Amritsar and Dharamsala

After a total of 16 hours, I arrived by bus in Amritsar at 3 in the morning. I checked into the first hotel in sight, a whopping $2.50 for a bed and a cold, dribbling shower. It suited me just fine. With only a few hours before my bus to Dharamsala, I woke up early to see the only notable sight in town: The Golden Temple. Amritsar is the hometown of the Sikhs, started in the 15th century by Guru Nanak, a poor farmer from a neighboring village. His disciples and followers built an enormous white marble and gold temple complex. Before entering, I had to remove my shoes, cover my head with a provided scarf, and wash my hands and feet. I entered the temple's fort-like walls, embellished with minarettes and Islamic styled pointed domes. In the center of the rectangular-shaped complex, there is an enormous pool. In the middle, the temple seems to float on top, reflecting it's golden sheen into the water. People can take a narrow path into the temple, where relics of the past gurus are enshrined with gold, marble inlays, and intricate paintings. Sikhs make offerings to the various shrines and Sikh holy men play music. Surrounding the pool, people walk clockwise around the complex: there's a garden, an assembly hall, and a free dining facility. Thousands of people sit on the floor in long rows, while turbanned men offer fresh chapati (bread), water, and dal (lentils). It was pretty good!

Then to Dharamsala. For my first day, I woke up early and took my map for a walk. I hiked down the ridge to the Tsuglagkhang complex, home of the Dalai Llama. I watched monks complete their morning prayers in the ornately painted temple, colorful and detailed as in traditional Tibetan style. They rang bells and groaned in baritone chants. Despite the intense sounds, the young monks didn't seem as meditative as their elder monks. They behaved like good-natured schoolchildren, smiling at each other and laughing when their teachers weren't looking. It was refreshing to see these young monks light-spirited. After, I visited the Tibetan museum, which documented the Cultural Revolution and the Tibetan exile. It's amazing how they have sustained their culture. Here in Dharamsala, they have erected numerous museums, artisan schools and communities (manufacturing wood carvings, dolls, Thanka paintings, traditional clothing, carpets, jewelry), stupas, and monasteries. They even offer cooking, yoga, and massage classes! I learned to cook all sorts of Tibetan bread with Chef Sangye. I think tomorrow I will treat myself to a massage before my 12 hour busride back to Delhi.

I don't think I would even be in India if it weren't for my cousin Jeff, a filmmaker of sorts and a Tibetan Buddhist. He recently spent three weeks in Dharamsala filming the Dalai Llama and helping monks compile film footage for their archives. He put me in touch with a monk friend, the Venerable Karma Khedup, whom I planned to help digitize VHS footage. My plans changed, but I still wanted to meet this generous man who offered me a fabulous volunteer opportunity. Beaming with energy and smiles, he was just as jovial as Jeff described. I couldn't believe how this burgundy-clothed monk was so tech-savy! Instead of bells and chants, his office was filled with the buzzing of computers, massive hard-drives, and analoging equipment. He lead me through the cultural museum, library, manuscript archive, and film archive.

He asked my plans for tomorrow, and offered to take me to Norbulingka, an artist community, located 8 miles from Dharamsala. We met at the Archives in the morning, and he invited me for breakfast: personally-cooked pancakes, almost an inch thick, with jam and milk tea. I showed him pictures of the family, all of my cousin-brothers and cousin-sisters. He kept referring to Jeff as my brother, (since people here all live with their extended family) so I had to reintroduce the family as brother-brother or aunt-mother. After, we bussed it to Norbulingka, an artist institute whose goal is to preserve Tibetan art and culture. There is a doll museum, filled with figurines of traditional Tibetan dress from various regions and time periods. Inside the temple, along with a towering golden Buddha, workers are busily sewing silk tapestries and painting the walls in greater detail. Up the road, exiled Tibetans are hard at work, carving lotus flowers into wood and welding large pieces of bronze for Buddha statues. But it's not a factory: refugees are able stay at the institute in exchange for their work. Pictures of the Dalai Llama hang over each work station; one boy even carved "Home Tibet" onto his wooden desk. I've never seen a people so devoted to their homeland.

Srinagar, Rewritten

I don't want to admit it. I would like to believe that everyone has good intentions, and that religion truly is the vehicle for peace and compassion. Before I came to Srinagar, I never had a Muslim friend. I marveled at the chance to prove all the American stereotypes wrong: not all Muslims are Al Quaeda-bombing extremists or women-tamers. Every family has a black sheep, and I wanted to meet the rest of the herd.

I don't think that the Dandoo family will serve as the exception. I idealistically bought into all of their curious hopsitalities and saccarine smiles. They invited me to their home for lunch, so that the guesthouse cook could have an afternoon off. The 26 year old son Ali offered me a blanket at night, only to snuggle up with me. He generously took me to see the Mughal gardens, and then put his hand on my thigh while he admired the scenery. Luckily, I have been cautious and prewarned about this kind of behavior. I handled it sternly, and with no problem. The other guests and I were constantly sharing stories, and we banded together against their dubious motives. I never felt unsafe or vulnerable. With the younger generation, my reflexes are trained to handle certain situations, but I never expected it with the elders.

Within a few days, I had become very close to the grandfather, Haji. He had taken me to the White Mosque for prayer and for a boatride around Dal Lake. I trusted him and we seemed to share a paternal bond. After a day's lunch, we headed back into the house to sit with tea. He offered to take me to Pir Baba, Srinagar's holy man. He asked if I had any health problems or any specific prayer to ask him. I said that I had irregular menstruation, and that I feared that I would not be able to have children: "Are you pregnant?" I laughed. Definitely not! "Well, if you need, I have bundles of rubber," he offered. I thought I had crossed the line when I mentioned my period, and now he was teaching me sex ed. The conversation continued on about Pir Baba and how he helped Haji with his heart troubles and occassional spiritual doubts. Again, I felt close to him, and we held hands like a granddaughter and grandfather. What I thought would be a kiss on the cheek, his lips aimed towards mine! Instinctively, I shuttered and quickly turned my head, motioning an adamant no. I hightailed it out of the family house to the guest houseboat, shaken and betrayed.

Luckily, the other travelers, friends Birgit, Mica, and Heinrich, were sitting on the front porch. Had I misperceived the whole thing? I thought he cared for me like one of the family. Could a kiss on the lips be acceptable for close family; after all, they do all sleep in the same room. No, this was definitely not right, especially by my rules. Just as soon as I calmed down, Haji sat down with the rest of us chatting tourists. He picked up the fashion magazine that lay on the bench, and started to page through the numerous advertisements of Indian models and actresses: "Ooh. This one is nice. Very pretty." Nope! I definitely didn't misinterpret anything. Gone: Muslim modesty and traditional values. The grandfather is a pervert, Ali is a skirt-chaser, and the uncle is a very clever business man. Latif, the seemingly dopey uncle who handles most of the business, just sold me a three-week tourist package for Rajastan and Varanasi. They charged me the "family rate" of course. How nice of them to let me stay for an extra five days, for free. No doubt, the cost of the trip well compensates for my time in Srinagar. It's hard to find non-travelers I can trust here. Everyone is money hungry or horny, and I am sick of being thick-skinned all the time for my own survival.

Finally, I am free of Srinagar! No more kitchen staff reminding me to tip them, and no more flirtacious family members. I had been asking Latif to organize a bus ticket for me for days, and I always got the non-conclusive, "Yes, no problem. Bus ticket. Later. Yes." The long-awaited ten hour jeep ride from Srinagar to Jammu, and then another 8 hours to Amritsar, had never been more enjoyable. Don't get me wrong, I really did enjoy my stay in Kashmir. Dal Lake and the Mughal gardens are beautiful, and my new friends and I could entertain each other until the wee hours of the night. BUT, I eventually had to choose my sanity or the tormenting Dandoo family. Free at last, free at last. God almighty I am free at last!