There are some places in this world you are told about since you are young, whose reputations proceed them and create a legend that you build up in your mind that could not possibly compare to the reality of their place on the planet. The Himalayas are not one of them. For all the majestic and sweeping views, enormity and heights I had been imagining, the Himalayas were still more than I expected. They are one of the few places in my travels I'd return too as soon as possible.
After spending a couple of days relaxing in Kathmandu, Colleen and I were ready to head out on our Himalayan trek. I wanted to go to Everest Base camp, but the less-touristed Annapurna region won in the end. We decided not to hire a guide, being Colorado girls we figured we knew what we were doing and didn't need porters, we could carry our own packs. We were the exception, the vast majority of everyone we met had hired one or both, but that decision made all the difference. We were free to go where we wanted to go and stay where we wanted. Both being quick hikers, we had no one to hold us back.
It was rough going at times, easier than I expected at others. The Annapurna region was more populated than I had pictured, but it proved to be a great way to met locals and get a glimpse of village life. Everyone was friendly, saying "Namaste!" when we passed and surprised to see us on our own.
The foothills of the region we began hiking in are vast and green- full of rice paddies and waterfalls. We were constantly near rivers with the largest influx of waterfalls I have ever seen gushing in all sizes. The clouds float down in wisps below the peak zeniths, creating a mysterious and dark atmosphere, especially with the thunderheads ominously poised above us, and it did storm quite a lot on our trek.
As we climbed higher we saw sweeping views of snowy peaks. We crossed saddles where there was nothing but clouds disappearing off both sides of the trail so all we could see was the 1ft wide trail, a couple feet of grass and wildflowers on each side of the path, then a drop into cloud soup nothingness. Higher up we passed through mossy forests with gnarled and twisty trees out of a Tolkien novel. Water was pouring everywhere we went. Our trails were steep and up and down. It would have been amazing to go to base camp, but unfortunately time, Colleen's ankles and my neck didn't allow for it on this trip.
One of our best days was actually due to a huge storm. We had hiked quickly and arrived in a little village right at the onset of a downpour. It happened to be the coziest tea house of the trek and all of us bundled together next to the fireplace. We met a couple of hilarious English boys who quickly helped us pass time with an enormous amount of shit talking, card playing and laughing. The next day we were too socked in to go anywhere. The highlight of the trek is a hike up to the top of Poon Hill (3,193m) for a view of the Annapurna range, but we couldn't see a thing. While others with guides pressed on out into the storm we were able to wait out the miserable weather and the English guys persuaded their guide to wait it out too.
The day had an inauspicious start with lots of rain and us scrambling out the third story window sill when we thought a view might appear, but by late afternoon it had cleared up and we ascended Poon Hill.
The top of Poon Hill might have be the most impressive view I have ever seen. On one side, I only saw clouds. Turning my head, I got a view of the Himalayas like I have seen in the Everest I-max. The peaks are more imposing than I could imagine. The sun seemed to clip the tops and the longer I stayed the more the view changed; the sun highlighting various features of the snowy mountain face. The mountain range stretches on for most of the view until white peaks collide with blue mountains in the distance, rolling off into green at lower elevations, then the river of clouds shadowing over the valley.
Standing there in such intense beauty, I felt so lucky to be there but other than that I felt numb. I don't know what I was expecting- a glimpse of enlightenment or earth-shattering realization would have been nice, but all I could think were Saturday Night Live "Deep Thoughts." Nothing. Maybe in the events of the last year I really have just shut down.
We had a photo shoot at the top and made it down in the dark. That night the four of us laid out under the Himalaya stars in a village with no electricity. It was one of the most impressive starry skies I have ever seen. One of the English boys had it right when he said, "Today I have seen two of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen in my entire life."
An early start the next morning got us back up Poon Hill for sunrise. It was exciting to see a little blaze of pink erupt over the darkness, a sliver of the mountains lit up by the moon. We made to to the top as the sun struck the first peak face and pink and orange rippled down the mountain range. The valley was filled with purple and blue clouds. It looked exactly like I would imagine the ocean would if it was frozen. There was a sea of waves. For all the beauty I still felt quite numb.
It was only later as I was jostling back to the city of Pokara on the local bus that any emotion hit me. I'm a nostalgic person to begin with, but the sadness and aloneness of the mountains as I drove away was staggering. I didn't' want to leave the Himalayas in their absolute strength of loneliness, their inspiring solitude and magnificence. It reminded me of coming back from long-term travel or camping trips, how hard that readjustment can be, how nothing fits anymore. I was so sad it was over and struck by how fast this trip, life as a whole is reeling by, I could physically feel the nostalgia, urgency, pointlessness, wonder and sadness.
You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.
Rene Duamal
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Whitewater Rafting (Nepal)
I've been sitting on my hotel rooftop in a semi-delirious feverish state, sick yet again, trying to do something productive. I thought I'd write about our rafting trip, but truth be told, I'm not sure it merits a whole blog space, and most of all, how do you really describe a white water rafting experience?
So I will keep it to the highlights and say it was one of the most fun things I have done and one of the most exciting rivers I have been on and I have been on quite a few.
The first day they gave us helmets and talked about rescue procedures. I thought it was all a little over the top, but it turned out to be rightfully necessary. Granted, I was in the more flimsy "adventurous" boat where we had a habit of hitting holes more than avoiding them to get our money's worth, but it was ridiculous fun.
Our first grade 4 rapid all four of us in the front of the boat spilled out. Tumbling through whitewater, I found the surface, then the boat, then was pulled back in.
Second time was in the most peaceful part of the river. Our little crew of Colleen and I plus two English boys we met trekking were all on the same boat (with the nickname of Team Short bus for the trip). The boys had threatened to push us in but I honestly and naively didn't think they would actually do it. I unhooked my feet from the raft and the next thing I knew I was in the river. Colleen fared better and got the guy that tried to push her in instead. I get pulled back into the boat and go on the offensive which only landed me back in the the water. Eventually with Collen from the raft, me from the water, we got the other guy in but how embarrassing.
Our next bit of excitement had everyone fall out except the guide and one clingy soul. The boat came extraordinarily close to flipping and sort of swished around in different directions in the hole. On the first swish, I had been tossed into the boat and then I see one of the English boy's eyes widen at what I can't see and I hear the horror in his voice, "Oh shit!" before a huge wall of water took us out Perfect Storm style. To be fair, I think I would have stayed in the boat had he not ripped me out with him. I got to float down much of that rapid then caught a rescue kayak to the other boat through more rapids, found everyone from my boat had migrated to the other and hitched a free ride through the remaining rapids.
The next day I think we succeeded in actually scaring our raft guide a bit because we all fell out, including him. Three of us managed to cling on to the boat through the rapids. I was surprised to be the only one to mantle my way back into the boat. A kayaker and I got the guide back in and fished the rest out of the river, navigating the rest of the rapid a bit short handed. After that people were pretty beat up.
Lets just say it was all I hoped for and more, rafting in Nepal is amazing. But oh, how much I love Nepal (this is a theme in case you haven't noticed).
So I will keep it to the highlights and say it was one of the most fun things I have done and one of the most exciting rivers I have been on and I have been on quite a few.
The first day they gave us helmets and talked about rescue procedures. I thought it was all a little over the top, but it turned out to be rightfully necessary. Granted, I was in the more flimsy "adventurous" boat where we had a habit of hitting holes more than avoiding them to get our money's worth, but it was ridiculous fun.
Our first grade 4 rapid all four of us in the front of the boat spilled out. Tumbling through whitewater, I found the surface, then the boat, then was pulled back in.
Second time was in the most peaceful part of the river. Our little crew of Colleen and I plus two English boys we met trekking were all on the same boat (with the nickname of Team Short bus for the trip). The boys had threatened to push us in but I honestly and naively didn't think they would actually do it. I unhooked my feet from the raft and the next thing I knew I was in the river. Colleen fared better and got the guy that tried to push her in instead. I get pulled back into the boat and go on the offensive which only landed me back in the the water. Eventually with Collen from the raft, me from the water, we got the other guy in but how embarrassing.
Our next bit of excitement had everyone fall out except the guide and one clingy soul. The boat came extraordinarily close to flipping and sort of swished around in different directions in the hole. On the first swish, I had been tossed into the boat and then I see one of the English boy's eyes widen at what I can't see and I hear the horror in his voice, "Oh shit!" before a huge wall of water took us out Perfect Storm style. To be fair, I think I would have stayed in the boat had he not ripped me out with him. I got to float down much of that rapid then caught a rescue kayak to the other boat through more rapids, found everyone from my boat had migrated to the other and hitched a free ride through the remaining rapids.
The next day I think we succeeded in actually scaring our raft guide a bit because we all fell out, including him. Three of us managed to cling on to the boat through the rapids. I was surprised to be the only one to mantle my way back into the boat. A kayaker and I got the guide back in and fished the rest out of the river, navigating the rest of the rapid a bit short handed. After that people were pretty beat up.
Lets just say it was all I hoped for and more, rafting in Nepal is amazing. But oh, how much I love Nepal (this is a theme in case you haven't noticed).
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Bug Scream (Nepal)
I don't remember where I was but it was in some foreign country that I first had the conversation. I think it was with several people from different countries to confirm the theory and I know there were also several burly men to corroborate including some locals of that country as well. We spoke of the universality of the bug scream.
The bug scream is part of a universal language that eeks out with embarrassment on rare occasions for some, and is followed by a hard stop and sheepish silence. For others it is emitted more freely, sometimes repetitive and even proudly. But sooner or later, everyone in life will emit a bug scream and it is always recognizable in whatever country you may be in.
Colleen and I like to think that we are not girly-girls. We both think the greatest compliment we could give each other is that we are "hardcore." We can read a topography map better than mall floor plan and are hiking in the Himalayas with no guide or porter, passing guys in their 20s who have hired a porter to carry their pack. But we are guilty of the bug scream.
Colleen got it first on our second day of hiking. I was up ahead so I missed it. Nepal is infamous for leeches this time of year. Somehow she brushed up against a tree and got a bunch of them on her. She had mostly calmed down by the time I saw her and I disgustedly picked the remaining few off her back. Later in the shower, a few fell out of her hair and she about lost it.
Now, bugs are one of the things that I don't do well with, but the leches didn't seem so bad to me. They aren't nearly as big as I expected and it's not like they can hurt you. I thought I'd be OK. One of the side effects of not having a guide is that when the trail is gushing with water it looks like a creek bed so we took a slight detour, or scenic route shall we say, unintentionally on our fifth day.
As we were trekking through the forest our error became apparent and we stopped to regroup. Then I heard it; shrill and squeaky, the bug scream. "Oh my god, oh my god, they are everywhere!" Colleen was yelling in between screams and shaking her feet off. Then the bug scream got louder and I realized I had joined in and the scream was escaping me as well. I only had sneakers for the trek so the leches had made their way in. We pretty much did nothing but scream expletives about leeches and have a tizzy fit equivalent to a five year old who wants a candy bar as we kicked and picked them off.
Really, like I mentioned before, I didn't think they would be so bad, but its the way they inch along and how sticky they are. You try to pick them off, but their little sucker teeth thingies resist, then you do and they stick to your fingers. Or you get them off but have to squish them in the process and they explode with blood and you don't know if it is yours or someone else's. They are vile. Absolutely vile.
After our shudders of "eews" we started walking. Then Colleen said it, "oh my god, the leaves are covered in them." The leaves were a swarming mass of the blood suckers. I booked it to the river, pack and all, over the rocky step hill. We were feeling imaginary leeches for hours stopping to check for them, absolutely disgusted.
So you may think you are tough but the bug scream will always prevail.
To be fair, the leeches are the singular bad aspect of Nepal I have encountered. If that is the worst thing here, then I think I can handle it and its a pretty impressive thought really. I do love Nepal.
The bug scream is part of a universal language that eeks out with embarrassment on rare occasions for some, and is followed by a hard stop and sheepish silence. For others it is emitted more freely, sometimes repetitive and even proudly. But sooner or later, everyone in life will emit a bug scream and it is always recognizable in whatever country you may be in.
Colleen and I like to think that we are not girly-girls. We both think the greatest compliment we could give each other is that we are "hardcore." We can read a topography map better than mall floor plan and are hiking in the Himalayas with no guide or porter, passing guys in their 20s who have hired a porter to carry their pack. But we are guilty of the bug scream.
Colleen got it first on our second day of hiking. I was up ahead so I missed it. Nepal is infamous for leeches this time of year. Somehow she brushed up against a tree and got a bunch of them on her. She had mostly calmed down by the time I saw her and I disgustedly picked the remaining few off her back. Later in the shower, a few fell out of her hair and she about lost it.
Now, bugs are one of the things that I don't do well with, but the leches didn't seem so bad to me. They aren't nearly as big as I expected and it's not like they can hurt you. I thought I'd be OK. One of the side effects of not having a guide is that when the trail is gushing with water it looks like a creek bed so we took a slight detour, or scenic route shall we say, unintentionally on our fifth day.
As we were trekking through the forest our error became apparent and we stopped to regroup. Then I heard it; shrill and squeaky, the bug scream. "Oh my god, oh my god, they are everywhere!" Colleen was yelling in between screams and shaking her feet off. Then the bug scream got louder and I realized I had joined in and the scream was escaping me as well. I only had sneakers for the trek so the leches had made their way in. We pretty much did nothing but scream expletives about leeches and have a tizzy fit equivalent to a five year old who wants a candy bar as we kicked and picked them off.
Really, like I mentioned before, I didn't think they would be so bad, but its the way they inch along and how sticky they are. You try to pick them off, but their little sucker teeth thingies resist, then you do and they stick to your fingers. Or you get them off but have to squish them in the process and they explode with blood and you don't know if it is yours or someone else's. They are vile. Absolutely vile.
After our shudders of "eews" we started walking. Then Colleen said it, "oh my god, the leaves are covered in them." The leaves were a swarming mass of the blood suckers. I booked it to the river, pack and all, over the rocky step hill. We were feeling imaginary leeches for hours stopping to check for them, absolutely disgusted.
So you may think you are tough but the bug scream will always prevail.
To be fair, the leeches are the singular bad aspect of Nepal I have encountered. If that is the worst thing here, then I think I can handle it and its a pretty impressive thought really. I do love Nepal.
I Heart Nepal
I would just like to take a moment to say how much I love Nepal. It might be my favorite place. Coming to Nepal from India was like a breath of fresh air. After a typical train experience; delayed for 7 hours in India, the usual crowd of men staring at us, cockroaches, just an unpleasant experience, we arrived at the hotel near to the border. This room had a rat and 4 huge cockroaches so we switched to one that only had some sort of suspicious blood/puke/shit stain on the wall, a clogged toilet and sheets with pubic hair that had not been changed it weeks.
From there was the bus to the border. I have never been so happy to be 5 feet tall, for that bus ride it all seemed worth it because I was the only one who could remotely fut my knees in., and it was still really uncomfortable for me. But we could tell as soon as we got to the border that things were changing.
The border officials were nice, helpful and kind. It was the easiest border crossing ever. We got into a decent bus and 12 hours later made it to Kathmandu. When we got to our hotel we really were speechless and for anyone who knows Colleen and I that comment is awe striking. Then they gave us toilet paper and our room had a hot shower and bedding and we really almost cried.
Just as a side note, we were a little miffed at the 15 min time difference, bringing the total time difference from my home to 11hrs and 45min, but once we figured out what was going on, it only added to the charm of Nepal.
The guy at the front desk laughed when we told him we came from India and he said that India stands for Id Never Do It Again. Agreed. Our days in Kathmandu were great. The traffic was so much better. The locals were friendly, shop keepers weren't pushy. Everything was more laid back. But I realize it is all about perspective, the people we met that had flown straight to Kathmandu were all a little dazed and thought it was quite chaotic and terrible while all of us from India saw it as a sanctuary.
It was interesting to observe the 11pm curfew the Maoists set for Kathmandu after writing a paper about the situation in college. I love how traveling for me the last year has brought once-seemingly obscure issues to my daily life. I would be interested to learn more, but there is an unspoken rule that you don't talk politics in Nepal. But even hiking in the Himalayas there are the symbols for the Maoist party on buildings. I couldn't get much out of people but after talking for a while if it seemed appropriate I would ask as much as I could.
Granted, most of the people I have been able to talk to in Nepal are quite poor- porters, guides, local people in rural Himalayan villages, but they all seem to feel positive about the Maoist government. The idea is a 10 year plan to redistribute wealth, though how they plan to accomplish this is unclear. Right now they are in the first two year "trial period." The Maoists wan to abolish the caste system. I learned that there are over 80 castes in Nepal, but am conflicted about their rigidity. One man said he think they are becoming more mobile with the influx of technology and media, while another man I met was ostracized by his family for marrying below his caste.
Dhak, a 24 year old man who lives in a rural village in the Himalayas was amazing. I met him while I was hiking up a steep pass. He was carrying a huge load of grass up to his water buffalo. We chatted and since we were staying in his village for the night he invited me to his home later that evening. We got to meet his water buffalo, his mother, and see the crops they are growing on their small plot of land. We went and hung out in his closet-sized bedroom, simple with mud walls covered with newspapers and a few photos. There was nothing else but a radio and bed. He proudly showed me his passport, certificate of completion of a cooking course, his school report cards, and a photo of his beautiful 22 month old daughter.
Dhak was brave for marrying for love and not caste and it cost him dearly. He was beaten bloody by his brothers and told never to come back. A few years have gone by and now he has been allowed back to care for his sick mother. His life seems difficult but he is cheerful, intelligent and funny.
One of my favorite parts about Nepal has been how easy it is to meet locals. They have all been incredibly friendly, curious and intelligent. Everyone I have met has had sense of humor, sarcasm and biting wit that would rival even the most sarcastic Australians or English. Getting a chance to really talk to and see what life is life for some Nepalese has been a highlight of my trip, whether it be an invite home, a chat over a cup of tea, a homemade bottle of wine, or a rest on a steep mountain pass. I feel so lucky to be here.
Even the expats are welcoming. I went to the US embassy to register to vote and to get more pages in my passport again and there were no marines guarding it! Its too bad because in Africa the marines would be so excited to see a girl from the US that it was a guaranteed free dinner, but much less intimidating to enter an embassy without a gun pointing in close proximity to you. The man working there was so incredibly efficient and helpful and even gave us some grandfatherly advice.
I just can't say enough good things about Nepal. (Which is good because right now as I type this later, we are both too sick to leave and have officially overstayed our visas, lets hope they are still nice to us on the way out!) The views are stunning everywhere, the people are nice. It has that exotic feeling to it but also feels safe and familiar. The Himalayas really are all they are hyped up to be. Basically, just love Nepal.
From there was the bus to the border. I have never been so happy to be 5 feet tall, for that bus ride it all seemed worth it because I was the only one who could remotely fut my knees in., and it was still really uncomfortable for me. But we could tell as soon as we got to the border that things were changing.
The border officials were nice, helpful and kind. It was the easiest border crossing ever. We got into a decent bus and 12 hours later made it to Kathmandu. When we got to our hotel we really were speechless and for anyone who knows Colleen and I that comment is awe striking. Then they gave us toilet paper and our room had a hot shower and bedding and we really almost cried.
Just as a side note, we were a little miffed at the 15 min time difference, bringing the total time difference from my home to 11hrs and 45min, but once we figured out what was going on, it only added to the charm of Nepal.
The guy at the front desk laughed when we told him we came from India and he said that India stands for Id Never Do It Again. Agreed. Our days in Kathmandu were great. The traffic was so much better. The locals were friendly, shop keepers weren't pushy. Everything was more laid back. But I realize it is all about perspective, the people we met that had flown straight to Kathmandu were all a little dazed and thought it was quite chaotic and terrible while all of us from India saw it as a sanctuary.
It was interesting to observe the 11pm curfew the Maoists set for Kathmandu after writing a paper about the situation in college. I love how traveling for me the last year has brought once-seemingly obscure issues to my daily life. I would be interested to learn more, but there is an unspoken rule that you don't talk politics in Nepal. But even hiking in the Himalayas there are the symbols for the Maoist party on buildings. I couldn't get much out of people but after talking for a while if it seemed appropriate I would ask as much as I could.
Granted, most of the people I have been able to talk to in Nepal are quite poor- porters, guides, local people in rural Himalayan villages, but they all seem to feel positive about the Maoist government. The idea is a 10 year plan to redistribute wealth, though how they plan to accomplish this is unclear. Right now they are in the first two year "trial period." The Maoists wan to abolish the caste system. I learned that there are over 80 castes in Nepal, but am conflicted about their rigidity. One man said he think they are becoming more mobile with the influx of technology and media, while another man I met was ostracized by his family for marrying below his caste.
Dhak, a 24 year old man who lives in a rural village in the Himalayas was amazing. I met him while I was hiking up a steep pass. He was carrying a huge load of grass up to his water buffalo. We chatted and since we were staying in his village for the night he invited me to his home later that evening. We got to meet his water buffalo, his mother, and see the crops they are growing on their small plot of land. We went and hung out in his closet-sized bedroom, simple with mud walls covered with newspapers and a few photos. There was nothing else but a radio and bed. He proudly showed me his passport, certificate of completion of a cooking course, his school report cards, and a photo of his beautiful 22 month old daughter.
Dhak was brave for marrying for love and not caste and it cost him dearly. He was beaten bloody by his brothers and told never to come back. A few years have gone by and now he has been allowed back to care for his sick mother. His life seems difficult but he is cheerful, intelligent and funny.
One of my favorite parts about Nepal has been how easy it is to meet locals. They have all been incredibly friendly, curious and intelligent. Everyone I have met has had sense of humor, sarcasm and biting wit that would rival even the most sarcastic Australians or English. Getting a chance to really talk to and see what life is life for some Nepalese has been a highlight of my trip, whether it be an invite home, a chat over a cup of tea, a homemade bottle of wine, or a rest on a steep mountain pass. I feel so lucky to be here.
Even the expats are welcoming. I went to the US embassy to register to vote and to get more pages in my passport again and there were no marines guarding it! Its too bad because in Africa the marines would be so excited to see a girl from the US that it was a guaranteed free dinner, but much less intimidating to enter an embassy without a gun pointing in close proximity to you. The man working there was so incredibly efficient and helpful and even gave us some grandfatherly advice.
I just can't say enough good things about Nepal. (Which is good because right now as I type this later, we are both too sick to leave and have officially overstayed our visas, lets hope they are still nice to us on the way out!) The views are stunning everywhere, the people are nice. It has that exotic feeling to it but also feels safe and familiar. The Himalayas really are all they are hyped up to be. Basically, just love Nepal.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Life and Death on the River (India)
Shiva, one of the main Hindu gods is especially revered in Varanasi. He symbolizes the destroyer, but whom without creation wouldn't be possible. Varanasi is considered the oldest city on earth that is still inhabited, the city of Shiva and one of the holiest cities in India. It is fitting then, that life and death are auspiciously thrust into your face in the city of Shiva.
It is a typical city in India- choked with bustling life, bursting from every inch of space. At times in this country it feels like the world puked every bit of humanity into a too-small space so everyone clamors around each other, swarming in a chaotic dance, filled like the Pillsbury Dough Boy trying on a baby's shirt. But as full of life as Varanasi is, it is equally full of death. Where I am staying is near the cremation Ghat, the smoke from the burning bodies is relentless, all day and night.
As I walk the narrow passageways, the tangle of the old city that makes navigation completely haphazard for visitors, everything is so out of place that I am surprised by nothing. The alleys are stuffed with waterbuffalo, bony children, cows, men that hassle me, samosas, goats, shrines, candles, flowers, and women in saris. Tarps cover the narrow streets that are lines with dilapidated buildings, nooks and crannies, coves and holes, creating a carnival-like atmosphere.
Approaching the burning ghat, I am confronted by fortresses of wood- imposing and harsh. Smoke fills my lungs. The fires are tended by the untouchables, the lowest caste who usually live in tarp tents staked down by rocks, owning nothing, some of the poorest people I have ever seen. These emaciated men are dwarfed by the logs as they strain with the heat, sheer weight, soot in the air and ferocity of the fire. In the open fire area itself cremations in all stages are taking place constantly. There were some with bodies waiting to be burned, others nothing recognizable but the skulls. I saw my first dead body- a woman with cloud-white hair, her face painted, mouth agape. I watched as she seemed to float above a halo of red coals, the halo engulfing a lifetime of work, wrinkles, tears, laughter, joy and suffering as men in white turning black with soot looked on. Flowers littered the wood and coals as they do in the Ganges river just feet away where other people are using the cleansing properties of the water for healing and renewal. There is no ailment the holy river cannot cure, the Indians believe, as they pray and dunk themselves downstream from where the bodies continually burn.
I went past a group of children in cheerful rags who were playing a game where they hold hands and run and try to kiss each other. Once one is kissed they join the chain and try to get more. Past the cows and baby goats, men sleeping on basic cots in dirt-floored homes, to one of the ubiquitous sweet shops.
I was looking through the glass at the alarmingly green and orange sweets, balls of fried dough and yellow cookies all lined up behind glass, neatly in a very un-Indian fashion when I was pushed to the side. Another funeral procession was winding its way through the streets. The body on a board, hoisted above the men, followed by a line of people. I wouldn't call them mourners, ringing bells and chanting. The body was a stillness above writhing life, a stillness not often found in India, a moment of rest. They passed, revealing a small girl, knobby knees and elbows digging through a pile of trash. The shop owner cleared his throat, wondering what I found so curious in the mundane, the city where life and death constantly meet, filled with everything in between.
In the morning, I went for a boat ride along the Ganges to watch the city wake up. We wandered along the streets in darkness, lit only by a flashlight, a rare glimpse of peace that lasted about 5 seconds until we began to bump into boatmen. Floating along the Ghats, the wooden boat oars being dipped into the water, drizzling drops behind us, we wanted the morning rituals. Pilgrims come from all over to pray, meditate, wash away disease, and dip themselves into the sacred river. The rituals are done in public, men in speedos of sorts, all shapes and sizes, lounging on the Ghat steps, surrounded by bells, chanting, women in a rainbow of saris, temples and colored flags that change hues as the sun rises.
I'm almost tempted to see if the river really is as healing as they believe, I like to do what the locals do, and lord knows I could use it, but the water is completely septic, meaning there is no dissolved oxygen in it. Not only that, but water that is safe for bathing should have no more than 500 fecal coliform bacteria per 100ml, while by Varanasi, there are 1.5 million per 100ml. This is hardly surprising as there are 30 large sewers that feed into the river and it is visited by around 60,000 people each day along a 7 kilometer stretch. I decided to leave the chocolate milk bath to the others and watch from the boat. As we rowed back after the sun hiked itself up into the sky, the Ghats began to flow with people. All around me were people being renewed by their holy river of life as I breathed in the smoke from the crematorium.
It is a typical city in India- choked with bustling life, bursting from every inch of space. At times in this country it feels like the world puked every bit of humanity into a too-small space so everyone clamors around each other, swarming in a chaotic dance, filled like the Pillsbury Dough Boy trying on a baby's shirt. But as full of life as Varanasi is, it is equally full of death. Where I am staying is near the cremation Ghat, the smoke from the burning bodies is relentless, all day and night.
As I walk the narrow passageways, the tangle of the old city that makes navigation completely haphazard for visitors, everything is so out of place that I am surprised by nothing. The alleys are stuffed with waterbuffalo, bony children, cows, men that hassle me, samosas, goats, shrines, candles, flowers, and women in saris. Tarps cover the narrow streets that are lines with dilapidated buildings, nooks and crannies, coves and holes, creating a carnival-like atmosphere.
Approaching the burning ghat, I am confronted by fortresses of wood- imposing and harsh. Smoke fills my lungs. The fires are tended by the untouchables, the lowest caste who usually live in tarp tents staked down by rocks, owning nothing, some of the poorest people I have ever seen. These emaciated men are dwarfed by the logs as they strain with the heat, sheer weight, soot in the air and ferocity of the fire. In the open fire area itself cremations in all stages are taking place constantly. There were some with bodies waiting to be burned, others nothing recognizable but the skulls. I saw my first dead body- a woman with cloud-white hair, her face painted, mouth agape. I watched as she seemed to float above a halo of red coals, the halo engulfing a lifetime of work, wrinkles, tears, laughter, joy and suffering as men in white turning black with soot looked on. Flowers littered the wood and coals as they do in the Ganges river just feet away where other people are using the cleansing properties of the water for healing and renewal. There is no ailment the holy river cannot cure, the Indians believe, as they pray and dunk themselves downstream from where the bodies continually burn.
I went past a group of children in cheerful rags who were playing a game where they hold hands and run and try to kiss each other. Once one is kissed they join the chain and try to get more. Past the cows and baby goats, men sleeping on basic cots in dirt-floored homes, to one of the ubiquitous sweet shops.
I was looking through the glass at the alarmingly green and orange sweets, balls of fried dough and yellow cookies all lined up behind glass, neatly in a very un-Indian fashion when I was pushed to the side. Another funeral procession was winding its way through the streets. The body on a board, hoisted above the men, followed by a line of people. I wouldn't call them mourners, ringing bells and chanting. The body was a stillness above writhing life, a stillness not often found in India, a moment of rest. They passed, revealing a small girl, knobby knees and elbows digging through a pile of trash. The shop owner cleared his throat, wondering what I found so curious in the mundane, the city where life and death constantly meet, filled with everything in between.
In the morning, I went for a boat ride along the Ganges to watch the city wake up. We wandered along the streets in darkness, lit only by a flashlight, a rare glimpse of peace that lasted about 5 seconds until we began to bump into boatmen. Floating along the Ghats, the wooden boat oars being dipped into the water, drizzling drops behind us, we wanted the morning rituals. Pilgrims come from all over to pray, meditate, wash away disease, and dip themselves into the sacred river. The rituals are done in public, men in speedos of sorts, all shapes and sizes, lounging on the Ghat steps, surrounded by bells, chanting, women in a rainbow of saris, temples and colored flags that change hues as the sun rises.
I'm almost tempted to see if the river really is as healing as they believe, I like to do what the locals do, and lord knows I could use it, but the water is completely septic, meaning there is no dissolved oxygen in it. Not only that, but water that is safe for bathing should have no more than 500 fecal coliform bacteria per 100ml, while by Varanasi, there are 1.5 million per 100ml. This is hardly surprising as there are 30 large sewers that feed into the river and it is visited by around 60,000 people each day along a 7 kilometer stretch. I decided to leave the chocolate milk bath to the others and watch from the boat. As we rowed back after the sun hiked itself up into the sky, the Ghats began to flow with people. All around me were people being renewed by their holy river of life as I breathed in the smoke from the crematorium.
Impressions of India
I think that anyone who says they absolutely loved traveling in India is either full of shit, on a packaged tour or hid out in an ashram the whole time. I met one person on a previous trip who told me she hated it the whole time she was in India but after she left it was her favorite country. We shall see.
India is a country full of travel-lore. Myth seems to proceed it. People say India changes you, that it's mind boggling. Really, I think it's ironic that people come here for peace and quiet in ashrams when it is one of the busier places I have ever been or could even imagine.
I suppose I was prepared for it so maybe that's why it hasn't shocked me. The poverty of Africa and chaos of some African and Asian countries I have seen, as well as the dirt and garbage of places i have been has maybe decreased the shock value. But despite having survived those other places, I don't do well with the traffic, congestion, crowds and constant honking of horns. It frays on my nerves.
It's strange because India receives a fair share o9f travelers, but the novelty doesn't seem to wear off. People are constantly coming up to us to ask us where we are from, if we are married, why we aren't, what our money is called, what our national flower is (any clue?), our national animal. . . the list goes on. Then they want to introduce us to their family. Then they want to take photos with us.
Those are the friendly people. Others just stare. We took a train from Haridwar to Varanasi. It was supposed to be 18 hours, but of course stretched to 24. We were riding in the lower class sleeper which must be unusual because we were pretty much like animals in the zoo. A group of more than 20 men gathered in our compartment. They were hanging from top bunks, packed in, just staring at us. I thought it was all quite ridiculous so I went to see how full the train was, it was almost empty. We started to feel really violated when the men began sneaking photos of us with their camera phones.
The hassle is pretty relentless, the crowds insane, the streets dirty. But India has its charm. The friendly people help, so do the cows that wander the streets freely. The food is amazing but fattening. I love the little chai stands on the side of the road and the street food. I love the alters that interrupt buildings with gifts of candles and flowers around them. The monkeys that are everywhere are highly entertaining.
Its not an easy place to travel, that's for sure, but then nothing worthwhile seems to be.
India is a country full of travel-lore. Myth seems to proceed it. People say India changes you, that it's mind boggling. Really, I think it's ironic that people come here for peace and quiet in ashrams when it is one of the busier places I have ever been or could even imagine.
I suppose I was prepared for it so maybe that's why it hasn't shocked me. The poverty of Africa and chaos of some African and Asian countries I have seen, as well as the dirt and garbage of places i have been has maybe decreased the shock value. But despite having survived those other places, I don't do well with the traffic, congestion, crowds and constant honking of horns. It frays on my nerves.
It's strange because India receives a fair share o9f travelers, but the novelty doesn't seem to wear off. People are constantly coming up to us to ask us where we are from, if we are married, why we aren't, what our money is called, what our national flower is (any clue?), our national animal. . . the list goes on. Then they want to introduce us to their family. Then they want to take photos with us.
Those are the friendly people. Others just stare. We took a train from Haridwar to Varanasi. It was supposed to be 18 hours, but of course stretched to 24. We were riding in the lower class sleeper which must be unusual because we were pretty much like animals in the zoo. A group of more than 20 men gathered in our compartment. They were hanging from top bunks, packed in, just staring at us. I thought it was all quite ridiculous so I went to see how full the train was, it was almost empty. We started to feel really violated when the men began sneaking photos of us with their camera phones.
The hassle is pretty relentless, the crowds insane, the streets dirty. But India has its charm. The friendly people help, so do the cows that wander the streets freely. The food is amazing but fattening. I love the little chai stands on the side of the road and the street food. I love the alters that interrupt buildings with gifts of candles and flowers around them. The monkeys that are everywhere are highly entertaining.
Its not an easy place to travel, that's for sure, but then nothing worthwhile seems to be.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Back in Africa (Morocco)
It scares me how some things in life can affect me so profoundly that I believe they give me strength or maybe show me the strength I have, but that strength can shake away from me in the face of other events. I felt like I learned a lot of key things about how to be in this world in Africa, but somehow I regressed when I left. But one thing I did learn when I was there is that my life is always falling apart, but I don't have to fall apart with it. Now this is easier said than done and usually I do fall apart with it, and I definitely did this summer in Europe. But Africa taught me that more quickly I return to that peace, even if I am lost sometimes. I faced a task this summer, I was prepared for it, and I failed. The peace has yet to return. But when I stepped on the ferry from Spain to Morocco, I swear I could feel a different wind blowing softly around the call to prayer that rolled over the water.
I think life has certain lessons to teach you and if you can learn gently, great, but if you don't then you get kicked in the ass. I felt like was given a second chance (after being kicked in the ass for failing when I had no reason to) to do what I should have done in the first place: go to Africa and not look back.
If I succeed or fail is yet to be determined, but right now my world has broken apart. I am not saying that is a bad thing, it leaves room for a lot of new things to enter it. I hope to eventually use this as an opportunity, not a setback. But for now, just being in Morocco I felt some of the Europe stress melt away.
The first night in Tangier was rough. I was in a familiarly skeezy hotel room with a parade of ants marching underneath my bed that had no sheets but was nicely decorated with some one's pubic hair. The overflowing squat toilet was three floors down and no shower. All of that I can take in stride, but many of the men I find in a Muslim country when I travel alone are more difficult to deal with. As they knocked on my door late at night I wished I had one of those door blocker thingies or a way to better lock my door.
The worst is how difficult it is to get anything done. Men elbow in front of me in ques, the person behind the desk only helping me after all the men have been served. But finally I was on my way to Chefchauen, a small mountain town.
As I looked out the window of the bus and saw the familiar African landscape of dusty people in dirty doorways just being, watching the world go by, others hard at work in the fields, cars brimming with people in every nook of space, donkeys being ridden or driven in carts on the highway and women with things on their heads, I began to relax. This is my style of traveling, not the hostel parties in Europe. I can do this, I thought, the familiar comfort of being on my own in such a foreign place began to take over and I was happy.
Chefchauen is stunning- the maze of the Medina is all in shades of blue, some of the passage ways are how i would imagine the inside of an ice burg to be. Blue fades into another hue of blue. Strikingly bright clothes line the streets waiting to be sold along with mounds of Moroccan bread, dates, nuts, bags of pastel powder I imagine is paint but I don't know why they have something other than blue, and spices. Many people wear these Berber cartoonish hats, conical and straw but personalized with tassels, beads or fabric balls.
I could walk the Medina nonstop if it wasn't for all the unwanted male attention a solo girl has to deal with. But at least it was better than Egypt!
Still, the more lost I got in the Medina, the more I was finding my way back to the familiar. The best part of the day happened every morning at 5am. I w as sleeping on the rooftop terrace and that is when the call to prayer would wake me up.
It called at that whisper of time before night turns into dawn, when the darkness of night is still hovering, thick and resistant before it crawls down past the mountains. The haunting call to prayer would go on and on and with it, the rare cool breeze seemed to swirl until the chanting, the flags blowing, the laundry on the lines, the birds and the last persistent stars all seemed to move in a dance that breathed- you're here- on a rooftop in Morocco.
Still empty, empty of everything, I would listen and add my own hope that this time I'd maybe absorbed more of the lessons life has taught me. I honestly have no idea if I have or have not.
I think life has certain lessons to teach you and if you can learn gently, great, but if you don't then you get kicked in the ass. I felt like was given a second chance (after being kicked in the ass for failing when I had no reason to) to do what I should have done in the first place: go to Africa and not look back.
If I succeed or fail is yet to be determined, but right now my world has broken apart. I am not saying that is a bad thing, it leaves room for a lot of new things to enter it. I hope to eventually use this as an opportunity, not a setback. But for now, just being in Morocco I felt some of the Europe stress melt away.
The first night in Tangier was rough. I was in a familiarly skeezy hotel room with a parade of ants marching underneath my bed that had no sheets but was nicely decorated with some one's pubic hair. The overflowing squat toilet was three floors down and no shower. All of that I can take in stride, but many of the men I find in a Muslim country when I travel alone are more difficult to deal with. As they knocked on my door late at night I wished I had one of those door blocker thingies or a way to better lock my door.
The worst is how difficult it is to get anything done. Men elbow in front of me in ques, the person behind the desk only helping me after all the men have been served. But finally I was on my way to Chefchauen, a small mountain town.
As I looked out the window of the bus and saw the familiar African landscape of dusty people in dirty doorways just being, watching the world go by, others hard at work in the fields, cars brimming with people in every nook of space, donkeys being ridden or driven in carts on the highway and women with things on their heads, I began to relax. This is my style of traveling, not the hostel parties in Europe. I can do this, I thought, the familiar comfort of being on my own in such a foreign place began to take over and I was happy.
Chefchauen is stunning- the maze of the Medina is all in shades of blue, some of the passage ways are how i would imagine the inside of an ice burg to be. Blue fades into another hue of blue. Strikingly bright clothes line the streets waiting to be sold along with mounds of Moroccan bread, dates, nuts, bags of pastel powder I imagine is paint but I don't know why they have something other than blue, and spices. Many people wear these Berber cartoonish hats, conical and straw but personalized with tassels, beads or fabric balls.
I could walk the Medina nonstop if it wasn't for all the unwanted male attention a solo girl has to deal with. But at least it was better than Egypt!
Still, the more lost I got in the Medina, the more I was finding my way back to the familiar. The best part of the day happened every morning at 5am. I w as sleeping on the rooftop terrace and that is when the call to prayer would wake me up.
It called at that whisper of time before night turns into dawn, when the darkness of night is still hovering, thick and resistant before it crawls down past the mountains. The haunting call to prayer would go on and on and with it, the rare cool breeze seemed to swirl until the chanting, the flags blowing, the laundry on the lines, the birds and the last persistent stars all seemed to move in a dance that breathed- you're here- on a rooftop in Morocco.
Still empty, empty of everything, I would listen and add my own hope that this time I'd maybe absorbed more of the lessons life has taught me. I honestly have no idea if I have or have not.
European Highlights
I know this is long overdue. I never thought anyone read by blog until I got so many complaints for not writing in it, so thank you! And sorry! To be honest, I have felt very, very lost in Europe. I wasn't going to write anything at all because I didn't feel there was anything worth writing about. This is my last day in Europe as i write this and I thought I would at least hit on a highlight from each country I have visited. But I have felt more lost and alone and turned inside out in a different way than I have traveling in developing countries. I suppose my heart isn't here, it belongs in wilder places.
I started my trip traveling with someone else too, which was new for me and took away from my normal style of travel as well, so that could account for some of the difficulty. It's funny how sometimes you can feel so much more alone and isolated with other people than when you are completely alone! But I digress. I feel like i am returning back to myself again. It is good to be back to traveling alone. I went to Morocco which helped revive me, and I am about to leave Europe, so here are the highlights:
Holland: Hiring a cruiser bike and riding out along the countryside next to the new Dutch windmills which are hardly the romantic version you would picture, they are actually quite scary, like slender robots from an angry planet, but also riding in contrast, next to serene canals.
Belgium:Drinking some amazing beer with an old friend, a new one, and my best one in a little hidden tavern only locals knew about, escaping the tourists of Brussels.
Germany: A crazy club in Berlin that my friend from there who I was staying with took me too. It was covered, every inch of it, in graffiti, all 5 stories in this apologetically bright graffiti. Out in the back VIP area was beach sand. Beach chairs were scattered amongst fire twirlers and a fire-breathing dragon. Then, ducking into a cave like room, dirty and unpretentious, to find a world class salsa band with a packed room, every one's bodies helpless to stop moving with the rhythm.
Czech Republic: Spending a day by the river by myself in Prague, just breathing and watching the crowds go by. I had a picnic in the park and looked across the water at the postcard of a city in front of me.
Poland: Walking through a sketchy neighborhood complete with an accidental trespassing, but we were rescued by a guy that showed us the way out in a tangle of construction to find out way to a huge overpass. We walked down underneath the bridge and tied to each pillion was an end of a parachute. On it, some bohemian guys were projecting artsy Polish films. Keeping with the beach vibe like in Berlin, they had imported beach sad. Beach chairs were set up for people to kick back in and drink beer in. Above us was the rush of the overpass, in front of us the Polish movie I couldn't understand but still enjoyed, behind us was the river, to one side a group of pseudo punk kids taking out their rebellious Polish youth under the bridge, and to the other side was more trees and a moon. All around us there was not another tourist.
Hungary: One night in Budapest we climbed up to the top of the mountain. We took some very dark, very steep side paths and wound our way up through the blackness. I was joking and told the 2 people I was with that we didn't need to worry because according to the Lonely Planet only 6 people had been murdered on the trails this year. It wasn't until we were headed back down that I realized they thought I was serious, that must have added some adventure for them! We made it to the top and had a beer to celebrate and looked out at the city lights. It was one of those views that you can only gape at in awe and that reminds you of the few other times in your life you saw a view like that so when you look at the sea of lights you not only get the pleasure of that moment and view here and now, but also the concrete connection to the pleasure, longing and nostalgia for the other times you had a view like that before; who you were with and where in the world you were, so all you can do is smile but it is a bit worn because you know that all too soon you will go back down.
Italy: The food. All I can say is that it is orgasmic food and I am such a food tourist. Food might be one of my favorite things in the world, and lets just say Italy was good, oh my gosh it was good.
Andorra: I came to Andorra with the intention to hike across the country because I have never hiked all the way across a country before. Unfortunately it wasn't possible. Still, Andorra had a very good feeling to it, it wasn't what I expected. I wound up staying longer than expected though, even if it was a bit disconcerting how much it reminded me of Vail.
Spain: I was wandering by myself (actually I had a 103 degree fever so it was more like staggering in a feverish stupor, leave it to me to be fine in Africa but get really sick in Spain!) in a huge park in Madrid. It was Sunday afternoon so it was full of people. Manicured flowers were beautiful but I was drawn to the pseudo-wild woods. I started to hear drum beats. It was a magnetic pull for me to follow the sounds, I felt like my fever went away a bit as I got closer and closer. The drum beats were literally beseeching me to follow. They got louder until i found a group standing beneath the trees. These men were playing huge drums but they were dancing and the dance was what struck the drum and made the beat. They weren't the only ones, I don't think anyone was standing still. A group of women were flamenco dancing in their jeans and tee-shirts and their Sunday church dresses, their sweat pants, a whole mix of people from all walks of life. There were little girls, Gothic teenagers, a girl on crutches and a huge woman. There was a frail old woman that didn't look frail until she stopped dancing, hippie chicks, and a few men. One man had to be around 70, he moved to the front and started vibrating. The intensity bore on his fave as he started dancing and freezing and clapping. I think he even through in a little jiving. He eventually stole the show. It was a nice secret part of Madrid to find.
France: I was only in Paris for a day having been here once before in high school. I slept in the Madrid airport and will sleep in the Paris airport tonight after I write this. Mostly on this day I have been thinking about how much has happened between me being here when I was 18 and now. I never, ever could have predicted so much of it and if someone had told me what would happen, I never would have believed them. It makes me wonder what else is in store for me, for all of us in this crazy world.
I started my trip traveling with someone else too, which was new for me and took away from my normal style of travel as well, so that could account for some of the difficulty. It's funny how sometimes you can feel so much more alone and isolated with other people than when you are completely alone! But I digress. I feel like i am returning back to myself again. It is good to be back to traveling alone. I went to Morocco which helped revive me, and I am about to leave Europe, so here are the highlights:
Holland: Hiring a cruiser bike and riding out along the countryside next to the new Dutch windmills which are hardly the romantic version you would picture, they are actually quite scary, like slender robots from an angry planet, but also riding in contrast, next to serene canals.
Belgium:Drinking some amazing beer with an old friend, a new one, and my best one in a little hidden tavern only locals knew about, escaping the tourists of Brussels.
Germany: A crazy club in Berlin that my friend from there who I was staying with took me too. It was covered, every inch of it, in graffiti, all 5 stories in this apologetically bright graffiti. Out in the back VIP area was beach sand. Beach chairs were scattered amongst fire twirlers and a fire-breathing dragon. Then, ducking into a cave like room, dirty and unpretentious, to find a world class salsa band with a packed room, every one's bodies helpless to stop moving with the rhythm.
Czech Republic: Spending a day by the river by myself in Prague, just breathing and watching the crowds go by. I had a picnic in the park and looked across the water at the postcard of a city in front of me.
Poland: Walking through a sketchy neighborhood complete with an accidental trespassing, but we were rescued by a guy that showed us the way out in a tangle of construction to find out way to a huge overpass. We walked down underneath the bridge and tied to each pillion was an end of a parachute. On it, some bohemian guys were projecting artsy Polish films. Keeping with the beach vibe like in Berlin, they had imported beach sad. Beach chairs were set up for people to kick back in and drink beer in. Above us was the rush of the overpass, in front of us the Polish movie I couldn't understand but still enjoyed, behind us was the river, to one side a group of pseudo punk kids taking out their rebellious Polish youth under the bridge, and to the other side was more trees and a moon. All around us there was not another tourist.
Hungary: One night in Budapest we climbed up to the top of the mountain. We took some very dark, very steep side paths and wound our way up through the blackness. I was joking and told the 2 people I was with that we didn't need to worry because according to the Lonely Planet only 6 people had been murdered on the trails this year. It wasn't until we were headed back down that I realized they thought I was serious, that must have added some adventure for them! We made it to the top and had a beer to celebrate and looked out at the city lights. It was one of those views that you can only gape at in awe and that reminds you of the few other times in your life you saw a view like that so when you look at the sea of lights you not only get the pleasure of that moment and view here and now, but also the concrete connection to the pleasure, longing and nostalgia for the other times you had a view like that before; who you were with and where in the world you were, so all you can do is smile but it is a bit worn because you know that all too soon you will go back down.
Italy: The food. All I can say is that it is orgasmic food and I am such a food tourist. Food might be one of my favorite things in the world, and lets just say Italy was good, oh my gosh it was good.
Andorra: I came to Andorra with the intention to hike across the country because I have never hiked all the way across a country before. Unfortunately it wasn't possible. Still, Andorra had a very good feeling to it, it wasn't what I expected. I wound up staying longer than expected though, even if it was a bit disconcerting how much it reminded me of Vail.
Spain: I was wandering by myself (actually I had a 103 degree fever so it was more like staggering in a feverish stupor, leave it to me to be fine in Africa but get really sick in Spain!) in a huge park in Madrid. It was Sunday afternoon so it was full of people. Manicured flowers were beautiful but I was drawn to the pseudo-wild woods. I started to hear drum beats. It was a magnetic pull for me to follow the sounds, I felt like my fever went away a bit as I got closer and closer. The drum beats were literally beseeching me to follow. They got louder until i found a group standing beneath the trees. These men were playing huge drums but they were dancing and the dance was what struck the drum and made the beat. They weren't the only ones, I don't think anyone was standing still. A group of women were flamenco dancing in their jeans and tee-shirts and their Sunday church dresses, their sweat pants, a whole mix of people from all walks of life. There were little girls, Gothic teenagers, a girl on crutches and a huge woman. There was a frail old woman that didn't look frail until she stopped dancing, hippie chicks, and a few men. One man had to be around 70, he moved to the front and started vibrating. The intensity bore on his fave as he started dancing and freezing and clapping. I think he even through in a little jiving. He eventually stole the show. It was a nice secret part of Madrid to find.
France: I was only in Paris for a day having been here once before in high school. I slept in the Madrid airport and will sleep in the Paris airport tonight after I write this. Mostly on this day I have been thinking about how much has happened between me being here when I was 18 and now. I never, ever could have predicted so much of it and if someone had told me what would happen, I never would have believed them. It makes me wonder what else is in store for me, for all of us in this crazy world.
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