Hope everyone is happy, healthy and braced up for the big election! I have attended a few Democrats Abroad happy hours myself and without question, the Indian expat community, if called upon, is poised to make the difference!
The Regular Rambling
A few weeks have now passed since the launch of the Indian Chronicles. During our time apart, I have diligently embraced the dramatic relocation of South-East Asia. To my credit, I’ve digested the curry, maneuvered the crowds, bargained the rickshaws, and befriended a tailor. I’ve kept both my head and balance in the caprice of the Indian culture; a culture that buoys its reputation flawlessly. The thrilling mélange of color, spice, smell and widespread bizarreness proves to be as wonderful as it is whiplashing. For many things unfamiliar, I’ve acquired fascination, enjoyment but of greatest importance, a sense of tolerance.
In this world of difference, if you do not learn how to be tolerant, in particular, patient, you ought to as well stay on the runway. Patience, however, is more a virtue for the outsider. It protects you against the endemic impatience found within India. As an American, according to the whole world, we too, are always in a hurry. But here in India, the hurry is different. Here, hurry makes things align evenly, fall into place correctly. Hurrying, it seems in Delhi, is accomplished so simultaneously, the city slows down more than speeds up. I read in Time Out, Delhi’s hippest magazine, that every day, over 110 million traffic violations occur on the road, scientifically concluding that if a driver follows the formal rules laid out, the driver increases his risk for an accident exponentially. India’s anarchical nature—as many would similarly argue towards the corruption in the government—needs to be left unbothered for the society to fully function. In America, where rules define every action, the only upshot of our hurried nature appears to be in our continual coffee stains and fender-benders.
I’ve come to view India as a gigantic slightly-opened treasure chest—with 1/3 of the population who live inside, 1/3 of the population who cling to the side and 1/3 who live completely outside. Those that live inside were either born there or have lifted themselves up and over. Those that cling, cling because they can—thanks to the last few decades of improved socio-economic condition. Lastly, those that remain at the bottom of the chest may not even know about the treasure inside— just as the 1/3 living inside—have no way of seeing what’s outside. The treasure chest both separates and blinds the population from one another— breeding complacency on the top and breeding complacency on the bottom—leaving the clingers in the middle to test the degree of social mobility available in the current system. Some days, I’m overly impressed with the high quality of life in New Delhi; the rich sophistication and liberal expression presented in their fashion, architecture, art, literature, language and general decorum could compete with any progressive culture. Inside the many McDonalds, hundreds of teenagers exchange mobile numbers, discuss their plans to study abroad and devour Big Mac’s recreated with chicken. Other days, however, I am not so impressed.
I have adjusted to the of pungent smell and the heaps of garbage, but what I have not and cannot adjust to is the tattered 4-year old, whom, without any chaperone, ruffles through the rotten trash with the eerie resemblance of how his privileged contemporaries, ruffle through pits of plastic balls. Past midnight, the sidewalks of Delhi resemble a fenceless refugee encampment—though these tens of thousands of homeless are Indian born, displaced outside not by a civil war or hurricane, but by the mere misfortune of a wretched fate. The misery of India begins and ends in its inequality. Its segregation is as multi-dimensional as the treasure chest I speak of, and depending if you’re in, out, or in between the golden treasure, mother India can be kind or she can be cruel.
Let us move away from the miracles and failings of India and focus a little more on what I’ve been up to. Quite frankly, I’ve been up to a lot! In the course of no more than three weeks, I’ve ascended to the highest peaks in the world. I’ve swam in perhaps the holiest water on Earth and I have stood face to face with one of man’s greatest creations. To say the least, I’m terribly grateful to be handed this one-in-a-life-time opportunity (to which I mainly owe to my sister, Gabrielle and her family for without them, I may have never come within a 1,000 miles of India!) I do plan to share my prolonged bus ride to the Taj Mahal and action-packed camping weekend on the Ganges River but I have specially reserved this chronicle to thaw out my memories of a colder India; a breathtaking hideaway, lodged into the Himalayas, where the heavens truly meet the earth.
7 Days in Little Tibet
An hour north of Delhi-snuggled beneath the lofty, snow strewn peaks of the Himalayas, A Buddhist oasis known as Ladakh still manages to breathe fresh air in a politically polluted region of Northern India. Commonly refered to as 'Little Tibet', the Ladakh region, located in the notoriously disputable Jammu and Kashmir province, has removed itself from the border-wars between India and Pakistan. Gruesome violence, that without cease, has defined the way of life for the common Kashmiri. Instead, the Ladakhi people are the proud products of Buddhist philosophy—where the silence of tranquility and the goodwill of compassion can only whisper at the side of thunderous explosions and rampant firings. In light of this, as one of the few preservations of peace in the Indian Himalayas, Ladakh is unsurprisingly the cradle of northern tourism. Since the early 1970’s, when the first Westerner unveiled his pale skin—Leh, the capital of the Ladakh region—developed utterly conscientious of the fruitful rewards tourism can provide. Today, downtown Leh teems with internet café’s, Patagonia fleeces, scrambled egg breakfasts, hotels, and enough spoken and written English to rival Wichita, Kansas. Between May and October, herds of European tourists—in particular the French—suffuse the shops and sidewalks. After a few days trekking the wondrous mountain side, frozen but also sun scorched foreigners return and rapidly thaw amidst the peaceful warmth of the locals.
The local Ladakhi is a living being unlike any other. Wearing skin as tough and rigid as the bark of an Old Sequoia tree and bearing smiles so bright, they too, could melt a solar ice cap. The young girls all possess a common beauty as raw, rugged and unspoiled as the ground they walk on. Each, in their own style, reveals the oneness with nature Pocahontas may have only achieved. The older generations mosey freely with a hunchback and the same weathered mystique of a Victorian Armoire.
As I briefly mentioned—with the surging influx of foreign visitors and the town’s commitment to accommodate every Tom, Dick and Harry, the locals surely have created an acute awareness of the modern world. Materialism, at a growing rate, leaks out of the traveling suitcases and sticks to the daily lives of the locals. All around Leh, Buddhist monks who are swathed head to toe in homespun robes blab way on their cell phones. Young boys mobilize their gun-touting Rambo’s into battle while the girls braid Barbie’s blond hair. In school, English is the medium and the local Ladakhi language is but only one subject. An educated mind might assume that a Himalayan community, 10,000 feet in the sky among few resources and an extreme climate could be protected from the swelling effects of globalization. However, the reality is quite different here. Jeopardizing a thousand years of frugality, ecological balance and social harmony, Leh has emerged as an overnight globalized sensation.
Not all is lost in Ladakh. From the very beginning, Ladakhis and the Earth joined hands in a spectacular co-evolution that still amazes the outsider of today. Even more remarkable is the human and animal relationship. Cows, goats, donkeys and dogs all play a role in the friendly environment. So much so—Leh’s claustrophobic presence of farm animals could easily be mistaken as a sprawling petting zoo without fences. During the coldest months, when all the tourists have scattered, the animals are granted their turn to reap the kind treatment of the locals. If you are a shivering, seasonal depressed Mammal? Bird? Or even a straggling reptile? The Ladakhi’s want to welcome you into their house— equipped with a first floor that is both four-legged friendly and comfortably heated. A wrinkly old man with emerald eyes gleefully explained to me that as long as the animals yield the goods and labor during the harvest season, winter room & board will always be available.
When I descended into Leh, I soon discovered that Leh is not only breathtakingly beautiful but downright, breathtaking. Neither my ski getaways to Mt. Sunapee, my four marathon finishes, nor the many Dave Mathews Concert tailgates I engaged in my unruly youth had prepared me to how high and out-of-breath I was during my first few hours teetering the topmost peaks of the planet. My first day was spent with winded nausea and a pulsing headache. But after a hard day’s rest, I acclimatized like an unraveling kite. In no time, the air thickened and my stride quickened and my adventure was poised to reach even greater heights!
My first day’s uplifting was distinctively spiritual. Having just arrived, I was confident my exotic tales of middle class America and my shiny Ray Ban sunglasses would without question galvanize the local folk and espouse me as an instant celebrity. I’m sure this would have been the case had the successor to the Dali Lama not been staying in the house next to me. Setting aside my jealousy, I joined the many Ladakhis in line (and I mean the few hundred) and awaited my turn to meet the Karmapa. The Karmapa, who by birth, heads one of the four major schools of Tibetan Buddhism, fled Tibet at a young age to study under the Dalai Lama. Due to the impending fear that the Chinese government will choose the next Dalai Lama, many Tibetan Buddhists have rallied around this young man as their future spiritual leader. When it was my turn, the Karmapa, appearing no older than me, immediately sensed my inexperience to the formalities of a Buddhist greeting. When I clumsily forwent the customary bow for the insipid handshake, he allayed his insulted body guard, whispering in English, “it’s okay,” and cheerfully shook my hand.
The first half of the week, I spent perusing the shops, day hiking up and around the outskirts of Leh and dining at the same cheery restaurant, Summer Harvest, energized by the cacophonous clatter of 6 different languages spoken simultaneously. The local cuisine consisted of two basic staples—momos and mutton and more often than not, I colored within the lines and ordered a tasty little combination of the two known as a mutton momo. At every restaurant in Ladakh and I am also now noticing it more in Delhi is the he’s Western therefore he needs Ketchup assumption. Regardless if you order chow mien or a hot fudge Sunday, if you’re white, your food should be red. Someone like me, who has always approached ketchup with enthusiasm and an open-mind, is only reinforcing to Indian hospitality that all Americans are foaming at the mouth for more ketchup.
The next thing more dangerous than driving in the jostling traffic of Delhi is careening over the ice and snow-ridden overpasses 17,000ft into the Himalayas. What’s even more frightening? Some government official has convinced that the safety of mountainous driving lies more in the wittiness of the warning sign than the presence of guardrails. As if a local kindergarten class headed the project, rotting wood in drippy paint reads: “speed thrills but kills” or “don’t get risky with whiskey.”
What’s even more frightening? The magnitude of danger that rises uncontrollably when the driver of the car is either too ill-equipped or too much of a brash individualist to combat the slippery roads with the proper chain apparatus. Like the toddler who forgets his ice skates but still has his stick, we disadvantageously fought for friction. After two long days, driving to the threshold of the solar system and back down, I will readily attest to the peril.
In our two attempts to reach Lake Pangong, we trucked through whiteouts, we sanded frozen surfaces and we shoveled out of snow banks. On a few occasions, the Grim Reaper, himself, almost had his way with us but we were too much in a hurry to even bother to stop for tea, let alone, lengthier time-consuming interruptions like death. 9 hours or so later, we were afforded our first peek. Between two symmetrical mountains, the lake revealed its placid existence. Drawing closer, the multihued and florescent water transiently glistened, while the brisk wind layered ripples to prove that the lake was not frozen. The water’s edge expanded 85 miles east—passing decently beyond the Tibetan (Chinese) border. With both feet in an India that until now, had only stripped me bare of privacy and personal space, I simultaneously found myself standing in the shadow of another ghastly overpopulated civilization—but somehow, someway--there seemed not to be the faintest murmur of human life. I was sandwiched between 1/3 of the world’s entire population, but yet in my whole life, had I never felt more alone with the planet. The cold breeze and the imminent nightfall pressured us to continue on, but as I stood dwarfed by the surrounding mountains and squint-eyed from the fleeting fusions of navy, light and baby blue, I imagined how pleasurable Earth’s inevitable inhabitation will be. I took a few last photos, snapped out of my sappy awe and revisited the snug backseat for what would transpire as a blockbuster sequel in Himalayan snow escapades.
The wintry bliss reached its end in jolting abruption, obliging me to bid farewell to the simplistic and soulful authenticity of the Ladakhi people. Granted I have not shaken all the palm trees and traversed all the mountainsides, I’m still certain I experienced one of the few remaining existences that actually pulsates the way we are supposed to. A value system truly remarkable, where work and leisure are not differentiated and one single wedding may last for weeks. Leading by real example, the Ladakhis’ quaint and quiet nature reminds the industrial world how simple a formula happiness really is.
When I landed back into Delhi, passing through the sliding doors of the airport, I was at once, regurgitated back into the sensual tailspin of smog, dust and flesh. Still in a Buddhist state of mind--I was not ready. I was still trustworthy of the human heart. I hadn’t had a debacle du jour in the last 8 days and I almost had forgotten what one was. But in typical fashion, the Indian capital delivered, and once again, I was waist-deep in a debacle…
In my fog of optimism, I accepted my first offer for a taxi but like the sunbather who bestows trust in the rising tide, I was soaked with consequence. Once I had followed the tatty swindler into his rusting sedan, he slammed the doors shut and waving his dull pencil as a substitute to his switchblade, demanded his handsome payment upfront. At the mercy of a first-rate maniac, with his rage snowballing by the second, I stoically cooperated to his preposterous request.
And as life would have it, I spent my first morning locked inside the corroding backseat of an illegitimate taxi service, while the enchantment and fresh-air I was desperately holding on to, evaporated into the sweltering asphalt below.
(And respectively, this winter, when you’re planning your next snow-seeking vacation and you’re searching for a frost that kisses, not bites, I suggest you huff and puff through the nip and thin-air, to frolic as you wish, in the fairy-tale of Ladakh!)
-------------------
I must admit, I'm a bit behind but the next chronicle promises to be another gravity-defying plateful, where I'll be remembering an adventurous weekend rafting the rapids of the Ganges River, rapelling down cavernous slopes and ofcourse, my first ever bungee jump. If you're on facebook, try clicking on the link to catch a glimpse (you may want to fastforward to the end) http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=551650875135If Also, I continually post all my photos there. If you're are not on facebook, I've attached some photos to this email but I do seriously recommend you ditch the dinosaurs and consider joining the rest of us. Other than that, my marathon training is slow but certain, my hindi grows 2-3 words a day and my job-hunt has almost concluded in success but I will not disclose until everything is final. Again, feel free to bury me with the latest news and gossip. I'm obviously dying to know how the failing economy has affected you.. in particular! But I will understand if you're too sullen to reply--for it must be paralyzant agony to realize that the great George Bush is near finish
The Regular Rambling
A few weeks have now passed since the launch of the Indian Chronicles. During our time apart, I have diligently embraced the dramatic relocation of South-East Asia. To my credit, I’ve digested the curry, maneuvered the crowds, bargained the rickshaws, and befriended a tailor. I’ve kept both my head and balance in the caprice of the Indian culture; a culture that buoys its reputation flawlessly. The thrilling mélange of color, spice, smell and widespread bizarreness proves to be as wonderful as it is whiplashing. For many things unfamiliar, I’ve acquired fascination, enjoyment but of greatest importance, a sense of tolerance.
In this world of difference, if you do not learn how to be tolerant, in particular, patient, you ought to as well stay on the runway. Patience, however, is more a virtue for the outsider. It protects you against the endemic impatience found within India. As an American, according to the whole world, we too, are always in a hurry. But here in India, the hurry is different. Here, hurry makes things align evenly, fall into place correctly. Hurrying, it seems in Delhi, is accomplished so simultaneously, the city slows down more than speeds up. I read in Time Out, Delhi’s hippest magazine, that every day, over 110 million traffic violations occur on the road, scientifically concluding that if a driver follows the formal rules laid out, the driver increases his risk for an accident exponentially. India’s anarchical nature—as many would similarly argue towards the corruption in the government—needs to be left unbothered for the society to fully function. In America, where rules define every action, the only upshot of our hurried nature appears to be in our continual coffee stains and fender-benders.
I’ve come to view India as a gigantic slightly-opened treasure chest—with 1/3 of the population who live inside, 1/3 of the population who cling to the side and 1/3 who live completely outside. Those that live inside were either born there or have lifted themselves up and over. Those that cling, cling because they can—thanks to the last few decades of improved socio-economic condition. Lastly, those that remain at the bottom of the chest may not even know about the treasure inside— just as the 1/3 living inside—have no way of seeing what’s outside. The treasure chest both separates and blinds the population from one another— breeding complacency on the top and breeding complacency on the bottom—leaving the clingers in the middle to test the degree of social mobility available in the current system. Some days, I’m overly impressed with the high quality of life in New Delhi; the rich sophistication and liberal expression presented in their fashion, architecture, art, literature, language and general decorum could compete with any progressive culture. Inside the many McDonalds, hundreds of teenagers exchange mobile numbers, discuss their plans to study abroad and devour Big Mac’s recreated with chicken. Other days, however, I am not so impressed.
I have adjusted to the of pungent smell and the heaps of garbage, but what I have not and cannot adjust to is the tattered 4-year old, whom, without any chaperone, ruffles through the rotten trash with the eerie resemblance of how his privileged contemporaries, ruffle through pits of plastic balls. Past midnight, the sidewalks of Delhi resemble a fenceless refugee encampment—though these tens of thousands of homeless are Indian born, displaced outside not by a civil war or hurricane, but by the mere misfortune of a wretched fate. The misery of India begins and ends in its inequality. Its segregation is as multi-dimensional as the treasure chest I speak of, and depending if you’re in, out, or in between the golden treasure, mother India can be kind or she can be cruel.
Let us move away from the miracles and failings of India and focus a little more on what I’ve been up to. Quite frankly, I’ve been up to a lot! In the course of no more than three weeks, I’ve ascended to the highest peaks in the world. I’ve swam in perhaps the holiest water on Earth and I have stood face to face with one of man’s greatest creations. To say the least, I’m terribly grateful to be handed this one-in-a-life-time opportunity (to which I mainly owe to my sister, Gabrielle and her family for without them, I may have never come within a 1,000 miles of India!) I do plan to share my prolonged bus ride to the Taj Mahal and action-packed camping weekend on the Ganges River but I have specially reserved this chronicle to thaw out my memories of a colder India; a breathtaking hideaway, lodged into the Himalayas, where the heavens truly meet the earth.
7 Days in Little Tibet
An hour north of Delhi-snuggled beneath the lofty, snow strewn peaks of the Himalayas, A Buddhist oasis known as Ladakh still manages to breathe fresh air in a politically polluted region of Northern India. Commonly refered to as 'Little Tibet', the Ladakh region, located in the notoriously disputable Jammu and Kashmir province, has removed itself from the border-wars between India and Pakistan. Gruesome violence, that without cease, has defined the way of life for the common Kashmiri. Instead, the Ladakhi people are the proud products of Buddhist philosophy—where the silence of tranquility and the goodwill of compassion can only whisper at the side of thunderous explosions and rampant firings. In light of this, as one of the few preservations of peace in the Indian Himalayas, Ladakh is unsurprisingly the cradle of northern tourism. Since the early 1970’s, when the first Westerner unveiled his pale skin—Leh, the capital of the Ladakh region—developed utterly conscientious of the fruitful rewards tourism can provide. Today, downtown Leh teems with internet café’s, Patagonia fleeces, scrambled egg breakfasts, hotels, and enough spoken and written English to rival Wichita, Kansas. Between May and October, herds of European tourists—in particular the French—suffuse the shops and sidewalks. After a few days trekking the wondrous mountain side, frozen but also sun scorched foreigners return and rapidly thaw amidst the peaceful warmth of the locals.
The local Ladakhi is a living being unlike any other. Wearing skin as tough and rigid as the bark of an Old Sequoia tree and bearing smiles so bright, they too, could melt a solar ice cap. The young girls all possess a common beauty as raw, rugged and unspoiled as the ground they walk on. Each, in their own style, reveals the oneness with nature Pocahontas may have only achieved. The older generations mosey freely with a hunchback and the same weathered mystique of a Victorian Armoire.
As I briefly mentioned—with the surging influx of foreign visitors and the town’s commitment to accommodate every Tom, Dick and Harry, the locals surely have created an acute awareness of the modern world. Materialism, at a growing rate, leaks out of the traveling suitcases and sticks to the daily lives of the locals. All around Leh, Buddhist monks who are swathed head to toe in homespun robes blab way on their cell phones. Young boys mobilize their gun-touting Rambo’s into battle while the girls braid Barbie’s blond hair. In school, English is the medium and the local Ladakhi language is but only one subject. An educated mind might assume that a Himalayan community, 10,000 feet in the sky among few resources and an extreme climate could be protected from the swelling effects of globalization. However, the reality is quite different here. Jeopardizing a thousand years of frugality, ecological balance and social harmony, Leh has emerged as an overnight globalized sensation.
Not all is lost in Ladakh. From the very beginning, Ladakhis and the Earth joined hands in a spectacular co-evolution that still amazes the outsider of today. Even more remarkable is the human and animal relationship. Cows, goats, donkeys and dogs all play a role in the friendly environment. So much so—Leh’s claustrophobic presence of farm animals could easily be mistaken as a sprawling petting zoo without fences. During the coldest months, when all the tourists have scattered, the animals are granted their turn to reap the kind treatment of the locals. If you are a shivering, seasonal depressed Mammal? Bird? Or even a straggling reptile? The Ladakhi’s want to welcome you into their house— equipped with a first floor that is both four-legged friendly and comfortably heated. A wrinkly old man with emerald eyes gleefully explained to me that as long as the animals yield the goods and labor during the harvest season, winter room & board will always be available.
When I descended into Leh, I soon discovered that Leh is not only breathtakingly beautiful but downright, breathtaking. Neither my ski getaways to Mt. Sunapee, my four marathon finishes, nor the many Dave Mathews Concert tailgates I engaged in my unruly youth had prepared me to how high and out-of-breath I was during my first few hours teetering the topmost peaks of the planet. My first day was spent with winded nausea and a pulsing headache. But after a hard day’s rest, I acclimatized like an unraveling kite. In no time, the air thickened and my stride quickened and my adventure was poised to reach even greater heights!
My first day’s uplifting was distinctively spiritual. Having just arrived, I was confident my exotic tales of middle class America and my shiny Ray Ban sunglasses would without question galvanize the local folk and espouse me as an instant celebrity. I’m sure this would have been the case had the successor to the Dali Lama not been staying in the house next to me. Setting aside my jealousy, I joined the many Ladakhis in line (and I mean the few hundred) and awaited my turn to meet the Karmapa. The Karmapa, who by birth, heads one of the four major schools of Tibetan Buddhism, fled Tibet at a young age to study under the Dalai Lama. Due to the impending fear that the Chinese government will choose the next Dalai Lama, many Tibetan Buddhists have rallied around this young man as their future spiritual leader. When it was my turn, the Karmapa, appearing no older than me, immediately sensed my inexperience to the formalities of a Buddhist greeting. When I clumsily forwent the customary bow for the insipid handshake, he allayed his insulted body guard, whispering in English, “it’s okay,” and cheerfully shook my hand.
The first half of the week, I spent perusing the shops, day hiking up and around the outskirts of Leh and dining at the same cheery restaurant, Summer Harvest, energized by the cacophonous clatter of 6 different languages spoken simultaneously. The local cuisine consisted of two basic staples—momos and mutton and more often than not, I colored within the lines and ordered a tasty little combination of the two known as a mutton momo. At every restaurant in Ladakh and I am also now noticing it more in Delhi is the he’s Western therefore he needs Ketchup assumption. Regardless if you order chow mien or a hot fudge Sunday, if you’re white, your food should be red. Someone like me, who has always approached ketchup with enthusiasm and an open-mind, is only reinforcing to Indian hospitality that all Americans are foaming at the mouth for more ketchup.
The next thing more dangerous than driving in the jostling traffic of Delhi is careening over the ice and snow-ridden overpasses 17,000ft into the Himalayas. What’s even more frightening? Some government official has convinced that the safety of mountainous driving lies more in the wittiness of the warning sign than the presence of guardrails. As if a local kindergarten class headed the project, rotting wood in drippy paint reads: “speed thrills but kills” or “don’t get risky with whiskey.”
What’s even more frightening? The magnitude of danger that rises uncontrollably when the driver of the car is either too ill-equipped or too much of a brash individualist to combat the slippery roads with the proper chain apparatus. Like the toddler who forgets his ice skates but still has his stick, we disadvantageously fought for friction. After two long days, driving to the threshold of the solar system and back down, I will readily attest to the peril.
In our two attempts to reach Lake Pangong, we trucked through whiteouts, we sanded frozen surfaces and we shoveled out of snow banks. On a few occasions, the Grim Reaper, himself, almost had his way with us but we were too much in a hurry to even bother to stop for tea, let alone, lengthier time-consuming interruptions like death. 9 hours or so later, we were afforded our first peek. Between two symmetrical mountains, the lake revealed its placid existence. Drawing closer, the multihued and florescent water transiently glistened, while the brisk wind layered ripples to prove that the lake was not frozen. The water’s edge expanded 85 miles east—passing decently beyond the Tibetan (Chinese) border. With both feet in an India that until now, had only stripped me bare of privacy and personal space, I simultaneously found myself standing in the shadow of another ghastly overpopulated civilization—but somehow, someway--there seemed not to be the faintest murmur of human life. I was sandwiched between 1/3 of the world’s entire population, but yet in my whole life, had I never felt more alone with the planet. The cold breeze and the imminent nightfall pressured us to continue on, but as I stood dwarfed by the surrounding mountains and squint-eyed from the fleeting fusions of navy, light and baby blue, I imagined how pleasurable Earth’s inevitable inhabitation will be. I took a few last photos, snapped out of my sappy awe and revisited the snug backseat for what would transpire as a blockbuster sequel in Himalayan snow escapades.
The wintry bliss reached its end in jolting abruption, obliging me to bid farewell to the simplistic and soulful authenticity of the Ladakhi people. Granted I have not shaken all the palm trees and traversed all the mountainsides, I’m still certain I experienced one of the few remaining existences that actually pulsates the way we are supposed to. A value system truly remarkable, where work and leisure are not differentiated and one single wedding may last for weeks. Leading by real example, the Ladakhis’ quaint and quiet nature reminds the industrial world how simple a formula happiness really is.
When I landed back into Delhi, passing through the sliding doors of the airport, I was at once, regurgitated back into the sensual tailspin of smog, dust and flesh. Still in a Buddhist state of mind--I was not ready. I was still trustworthy of the human heart. I hadn’t had a debacle du jour in the last 8 days and I almost had forgotten what one was. But in typical fashion, the Indian capital delivered, and once again, I was waist-deep in a debacle…
In my fog of optimism, I accepted my first offer for a taxi but like the sunbather who bestows trust in the rising tide, I was soaked with consequence. Once I had followed the tatty swindler into his rusting sedan, he slammed the doors shut and waving his dull pencil as a substitute to his switchblade, demanded his handsome payment upfront. At the mercy of a first-rate maniac, with his rage snowballing by the second, I stoically cooperated to his preposterous request.
And as life would have it, I spent my first morning locked inside the corroding backseat of an illegitimate taxi service, while the enchantment and fresh-air I was desperately holding on to, evaporated into the sweltering asphalt below.
(And respectively, this winter, when you’re planning your next snow-seeking vacation and you’re searching for a frost that kisses, not bites, I suggest you huff and puff through the nip and thin-air, to frolic as you wish, in the fairy-tale of Ladakh!)
-------------------
I must admit, I'm a bit behind but the next chronicle promises to be another gravity-defying plateful, where I'll be remembering an adventurous weekend rafting the rapids of the Ganges River, rapelling down cavernous slopes and ofcourse, my first ever bungee jump. If you're on facebook, try clicking on the link to catch a glimpse (you may want to fastforward to the end) http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=551650875135If Also, I continually post all my photos there. If you're are not on facebook, I've attached some photos to this email but I do seriously recommend you ditch the dinosaurs and consider joining the rest of us. Other than that, my marathon training is slow but certain, my hindi grows 2-3 words a day and my job-hunt has almost concluded in success but I will not disclose until everything is final. Again, feel free to bury me with the latest news and gossip. I'm obviously dying to know how the failing economy has affected you.. in particular! But I will understand if you're too sullen to reply--for it must be paralyzant agony to realize that the great George Bush is near finish
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