( thank you )
Our last week in India was spent with old friends from Hawaii, Jasmine and Eddie. We headed north to escape the raging heat in Delhi to the Yoga capital of the world, Rishikesh and further north to the British hill station of Mussoori. Not that it mattered where we were. Every night was spent stuffing ourselves with spicy Indian food before buckling in for a long evening of intense Uno. (Yes, the kids card game.) We had a blast, but I think this picture says it all.
Hindus believe that bathing in the Ganga River washes away your sins and dying here will send you straight to heaven. So it’s no wonder that this city is the most important pilgrimage destination in the country. Although temperatures rose upwards of 100 degrees before breakfast, a stop to the colorful and dramatic city of Varanasi couldn’t be missed. We walked for miles around the tight twisting alleys of the old city looking for snake charmers, ducked through cricket games on bathing ghats and watched the constant cremation ceremonies at burning ghats. Mark Twain wrote, "Varanasi is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together." I guess that accounts for the smell.
Sikkim is about as green as you can get. Plastic bags are banned. Littering and spitting are a rarity. And hand painted signs, usually on natural slabs of rock, offer thoughtful reminders of one's duty to the planet. Most impressive.
We decided to spend our time hiking among the jungle-y hills, trying to get a taste of the local life, and forewent the higher altitude treks and journeys up north that required yet another permit, and would have bound us to a guide.
A lot of pretty walking. That's how we would have described this land if it wasn't for our mythic stay at Pala's -- a little homestay above Kecheparli Lake. We figured on spending a night. We hung on for six. The man in charge was Pala. An 83 year-old ball of energy with 11 kids, the youngest of which was seven! It was a total joy to immerse ourselves and observe the daily mountain life. The family cooked our meals over open flames, washed clothes with their feet, and built tools and games out of bamboo. Everything we ate came from the village, save for rice and oil. Ask for mushrooms, and Pala, the former cook of the Dalai Lama, returns 30 minutes later with a basket of tasty wild fungus. All that pure food and fresh air can make a cat thirsty. So we stimulated the local millet industry by sipping Tongba -- a fermented grain that you repeatedly top up with hot water and suck through a bamboo straw. Delicious. Heather even got to walk the little kids down the mountain to school in the morning, and teach little monks The Way of Connect 4.
We loved every minute of it.
We spent the next week in the town of Darjeeling. Built up the side of a steep mountain, surrounded by a Himalayan panorama and one of the best places to view Mount Kanchenjunga. India's highest mountain at 8,586 meters, and the 3rd highest mountain in the world. Not that we could enjoy the view. Most of our week here at this former British Hill station was drenched in fog. Save one lovely night when Kanchenjunga revealed itself to us after a storm. Only a sliver mind you, and only for a moment, but it was beautiful. See picture below.
Since Darjeeling is famous for it's brew, we visited the local tea plantation, Happy Valley Tea Estate. The recipe for delicious black and green teas hasn't changed in a hundred years, and neither has the machinery to produce it. Next on our list was a visit to the local zoo to meet India's red panda. But no trip to Darjeeling is complete without a "joy ride" on the toy train. Built in 1881, this steam powered engine slowly chugs itself from 100 meters at Siliguri to 2,200 meters at Darjeeling on a 2ft gauge railway. Although historic, we can report that the "joy ride" includes black smoke in your face as well as screeching constant whistle blowing. We almost got out and walked alongside.
Next up - Sikkim.
Enjoy it before it melts.
Set a tower of wood and cow dung on fire, race to the top, and pull furiously at a live branch before carrying it to safety. This is how Indians re-enact the sparing of young Prince Prahlad, who's demon king father seethed with jelousy over his son's devotion to God. The King convinced Prahlad's Aunt Holika to take him in her lap and sit in a bonfire, thinking her magic powers would save her as the boy was destroyed. But young Prahlad's devotion to God earned him a ticket from the flames and Holika burned alone with her sin.
After the "rescue" and triumph of good over evil, everyone circles the methane blaze. Women sprinkle water and the men toast wheat, which brings luck, and tastes rather good.
The next morning we knowingly dressed in our worst clothes and headed out to Holi's Festival of Colors. Being the only white people in Mt Abu to join the action, we were high priority targets. First we played with the kids, who were eager to douse us with chilly purple water from every angle. It was good, sloppy fun. Then, away from the backstreets of the old market, the adults had their turn. Hundreds of hands soothed our face with silky, eye-popping powders. Hugs were given. Happy Holi's were spoken. And invitations to sit a chat were readily taken up. We felt warm and fuzzy all week long.
This happy hill station proved to be a real treat. We settled into polished accommodations and spoiled ourselves with a few rounds of room service. Here, the air is fresh, the streets are clean, and the pace hypnotic. We strolled across wild terrain. Gazed at the plains below. And came to understand why Mount Abu is such a popular vacation spot for Indian nationals -- who, to our surprise, enjoy oddly familiar attractions. Like swan shaped paddle boats and gondola rides across the breezy lake. They even have their own version of the Wild West photos every one of us has struck a pose for, only they get their tough-on in old-timey, maharaja garb.
Nothing beats a good local experience. So we didn't mind when our bus broke down for the third time and everyone had to climb out. Pushing it together only made the reward over the mountain all the more lovely. Udiapur is a little fairytale city with a lake palace you might remember from an old Bond flick. Not that we visited it though. We only randomly gazed at it from our terrace while knocking back pot after pot of chai tea and reading books. Ahhhhhhhh.
Jaisalmer looks like something you created as a child at the beach. A sandstone city crowned by a beautifully carved fort in the middle of the Thar desert. We spent our days walking around the narrow streets, hiding from the sun at noon, and visiting its palaces and Jain temples. But the highlight of each day was always a gourmet, rooftop dinner, as we watched the stone turn gold in the fading sunlight.
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