Commitaphobic

“In the boundless panorama of the existing and visible universe, whatever shapes appear, whatever sounds vibrate, whatever radiances illuminate, or whatever consciousnesses cognize, all are the play or manifestation of the Tri-Kaya…Impenetrating all, is the All-Pervading Essence of Spirit, which is Mind. It is uncreated, impersonal, self-existing, immaterial, and indestructible.” -Lama Kazi Dawa-Samdup

After Bundi, Amme headed to the desert for the camel safaris and I was north bound to the Pakistani border. I had two reasons: first to see the Golden Temple, holy capital and hub of Sikhdom, and second to go to the actual India/Pakistan border and watch the closing of the border which I’d heard was quite a sight. And so it was. I arrived in Amritsa (home to Golden Temple) in the morning after an overnight train on which I actually slept for once. I was put in the same compartment as a family with three hyper-active children, one very small who said nothing but laughed and stared, one chubby little guy who kept insisting I eat his food and share my cookies, and one girl who spoke English just well enough to be at first cute and then aggravating. Mostly, she just asked about what I was doing as she saw me do it. Questions to the effect of, “You read your book?” “You take dinner?” “You sleep now?” But asking each many times. Eventually, she sleeps.

The Golden Temple had a really good vibe. It’s a giant complex that is buzzing with activity 24 hours a day, and as a pilgrimage site, pretty much everything is based on donation-accomidation AND food. Not that it’s living the high life, the free bed was basically a plank of wood with a dirty sheet and the food, though delicious was the same every meal of the day. Still, I really enjoyed the spiritual and welcoming atmosphere of the Sikh community, and the temple was a shining beacon of gold set on a clear bed of water with Punjabi music always floating in the background. Around the back of the temple was a food stand which smelled delicious. Assuming it was free food like I’d had for lunch, I stood in line, gave a donation, and got a bowl of wonderful wonderful hot and fresh hallwa, which I ate immediately. Turns out I was supposed to take it into the temple as an offering. Oops.

The border closing ceremony was extravagant to the point of hilarity. There are stands set up on either side, and each are filled with thousands of people who have come to cheer for their home country. Beforehand, there are people out in front dancing and leading cheers to which the crowd responds “Hindustan!” After this, there is a shouting match between one guard on each side, basically boiling down to who can yell ‘hey-o’ the longest without taking a breath. Then, the guards on either side march really proudly up to the gate (I’ll put a video up), Indian and Pakistani, only inches between them, and perform what can only be categorized as a spectacularly choreographed dance around each other as the gates are open and the guards proceed to their flag pole. This is followed by the painstakingly slow reigning in of the flags, so no one country’s is ever above the others’. (Did I punctuate that correctly?)

I took a taxi from the temple to the border with an Indian family visiting from Bombay. We stopped at a small temple on the way out, and a “water park” on the way back. I was not expecting these excursions, and was perplexed by the excitement garnered on the trip to the water park in particular. It was literally a park in water…just as if someone took a playground and set it in a pool. It was also apparently closed, but the family thought it was awesome and made me pose for several pictures with them in front of it.

In the temple, I stayed in a room with a couple of people who were also headed to Dharamsala, so the next day we make for the bus together, picking up more travelers as we go. Although we arrive at night, Dharamsala has such an exquisite and peaceful ambiance to it, that I believe I might stay the rest of my time in India. Set in the Himalayas, the village of Mcleodganj is like stepping into Tibet. With all that’s going on right now, there are daily marches and vigils and a constant awareness of the injustices in Tibet proper. One morning, I went out for breakfast and ended up following a line of monks through the streets. I didn’t know where they were going, but when I got there, someone told me that the Dali Lama was going to make an impromptu appearance shortly. I waited a while, and finally a car drove up. He stepped out and was immediately surrounded by security personnel, but he took a few steps towards the crowd and smiled out at everyone. I was about 6 feet away from him and of course, OF COURSE, the day I accidentally bump into the Dali Lama is also the only morning I decide that I won’t be out of my room long, I can leave my camera to charge. But maybe it’s better to experience that sort of thing as fully as you can and not through a lens. He never said a word. People were shaking and crying and chanting, and he just stood there smiling and very calm. I was expecting him to make a speech, but this was arguably more poignant. Then he went inside. I will never wash these eyes again.

The rest of my time in Dharamsala was relaxing and full of friendly people and western amenities. But I couldn’t stay. I don’t know why. In fairness to my initial impulse to stay long term, I was there 4 nights, which is more than anywhere else I’ve visited in the last 2 months. I’d been traveling with a fellow I met in Amritsa, but we both booked tickets onward to other cities, I was headed out to a lake and tall, dark and Spanish was going to Delhi one day before me. With my last day, I joined a few of the other people I’d met on the bus to Mcleodganj on a hike. Canadian Eric and Swedes Hanna and Jonathan. We set off into the unknown, following signs leading us to the “Waterfall Cafe”. 4 hours later, we are clinging to a little used mountain goat path through the mountains, praying to see the occasional white arrow painted on a rock or tree, and there’s a storm a-brewin. The trek becomes treacherous when it begins to rain, and treacherous and uncomfortable when it begins to sleet. There is thunder and lightning directly above, but we keep heading upwards hoping to find the cafe, because we know how far civilization is behind us. I am dressed for summertime and absolutely freezing. We do finally find the cafe. It is a hut, covered by a tarp. The one lone boy operating it serves tea. We seek what shelter and warmth there is to be had there until the rain stops. Then, for some reason, we decide it’s a good idea to climb the waterfall up to the glacier. There is no real path anymore, and we’re basically scaling rocks now. So here is your image: me, in sandals and shorts, clinging for dear life onto wet rocks on the side of a Himalayan mountain pass in the snow–across the divide is a herd of mountain goats who travel effortlessly in the same direction as me, baaaahing. I bah back.

My bus is a 10 hour, overnight, local bus. When I tell people I travel via local bus, they tend to give me looks of awe/concern. It’s not that bad. Sure the private tourist buses are a lot more posh and have beds, but as we know, there is no amount of sleep/comfort to be had in a bed with a strange Russian man. I’m off to a place called Lake Renuka, a splendid and serene place that I may lay my head for a time and gather my thoughts. 23 hours and no meals later I’m using what’s left of my energy to drag my bag 2km in the dark, hoping there is a room open in Rishikesh. There are few things worse than spending 23 hours on a bus, but one of those things must certainly be spending 23 hours on 6 busses. Allow me the breakdown:

Bus #1: From Dharamsala to a town called Nahan, this is the overnight portion and I spend the evening trying to sleep bent over my knees with a Tibetan man who has fallen asleep on my shoulder.

Bus #2: From Nahan to Lake Renuka, this is the 2 hour ride on a narrow road in a big bus with an over-confident driver. Terrifying.

Bus#3: From Lake Renuka to Nahan, this is the bus I get on when I get to Lake Renuka and find it has completely dried up. This time I have a more cautious driver and the knowledge that I’d made it one direction in one piece and I actually fall asleep.

Bus#4: From Nahan to some town that starts with a P, this is the bus where hungry/sleepy Blair becomes aggressive/angry Blair and yells at 3 boys in limited Hindi, “NO! DO NOT TAKE MY PICTURE!”

Bus #5: From P-town to Duri Dun, this is the bus that I waited an hour at the station for because they told me it hadn’t arrived yet. It had arrived and was PACKED by the time I got on it. I climbed to the roof to secure my big bag (apparently an odd sight) and then got on board the mosh pit at the B.O. concert. After a while, one man is nice enough to offer me his seat. It is a seat meant for 3 people, but I sit in it with an Indian couple and their 5 children. I doubt I would have been able to fit in the seat had I not been hemmed in by a sea of groin.

Bus # 6: From Deri Dun to Rishikesh, this is the bus where I finally admit I don’t know where I am going and will stop in Rishikesh, I don’t care if I have to sleep on the banks of the Ganges in cow excrement.

When I finally arrive, I find that all the ashrams are a 2 km walk from where the bus drops me, and there are no rickshaws, so I walk in the dark, stub my toe on a small stone, and go down–hard. A nice Italian guy circles around to ask if I’m ok. We walk to the living area together and I bombard him with questions like where is he staying or what kind of yoga he’s doing/where. He seems a mildly frightened, but helpful nonetheless. At this point, I think I should cool my heels in Rishikesh and do a yoga retreat. The next day, he introduces me to his yoga instructor who offers a 5 day course. Perfect. But for some reason as I’m walking to do my first class that night, I stop halfway up the hill, turn around and walk back.

I guess my main problem was Nepal. From the beginning it was my plan to spend at least two weeks there in this part of my trip. But see, there are slated for April 10th now the first democratic elections, and the Maoists in the region aren’t happy and are threatening to derail them with violence if necessary. Of course this makes me want to go even more. Of course I want to be there when it happens. But I am influenced by anonymous parties (ack!) and my sense of daughterly obligation not to lie to my parents. I spent all yesterday in a toss-up. I really wanted to go, and didn’t know where to go if I wasn’t headed there, and though it may sound trite to you, I really had something of a crisis which spilled over into bigger questions in my life like why am I so indecisive and maybe that’s the best way to live or maybe I’m psychologically incapable of commitment or impossible to love or why am I doing this anyway and why don’t I get a job and where do I go next and what’s the point of going anywhere after all, well I’m here, aren’t I, so I must attach some amount of importance to it, but what about the underlying reason we do things, can’t I figure it out, aren’t I here to learn, isn’t the mind really the only adventure there is can’t I figure out a cause to stand for already? And so on and so forth. I guess the crisis is not yet fully averted.

Needless to say, my trip to the travel agent today was arduous because it is impossible to purchase a ticket if you do not know where you are going. Lesson. I waste 1 1/2 hours of his time trying to get him to solve my life’s problems before I finally book an overnight bus to Pushkar. I wanted to go to Nepal, but I psyched myself out. I wanted to go to Sikkim, but it’s too far for my bus-laden mind to comprehend right now. I miss my dog, but all the trains to Goa are booked solid. So I’ll just go south.