top of a 5000 meter Himalayan peak in -14 degrees Celsius. My toes and fingers pained to the touch-no amount of stomping or dancing in place would thaw them. But, as seems to be the mantra of this trip: was it worth it? YES.

We woke at 2:30am, drank hot water as per Suresh's suggestion the night before to combat my cold weather stomach cramps, ate a few small biscuits and stepped outside of our tent into a lunar landscape. The moon, almost a perfect half, shone onto the alpine meadow where we slept and illuminated the paeaks embarcing us. The white of the snowcaps and glaciers gave even more light to our journey, which began at 3:45 with Suresh in lead and the Bear as the caboose. The first hour of the walk was a familiar path of rocky low brush and the clay surrounding Samiti Lake, the only other sign of life for miles the tiny hoof prints of the blue sheep that come to drink its water.We scrambled small rocks and boulders along a skinny ledge over the blue-green water and it felt impossible that  anyone other than the three of us existed in the world, or that the world even existed beyond what we could see in front of us. Mount Pandim hovered to the east and we marveled at how, not so long ago, we first spotted the revered mountain from a distance at Tsokha. Suresh told us that in summer months Lepchas come to a small temple carved into the side of the mountain to worship the very peak.

The sky was spotless, turning slowly from midnight blue to gray to cerulean. I was grateful that our hard work was being rewarded with a clear day. After passing Samiti Lake, the course began to climb and we slowed our pace. Near the top of a very steep path of slippery rocks the craggy peak of Kanchenjunga popped over the top of our cliff wall. We climbed higher and more of the range showed itself. The sun, just rising, shone pick in the south along a low cloud shelf that threatened to rise and cover our view, and orange to the north onto the white sheet of peaks. Once the entire range came into view, presented so clearly like an unwrapped gift, I became overwhelmed with tears.

The rest of the path to the main viewpoint teetered along a slippery slope threatening to topple unsteady hikers to the frozen river thousands of feet below. We rounded the most treacherous corner and saw cairns and prayer flags indicating the first viewpoint. At one point I heard thunder and looked with worry to Suresh who pointed out an avalanche at a far glacier, which made the Himalayan experience more real, and yet surreal.

At the top the Bear snapped hundreds of pictures and Suresh passed around hot water and popcorn. I collected rocks for my Dad and a friend and danced my feet away from frostbite. The world, that which existed at that very moment, was silent and full of meaning.

Goecha-La Trek Day Six

Darkness descended over our trek last night as Topden, our guide, was informed by another guide (who had run the entire trip up from Yuksam that day) that his uncle had passed away. This morning Topden set off back to Yuksam where a jeep would take him to Gangtok for the funeral. Our new guide, Suresh, is a Nepali guide and chef with over fifteen years experience, but choppier English than Topden. We bid farewell to Topden and the Bear sent him off with the headlamp he had borrowed a few days before.

Our Czech, Indian and American fellow trekkers work early this morning to trek to Goecha-La in order to save time while we ate breakfast and packed up for Lamunay, a closer camp to the final destination. The previous night in Thangsing was by far the coldest: negative five Celsius in the tent. The Bear had to break open one of our emergency "astronaut" blankets and cover me with it, even so, the cold combined with my aching shoulder prevented me from sleeping more than a couple hours.

Fortunately the path to Lamunay was flat and we got to catch some blue sheep (which aren't anything close to blue) along the way. The snow started the minute we got to camp and it was difficult to emerge from the ten for lunch. Suresh took us on a two hour hike to Samiti Lake, on the way to Goecha-la, to help us acclimate. We climbed to about 4600m to a lake that seemed to exist only for itself and the astounding peaks that are reflected in its surface.

For the rest of the day we rested and wondered what the trek the next day would entail.

Goecha-La Trek Day Five

I have learned not to fully trust the guide book's description of our trek. The 8km descent from Dzongri to Thangsing turned out to be rather a mixture of ascent, rolling hills and one steep and rocky descent through pine and rhododendron forests. The Bear had problems walking quickly and we were soon overtaken by our dzos and crew who had left thirty minutes after us.

The morning began with tea in the tent followed  by my new favorite morning ritual of warm bowls of water to clean our faces. It is amazing how quickly your requirements for comfort drop from a bubble bath to a few splashes of water on your face. We ran into Jana and Ivan who were making their way down from the Dzongri viewpoint and getting ready to pack for Thangsing as well. Before setting off we enjoyed a delicious breakfast of oatmeal with bananas, eggs and french fries. The muscle underneath my left shoulder blade that I somehow pulled was really acting up all morning and I could barely lift anything with my left arm. Nothing a little movement couldn't alleviate, however, for once we set off I began to forget about the pain.

We were the last group to set off on the steep, rocky path along the washing spring. At the top of the climb the path cut into a series of rolling hills through alpine meadow and once again we appeared to be chasing Mount Pandim. The trail turned muddy, then icy, then finally began the razor sharp descent back under tree cover. We found feces belonging to the blood pheasant and blue sheep but the only wildlife I spotted was a mouse scurrying across an iced over landslide. At the bottom of the descent we crossed a crystal clear river of snowmelt and then followed the same through vaporous clouds and a rocky scramble. One more tough climb  into another lichen-covered forest and a relatively flat plain of boulders and we were in Thangsing, the valley which we had spotted by the Dzongri viewpoint.


The afternoon after lunch was spent in the tent during a snowstorm. As per usual, the Bear slept and I meditated. Meditation is so easy here. The mountains almost beg for it. I can even get in a few moments while waiting for the Bear on the trail. My goal at this point is to ask the mountain gods to guide me to the right place of study for my final month alone.

Goecha-La Trek Day Four

This day was spent staying put at Dzongri to acclimate to the altitude before climbing even higher in later parts of the trek. The morning involved our only real work of the day-a 4:30am climb to Dzongri viewpoint to catch the sunrise amidst a panorama of the Singalila and Kanchenjunga Ranges. We stepped out of our tent to a gray near-dawn and sipped tea with Topden before heading up the skinny, winding path with the rest of the trekkers, including a Polish couple, three Singaporeans and a group of eight Indian men who had met up on India Mike to climb Goecha-La. As we ascended  we saw the dzo camp in a valley beyond our own-as we climbed even higher we saw the valley of Thangsing which we would hike to the next day, considering that our pressure headaches from the altitude calmed down before the morning.

The entire group was grateful for clear skies and a moderately colorful sunrise as we huddled on top of the point among the prayer flags that whipped in the increasingly furious wind. The Bear, of course, took  a million pictures, with all four lenses, with and without the tripod. Topden pointed out Mount Pandim, which we now seemed to be hunting even more than the red panda (which we had been told numerous times by now are "lazy and shy"), as well as Kabur rising before the Singalila Range which marked the border with Nepal and, eventually, once the last of the night's fog had lifted, the craggy peak of Kanchenjunga, the guardian of Sikkim having been recognized by Guru Padmasambhava himself as a holy presence. Coming off the hill the wind picked up and I was grateful that the drop-off was not more steep as I was almost knocked clear over the edge by one virulent gust.

Later that afternoon we carefully avoided the ubiquitous dzo dung to walk around camp and eventually fell into conversation with Jana and Ivan, a Czech couple who were heading to Thangsing the next day as well. They had spent the previous night in Tsokha where they had originally planned on ending their trek due to Ivan's sickness on a trek of Northern Sikkim the week before. Luckily he was feeling better now, as were we, and we all fell asleep after our respective dinners at the respectable time of 8pm, as had become our norm.

Goecha-La Trek Day Three

We began our trek out of Tsokha up to Dzongri (4200 meters) at 7:30am, Topden having wised up about how fast we could move with the Bear's altitude headaches and breathing issues. We made good time climbing along broad rocks and wooden slatted stairs laid down by the HMI (Himalayan Mountaineering Institute) up to Phedang Meadows. We were lucky enough to catch a few earl blossoming hot pink and red rhododendrons at one of our break points where we also ran into two Russian men who had just come down from Goecha-La and said it was impossible to go further than the first viewpoint due to slick ice.

We broke for a snack of an apple and an egg at Phedang Meadows and then Topden pointed out the rest of the trek up a razor's edge of switchbacks climbing out of the pine and rhododendron forest into alpine meadows. We could see trekkers, porters and dzos climbing high above us and the mere sight of the climb made the Bear want to lay down and spend the  night right where we were. But...we made it-slowly but surely....up and up through fog that turned into clouds until finally we reached Deorali Pass, nearly 4000 meters and marked with Tibetan prayer flags.

The path from Deorali to Dzongri followed rolling hills among low brush and an absence of trees as we were now above the tree line. Our camp became visible as we crossed an iced over waterfall but aft fifteen minutes it began to feel like a mirage as we just never seemed to reach it. We were at first turned off to find our tent propped on top of a hill above the rest of the camp and with our team's camp without a toilet (a hole dug in the ground and surrounded by a tent), but the latrine situation was soon remedied and although the tent was standing in directly in the windpath it was actually quite cozy.

We spent the rest of the day, when not eating, relaxing in the tent a snowstorm of small, semi-hard hail/snow, and I finally got the chance to try out my rented (and HUGE) down coat. Dinner, of course, was delicious, and precipitated by tea and popcorn, the latter of which apparently helps with altitude acclimatization.

Goecha-La Trek Day Two

I was thrilled to find porridge at Gupta's for breakfast-the perfect way to begin a 16 kilometer uphill journey. After breakfast, Topden introduced us to our crew, who would later prove to be amazingly efficient, kind and helpful over the next nine days and whom I hope will forgive me for most likely butchering the spelling of their names: Bibi, the cook who offered meals such as rice with dal, alu gobi, parathas and rice pudding or porridge, omelets, spiced potatoes, and toast with jam; Sukmansubeh, the porter extraordinaire who could carry heavy loads in a basket strapped around his forehead; Bhasunta, another porter of only 18 who also helped Bibi in the kitchen and delivered our meals and tea; and Purna, Bhasunta's brother, only of 17, who drove the dzos (yak-cows) that carried our bags and the crew's gear, always with a smile.
We started off after Topden stopped at the Kanchenjunga Conservation Committee's office to make sure that our permits were in order. The beginning of the hike wove through the village of Yuksam while gorgeous children walked to school, the boys in ties and sweaters, the girls in knee socks and pigtails, all giggling at what Topden said was Jan's (aka "The Hulk") size. Once we left the village behind, the trail meandered through dense forest and for about two hours we didn't see much besides the rough, rocky path below our feet, though at times we caught a glimpse of the mist-covered valley to our left. We crossed a sturdy but mobile bridge over the Parekh Chu and were welcomed by a sign denoting the entrance to Kanchenjunga National Park. Before lunch at Sachin we passed several porters, dzos, stray dogs looking for friends and food and a group of Japanese senior citizens who made us ashamed that we were sweating this part of the trek. We also passed three Australian women who had gone so far as Dzongri and reported snowfall at that point.
Lunch was an amazing spread of hot orange juice, noodle soup (like really good ramen), uttapam, alu gobi and a warm banana for dessert followed by milk tea which we ended up sharing with a German-Indian couple who had just gone up to Tsokha for the day and told us not to miss the rhododendrons and magnolias at the Bakhim caves.
Rain washed over the remaining four hours of the day's journey, the majority of which was an achingly steep uphill climb. We were grateful to stop for tea at the Bakhim Forest Rest House where we caught a glimpse of Yuksam, where we had started, far in the distance. The wild strawberry switchbacks leading up to Tsokha were a refreshing change from the primarily green forest cover which we had seen all day. About half a mile from Tsokha we turned a corner and Topden pointed out the range of mountains towards which we were headed, a line of five snowy peaks, with Mount Pandim in the foreground and we realized that we were in the Himalayas.
The village of Tsokha, which had been given to a group of Tibetan refugees in the 1960s by the last chogyal of Sikkim but whom were asked to remove to Yuksam six months prior, is a charming village of wooden houses with aluminum roofs and wooden pens to hold cows, dzos, and horses. Along one hill, facing the range, two chortens stand amidst grazing cattle and the orange of sunset splashed against Mount Pandim. We ate a quiet and delicious dinner in our modest and drafty hut and easily fell fast asleep.

Goecha-La Trek Day One

After searching the various tour operators out of Gangtok we finally found an outfit that offered a desirable rate and level of experience-Blue Sky Tours and Treks. On Sunday, April 17 we rode in a rented Jeep with Topden, our guide, to the village of Yuksam, the first capital of Sikkim. Once again, the journey was hair-raising and we amused ourselves by reading the various road signs: "Where Eagles Dare," "Life is Short Enough, Don't Make it Shorter," and "Thanks" were some favorites. Outside of Geyzing we stopped at a Bon monastery where we found a novice monk of six or seven napping in a garden. Topden pointed out Tashiding, the holiest monastery in Sikkim, atop a perfect conical mountain. The ride also involved a punctured front tire which was repaired somewhat hastily with some kind of bamboo stick and a piece of cloth, but the stop allowed the Bear a chance to snap pictures of a terrace crop of barley and an adorable little boy who seemed intrigued by us. Once we arrived in Yuksam, a lovely and misty village that smells of fresh grass and offers sound effects of goats, roosters, cows and ponies, we ate at Gupta's, apparently a popular trekkers' haunt. We slept in Demazong Hotel, where the Bear was unhappy to find a spider the size of my hand and insisted in spraying the perimeter of our separate beds with Deet. Luckily, the night was uneventful and we awoke without any spider bites. =)

Goecha-La Trek Preparation

Day three in Gangtok and we are still in love. We feel right at home among the kind and helpful citizens of Sikkim. Tomorrow we will take another (hopefully not as treacherous) Jeep ride to the village of Yuksom where we will spend one night before heading off on a nine day trek to Goecha-La, the base camp of Mount Kanchenjunga, the third highest mountain in the world. We are spending today gathering some warm hats, gloves and scarves but hope to fit in some tourism in Gangtok (we have heard there have been red panda sightings at the Himalayan Zoological Park near Ganesh Tok....perhaps we will have some photos next week) along the way. Our tour company, Blue Sky Tours and Treks, will provide an English speaking guide, porters (or "yak-men"), and a cook. Here's hoping we don't get hit with altitude sickness! Signing off for ten days. xoxo

Bumpy Road to Paradise

They say all things worthwhile cost a great deal. In our case, the more than worthy secret pocket of Sikkim in northeastern India cost us one day's sanity and comfort - in the long run, a small price to pay.

The journey began with a delay leaving Washington (British Airways was in its most disorganized state-no one appeared at the check-in desk until actual flight time), which caused us to miss our flight to Delhi. Thanks to the Bear's hard-line strategy with the customer service rep at Heathrow we were given a free day room and lunch at a transit hotel so we were able to take a nap and shower during our then eight hour layover. Sadly, we lost the money for our hotel in Delhi where we originally planned to spend the night. Hopefully we can make it up during another planned trip to Delhi.

The flight to Delhi was smooth and provided some rest, though once at the airport we had some trouble figuring out where to get an Inner Line Permit for Sikkim: according to several guide books and websites these permits are available at the four main entry point airports in India (Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata and Chennai) though no one had any idea what we were asking for. We finally gave up and just waited for our flight to Bagdogra Airport in West Bengal which turned out to be the bumpiest, most frightening flight of our lives. True, I can be a little dramatic about matters over which I have no control but I honestly thought we were going to be flipped over by the storm clouds or hit a high Himalayan peak. And once we hit ground and ventured into West Bengal, we realized the bumps weren't over yet.....somehow we managed to get to the Sikkim Tourist Bureau in Siliguri fifteen minutes before it closed (thanks to our skillful cab driver, weaving around  bikes, vans, tuk tuks, goats, dogs and the occasional cow), got the permit and seats in a jeep headed to Gangtok and proceeded on the most terrifying car ride of either of our lives. Four and a half hours of hairpin turns, horns blasting as jeeps, trucks, monkeys and pedestrians shared the road and our driver played the popular Asian game of how many vehicles can I pass every minute, all along sheer cliffs threatening to drop me, the Bear and seven Indian gentleman over the unguarded side of the sometimes unpaved road. At one point, the gentleman next to the Bear even vomited on the floor of the cab (he got out at the next stop) which added to our increasing nausea and left the Bear in agony for the remaining two hours to Gangtok. Oh, and did I mention that the majority of this journey was in the dark and our driver waited until it was pitch black to use his headlights? Anyway, we made it to our comfortable enough Hotel Sagorika on Upper Arithang Road and crashed for ten hours, spent this morning enjoying dosas and chai at the Rasoi Pure Veg Cafe and exploring the town before popping into this Cyber Cafe.

All said and done, was it worth it? To be surrounded by peaks of 16,000 feet and up, a kind and helpful Buddhist culture, shops that smell of incense and cafes selling the most delicious chai? I would say yes.

Bagdogra airport taxi

Monkey along the road

Our first breakfast in Gangtok

Gangtok

Gangtok

Gangtok

Lady is picking one's brain.

Gangtok

Gangtok

Gangtok

Gangtok traffic control

Unemployed dog

Sweets

Gangtok jeep stand

Kanchenjunga - Third Highest Mountain Peak in the World

Gangtok downtown

Kanchenjunga - Third Highest Mountain Peak in the World

Homeless

Gangtok downtown

Gangtok downtown

Mahatma Gandhi memorial in Gangtok

Mahatma Gandhi memorial in Gangtok

Mahatma Gandhi memorial in Gangtok

Chickens doing laundry

Gangtok viewpoint

Gangtok viewpoints

Gangtok view point

Gangtok TV tower

Himalayas

Himalayas

Himalayas

Himalayas

Himalayas

Himalayas

Prison

Himalayas

Street artist

Typical house in Gangtok

Gangtok

Gangtok concert

Our first hotel