Exploring the Realm of the Monkey Gods (Hampi, Karnataka, January 3-7, 2009)

According to my Lonely Planet guidebook, "The fascinating ruins of the 15th-century city of Vijayanagar, near the village of Hampi, are set in an extraordinary landscape of giant granite boulders, lush paddies and banana plantations. The clock seems to have stopped at this World Heritage site, and you can spend a surprisingly large amount of time gazing at the weirdly balanced rocks, wondering how millions of years of erosion could achieve such formations...In the Hindu legends of Ramayana, this area was Kishkinda, the realm of the monkey gods. In 1336 the Telugu princes Harihara and Bukka founded the city of Vijayanagar, which over the next couple of centuries grew into one of the largest Hindu empires in Indian history...This all came to a sudden end in 1565 when the city was ransacked by a confederacy of Deccan sultanates; it subsequently went into terminal decline...Although it was declared a World Heritage site in 1986, only 58 of the 550 monuments in the area hold heritage-protection status" (919-920).

Over the next few days, I take short day trips to the attractions Hampi has to offer. I try to do a little something each day, but not too much as I need to rest. At this pace, it will take me a while to see everything here. On the one hand I feel I am wasting time, but on the other hand I don't really know where to go next. I have nothing pulling me!

One of my first destinations is Anegundi. My Lonely Planet indicates that it is less commercialized and more residential than Hampi Bazaar, and I am instantly drawn to this place. Plus, it is within walking distance from Virupapur Gaddi, and I do love to walk. According to my Lonely Planet, "North of the river is the ruined fortified stronghold of Anegundi...an older structure than those at Hampi; within it you'll find a charming village...Much of the old defensive wall is intact and there are numerous small temples worth a visit" (922-923). Here are some photos from my walk:

It is a hot, sunny day--like most days here--and I am tired when I finally arrive in Anegundi. The place is quite sparse; I try to orient myself using the small, over-simplified Lonely Planet map and the bits of tourist signage posted at key locations in town. I try to make it to all the significant temples and historical sites. It's really not that impressive overall, but I do like this religious shrine and iconography:On my way back from Anagundi I visit the whitewashed Hanuman Temple, perched atop the prominent Anjanadri Hill. The temple is just a little ways off the main road from Anagundi to Virupapur Gaddi. There is maybe an less than an hour of sunlight left, and I'm a little worried I won't make it up and down in time for the last bus back to Virupapur Gaddi. The climb to the top of the hill will take maybe 30 minutes. But it seems many travelers are gathering to view the sunset, so I go on. Atop the hill I meet some travelers who are willing to split the cost of an auto-rickshaw with me.

The temple is aptly named, as monkeys abound (Hanuman is the monkey god). I take my shoes off to walk on the holy ground and argue with the shoe guard, who seems to indicate that a donation for watching my shoes is mandatory. I sneak away and explore. Here are some photos of what I see of the temple, and views of the temple's surroundings:I watch the sun descend, a little worried about missing the bus and not being able to find the people who offered to share a ride with me. Most travelers are grouping up to watch the sunset, but I am alone. I enjoy hopping over crevasses and exploring the rock's structure, all the while people-watching. I leave a little before dark, so I can make it down the stone-carved staircase before the rush. Luckily, I run into the people with whom I will share a ride. At the bottom of the hill, I buy a coconut, as I am so thirsty. I make sure to have the coconut-walla slice it when I am finished drinking, so that I can eat the flesh.

After a long day of sight-seeing, we head back toward Virupapur Gaddi and my bungalow. In the evening, I usually go to a particular small restaurant near the entrance to Virupapur Gaddi. It is the cheapest place I can find. I usually order the thali and a hot ginger lemon honey. They give me a whole bottle of honey to use freely, and I use more then they'd probably like me to because honey should help my lung infection and cough.

One night, there are a group of French people and one Israeli woman who is living in France with her boyfriend. She speaks negatively of Israel, and of places like Hampi that attract so many Israelis. These travelers seem to be newer to India, and I help them translate the menu. I try to use a little of my French. I appreciate their conversation and friendliness. Like me, they seem to be at a loss for deciding where next to go. We exchange ideas, but ultimately both they and I end up staying in Hampi a bit longer as we dream up the next leg of our journeys.

Amidst Ancient Ruins in Hampi (Karnataka, January 2-7, 2009)

I arrive in Hampi in the early evening. Uncle Mike sent me an email telling me to cross the small Tungabhadra River from the Hampi Bazaar to Virupapur Gaddi. The latter is more laid-back and quiet, and supposedly lodging is less expensive. Unfortunately, I arrive after the last boat shuttle departure at about 6pm. Almost all of Hampi's rooms are full, making bargaining almost impossible. I am at a loss for where to stay.

Finally, one hotel owner suggests I stay at the restaurant above his hotel--a roof restaurant. There is covering, and the weather is warm, so I don't technically need a room. I won't have a shower, and I'll have to wait until the patrons leave for the evening to fall asleep, and wake in the morning when the noise of the street starts. I am disappointed, but it seems like my only choice, and the restaurant owner agrees to let me stay for a fee. It is illegal, and I have a feeling I won't sleep well being so exposed. I decide to leave my bag at the restaurant and take a walk around to make sure this is the only place I can find. Without my heavy bag, I'll be able to do a more thorough investigation.

Finally, I come across a grim option--I think it's called the Krishna Guesthouse. I cannot recall exactly, but it is something like an above-ground cellar, with concrete walls that are painted a bright blue-green, and a series of small cells with bars across the windows. I can't bargain, but it's reasonable, so I go back to the restaurant, pick up my bag, and move in. At least there is a mosquito net over the bed.

The next morning, I am anxious to get across the river and find a place in Virupapur Gaddi. If Hampi Bazaar is so full, I figure I'll have to get there early to find a good room at a good price. While I'm waiting for the boat to arrive, I find a great photo opportunity of some Indian girls doing their ritual bathing and grooming in the river.

The river is quite narrow; I can easily see on the other side the small motor boat that is to shuttle the crowd slowly gathering around. It touches either side about every thirty minutes. Finally, it arrives. I climb in, being careful to balance with my pack on. In addition to the young man operating the motor, a young boy works to collect Rs 10 (and a little more for luggage) from each passenger.

We arrive at the other side and disembark. Up a short hill of dry mud, and I begin to see the first signs of tourist hostels and restaurants. It seems Hampi exists purely because of tourism, and I can't help but be disappointed. This trip has taught me that although Uncle Mike and I have been to many of the same places, we seem to be drawn to and satisfied by different facets of these places. It is clear that Hampi is a climber's paradise--it is a tourist town surrounded by boulders and ancient ruins carved out of and into rock. After a day of climbing, the climber can return to his comfortable, cheap hostel, order all types of cuisine at little expense, or buy hashish easily from one of the many dealers whispering in ears trying to make a sale. But this scene is not for me.

Nonetheless, I am still a bit ill with my lung infection contracted while at the ashram, and I reckon this will be an easy place to get some rest. The pace is relaxed, I'm surrounded by more tourists than Indians, and there's not too much to see, so I don't feel like I'm missing out. Plus, rooming here is very cheap, as most of the rooms are thatched-roof bungalows or huts.

I walk down a long dirt road lined with places to stay and eat. I try to find a place to stay, but many are full. Finally, near the end of the road, I take a right onto a side road, and find a small cluster of thatched-roof bungalows. All but one are vacant, and I stay here. It is one of the cheapest places I've stayed, so I feel good about using Hampi as a resting location.

The only other person staying at this same place is a man who has been coming here since before Hampi was on the tourist trail. I think he's German, if I remember correctly. He is a rock climber and, apparently, an old hippie. He's very angry that Hampi has sold out, and is preparing to go into nature for a while, away from the impurity that Hampi has become. I don't like his energy, but he's the only person I have to talk with. The man running the hotel (who takes my money, sweeps the bungalow with a broom of straw, and makes sure I have a mosquito net) seems to indicate his wife is sick. Something with her lungs. I wonder if we have the same thing. The angry climber said she used to make wonderful meals, but she can't this time around.

Welcoming the New Year on the Beaches of Gokarna (December 30-January 2, 2008-2009)

Near the end of our YIC course, everyone is talking about their plans for after the course. Yung gu will stay 1 week longer for the Yoga and Diabetes course. Remee and Beena will stay for another year for the Yoga Therapy course. Alan has to stay to complete the practicum portion of this 1-year course. Markus will leave to take other healing therapy courses in India. Lisa and Jean will return to Goa, where they had enjoyed themselves prior to YIC. Many of the Indian students will go home and either stay there, or return to Prashanti in about a month, when their coursework begins. My roommate Jin is dreading a return to South Korea, where people will tell her she's gained weight in India (she's still very thin, however). She wishes she could travel longer, but her mom wants her home.

I am trying to decide. I have signed up to sit a 12-day Vipassana meditation course in Bangalore. The courses are run by volunteers and therefore available on a donation basis. While they exist around the world, including the US, there are many locations in India and travelers often find the ambiance and history of the region conducive to the course's objectives. This is one of my goals for my India trip, but I am still ailing from my terrible cough and lung problem, so I decide to postpone the rigorous schedule and austere manner of the Vipassana course.

At the last minute, I decide instead to join a group of YIC and SVYASA students headed to Gokarna beach in Karnataka. The non-Indians going are Alan, Julie, Markus, Remee and Binha. I do not recall the Indians who went. I think they are mainly friends with Remee and Binha, and full-time SVYASA students, rather than YIC students. A few of their non-SVYASA friends also come. A Japanese student in the bachelor's degree program also comes. He speaks very little English and seems to know Alan best. Despite his inability to communicate well, it is his goal to complete a PhD program at SVYASA. Nobody seems to be able to recall his name, so he is called something from one of our classes...I think cin maya (as in cin maya mudra, one of the hand positions for breathing exercises).

All the students at Prashanti Kutiram must have an out pass signed before leaving campus. This is easy for the YIC students, as their course has ended, but much more difficult for the long-term students (Alan, "Cin Maya," and the Indians). I think Alan has to forge Cin Maya's out pass, even though both are full adults!

The Indian students have organized a van and driver for us, and we split the cost. One of my hesitations was that it is quite expensive, compared to what the same trip might cost on bus or train. But it is also not easy to get to Gokarna from SVYASA, as it will require first going to Bangalore, and then more than one mode of transportation from there (I think). Also, as it is New Year's, many people are headed to the beaches, and reservations for transportation or hotels might be full. I am counting on strength in numbers. Also, I enjoyed by time at YIC, and I still want to linger with a couple of the people from my class, and gradually fall away from the experience, rather than jut away alone again.

But I soon realize what my decision means. While I had pictured a peaceful New Year's on a quite beach, I had forgotten that most people celebrate the New Year with alcohol, fireworks and partying. The Indian guys who planned the trip start drinking on the van ride to Gokarna. It will be a long drive, maybe nine or so hours, through the night. I can't recall if we were short one seat (in part because I had decided to come at the last minute, which also saved everyone some cash), but people switch off sleeping in the aisle. Although Markus only travels with a small backpack, he seems to be the most prepared, with a decent sleeping bag. I donate my SVYASA yoga mat, which is like a thick rug, to the aisle "bed." At one point, in the morning, Markus remarks that you'd think students of yoga would be up for a peaceful, sober New Year's. I think we both have a pang of regret about traveling with this group.

We arrive in the morning, which is New Year's Eve, only to find that there's no hostel available. Here's a picture of Julie and an Indian guy upon our arrival at the entrance of the beach, and a view of the beach from above:

At this point, I am so tired and still not feeling well, and I just want to sleep. The Indians know someone else who has reserved a room, and we are allowed to put our things in there. Throughout the day, people from our groups go try to find rooms. We only find one hut--quite far from the other hostel and the main beach, hidden in the woods. I think Markus, Alan and Cin Maya decide they will room there.

I cannot recall what I do for the day. Probably worry about feeling better, and where to sleep, all the while trying to stay awake. Maybe I take a shower in the friend's hostel room. I also go into town with a couple of the nicer Indian boys to see a doctor about my lung infection. The doctor says I have some tropical thing--I can't remember. He says that to be sure, I'd need a test of some sort, but he can only administer it on certain days. The Indian boys who accompany me advise that I do not get treatment here, as it is such a small town and facility. I'll have to wait. We have some food from one of the restaurants lining the beach; all of the restaurants are somewhat Westernized.

At night, we plan to have a feast. But the restaurant has so many orders, we wait for a long time. As it gets dark, people are shooting off fireworks and drinking in crowds. It seems dangerous to me, but I seem to be the only one worrying. I am so tired, and just want to sleep. But I stay awake through the feast that finally arrived. I cannot recall what I have. Finally, after much debate and discussion regarding where we will sleep, I am insistent that I will just sleep in the van. I take my yoga mat, airplane pillow and travel sheet. I cannot recall who comes with me, but there are a few others who share the van with me. Finally sleep!

As morning comes, a few others join us in the van. Then it is time to fully wake up. We still don't have a room for ourselves. In the course of the night, Cin Maya never made it to the hut where Markus slept. Alan seems to have lost him, but it turns out he wanted to sleep by the water.

I try to make the most of my time on the beach, but I am becoming adamant that I must leave. I will lose money because included in the price is the trip back to Bangalore, but I don't want to spend one more minute in that van with those people. Julie also wants to depart from the group. Markus does as well, but he has to go back to Bangalore anyway, so he will stick with the group if only for the ride. Remee and Binha don't seem to mind, as these are their friends and they will return to SYVASA and study with them. Alan is cynical but easy-going. Cin Maya, well, I can't really talk to him.

Julie and I finally find a beach hut to share. It is nice to have a place of our own, and especially nice to take a shower. Though the water is cold, after the first minute, it is so refreshing to take an outdoor shower in such hot weather.

Markus had offered to do some pranic healing on me, and I take him up on the offer. I had seen him doing this to Ahalya at Prashanti during one of our class breaks. She had chronic belching problems on account of the stress she was under at home. She always insisted she got married too early. Pranic healing instills positive energy and takes away negative energy. Or something like that. We go to a quiet place on the beach, on a large boulder. His hands hover over me, I close my eyes. For the most part we are silent. After, he talks about the color of my aura, and the colors his hands inspired. It seems he hasn't done anything drastic, but he insists that even this subtle manipulation will bring positive healing.

It is nice to be with more peaceful people. But soon I will be leaving. I am going to to go Hampi. It's on my list of places to visit because my Uncle Mike, who had previously visited India, had gone and it was one of the few places in India he liked. Granted, he is a rock climber and Hampi is a well-known bouldering destination. At least the beach is beautiful, especially at sunset:

The next morning (I think), I wake up very early and Julie walks with me to town. I need to borrow some money from her because none of the ATMs have worked with my card, and I had to pay for the round-trip van ride. I will send her a check when I get back home. I am thankful for her trust and friendship. Julie really grows on me. She reminds me a bit of my friend Rebecca Glowacki, or of one of my favorite professors, Natalie Gummer, a professor of religious studies and expert on Buddhism. After getting money from the ATM, we separate (if I remember correctly), I find the bus stand and wait. There is still time before the bus comes, so I find a nearby food stand and have some breakfast--either idly or dosa and sambaar, I cannot recall.

Reflections on Ashram Life (Prashanti Kutiram, Jigani, December 1-30, 2008)

This is a combination of an excerpt from an email I wrote friends regarding my ashram experience, and additional information I added today:

The ashram...It was a great experience, especially looking back on it from America, where yoga is so different. At the ashram, it really was about living a holistic "yoga lifesyle," not just yogasanas (physical postures). I learned that yogasanas and pranayama (breathing exercises) are really just a preparation for meditation. The yoga lifestyle is all about experiencing and spreading bliss. Although I learned this in theory from the academic lectures on the four types of yoga--bhakti (devotional), karma (action/service), raja (physical), jnana (intellectual)--I think I learned this most clearly from the yoga games we were sometimes required to play. These were improvised physical or performance games. The Indian students were so spontaneous, unself-conscious and funny. This, too, is a form of bliss and these games brought me to a good place, just like yogasanas or pranayama.

My roommate Jin (from South Korea) and I woke up at 4:40 am every morning for our 5 am class, yogasans for one hour. Then we had pranayama (breathing), then breakfast (always kitcheree, a healthy and delicious mixture of rice and dhal; and then other things such as idlis, which are rice patties; dosa, a pancake-like food; mixed cooked veggies; and the foreigners always got fruit because we ate in a different place for breakfast...kind of strange, but it was nice to have the daily fruit, usually coconut and something else like papaya, and catch up with the other foreigners).

After breakfast, we had maitrimilan (friendship meeting), starting with about 30 minutes of singing--I think verses from the Baghadvad Gita, and then a lecture by Guruji (aka Dr. Nagendra), the guy who started the school. The whole time I thought he must have a PhD in Philosophy or Religion or Medicine, since he talked a lot about physical benefits of yoga, but turns out he was an Engineer with NASA and then decided to open the ashram/university/hospital. He opened it with Dr. Nagarathna, the head doctor. She performs research on the effects of yoga lifestyle (asanas, pranayama, devotion, philosophy) on health and healing, and has been published in important medical journals. Anyway, Guruji was NOT cool. We had to watch so many videos of him talking about key points and then elaborating with long, repetitive stories that weren't necessary for understanding the concepts. Basically, it was hilarious and the students and I had to keep our laughter in many days, but often we were cracking up through the whole lecture. One day my friend wrote in her notes, "bliss=fragrance," and we were wondering what that meant from all the crazy things Guruji said and we had to try to memorize. Then we realized he ended every lecture, saying "Let us now spread the fragrance of bliss."

After maitrimilan we did karma yoga (action/service yoga), usually some menial task, and then had bath time. I learned that Hindus are religiously bound to take a bath every day, hence the requisite time for this. Although Jin and I only had hot water at 4:30 am, we would go into the Indian girls' shared bathroom to get hot water at this later time so that we didn't have to get up so early. The Indian girls had many more people in their room, and shared a bathroom, but they almost always had hot water.

Then back for a lecture and more asanas. Then lunch, one hour break, lecture, yoga games or break or asanas, lecture, two hour break, dinner, devotional singing, lecture, happy assembly (talent show)/something else. I can't remember exactly! We were required to serve during one meal per day. I got the lunch meal, which was the most labor-intensive. People were very demanding--"more rice, didi"--and not very good at instructing me on how much they wanted or where on their plate they wanted food. I was a sometimes angry server.

Another thing we had to do maybe one week into the program were kriyas (cleansing) in the morning. These included jal neti (water through the nostrils), sutra neti (catheter up the nostril through the mouth!), and bamana dhoti (drink 1-2 liters of warm salt water fast, then throw it up to cleans mucus out of stomach lining, on an empty stomach of course). I was at first opposed to all this, but it is much easier to do in a group of 35 people. It's a good bonding experience. Sometimes in the mornings when we were doing asanas inside, we would hear other groups doing their kriyas just outside the wall in the outdoor area where people did kriyas!

We had exams, and though they required only memorization and no critical thinking, it was difficult to cram all the information into my head when we only had about three hours per day of free time, and I was exhausted by our 5 am-9 pm daily schedule. On the first exam, one of the student coordinators of the class came around and gave people answers. I felt so guilty when he gave me answers, but when I talked to others after, they were like, "Yeah, he helped me out, too." Then I justified it to myself, thinking that there is corruption everywhere in India, so corruption in a university ashram must be okay, too!

We also had to write a group paper and do a 30 minute group presentation. My group consisted of: a girl from Canada (Lisa), a doctor from Bangalore who spoke Kanada, Hindi and English (Dr. Satish), a student from Sri Lanka who studying in Tamil Nadu and spoke Tamil and English (Sanjay), an 18-year old freshman girl from Karnataka who spoke Kanada and little English (Aswini), a 20ish-year old girl from somewhere north who spoke Hindi and little English. There were no computers (except pay ones, for the Internet), so we had to write our papers, and our teacher was very particular that we make borders equally on every sheet. It was like elementary school! So, imagine writing a group paper on jnana yoga (our topic, intellectual yoga, one of the harder topics) in a group of 6 people, not all of whom speak English, and then doing a 30 minute creative presentation! Challenging, but fun and rewarding in the end.

In addition to our coursework, the staff at SVYASA had some fun surprises planned for us. On the full moon, they prepared a special meal for us--complete with bhelpuri and gulab jamun--and we ate outdoors on a roof. We played games, and the winners/loosers had to perform (sing, dance) what they were asked to perform. Another day, we hiked through a small village to a nearby nature area filled with intruiging rock formations to have a picnic. We had time to explore, and Yung gu and I had fun taking pictures. Yung gu had a great camera and enjoyed taking photos of people doing things natural to them, things that brought out their personality. Or things that were just plain funny.

We also had Christmas in the ashram, since I was there in December, and I was surprised at how much the Hindus got into it! They were totally excited to learn about Jesus! Jane and Lisa organized the whole thing. The got permission to go to Bangalore with Jai (class assistant) one day and bought the necessary supplies. We decorated Mangala Mandir. We hung a giant star above the state, decorated a small Christmas tree, and made a manger. I was instructed to go out to the cow shed to get some hay. Everyone made paper stockings, which were hung on the stage. We had a birthday cake for Jesus, and birthday cake was given out in the cafeteria for dinner. At satsangh, we sang Christmas carols after the devotional songs. One of my Indian friends Spurthy even lead a carol she had learned in school. We had a Secret Santa gift exchange, during which Jane read The Night Before Christmas. I gave The Kite Runner to Markus (Germany), along with dried dates (one of the more expensive canteen foods) and some fruit. Yung Gu gave me beautiful little butterfly hair clips, which I since lost somewhere in India. At night, there was the option to watch a chipmonks film Remi had. I called home during the film.

At the end of our YIC batch, we were asked to contribute to a Happy Assembly. I got together with Naveen, Spurthy and Nagendra to perform Udja Kale Kawa, a song from a much-loved Bollywood film, Gadar. The film takes place in 1947, during Partition. It is about a Muslim woman who falls in love with a Sikh man, and the conflict that ensues when the woman finds the father she thought was dead working for the Pakistani government in Lahore. I borrowed a violin from the musician who comes weekly to play the hand organ for devotional singing. At one point, I had taken a short lesson with him and he had tought me India scales. The violin is not of high quality, but it will do. Naveen is insistent that the song begins with a very famous violin part, and the audience will love it. I learn the simplified violin part and vamp two variations throughout the song. Spurthy provides the harmony. Nagendra provides the hand organ. Nagendra has a lovely singing voice and sings along with Naveen, but Nagendra's voice is also much too loud for our balance. Our rehearsals are stressful. The Hindi lyrics are difficult for Spurthy, a native Kanada speaker, who must write out all the lyrics before learning them. I have to discern the structure of the music independently, as Naveen is more concerned with getting Spurthy on pitch, and making sure Nagendra doesn't sing too loud. The language of rehearsal is more Hindi or Kanada than English, although I often ask for information. We just don't have enough time. In the end, however, it turns out great. The audience recognizes the song instantaneously when I begin the violin part, and everyone sings and claps along.

Other notable performances during the YIC 89th batch Happy Assembly are Lisa's dance to Madonna; Lisa's broadway singing; and a group of people who do a comedy routine of our class. Ahalya plays Padmasri Didi and Satish plays Dr. Nagendra (Swamiji). Naveen demonstrates the kriyas in a separate comedy routine. What at talented group of people!

The last 5 days were unusual in that there was a cow conference at the ashram, an academic conference on scientific research perspectives related to the cow (the holy animal) and the panca gavyas, or the 5 aspects of the cow used in Ayurveda--dung, urine, curd, ghee and buttermilk. Our course ended early, and we were to do karma yoga for the conference. Though I didn't do much because I had developed a terrible cough/lung infection from lack of sleep and air pollution. I felt fine, but knew I should rest. I attended a few talks. One on curing so many cancers with the panca gavyas. Another--the most controversial--a woman spoke about the cow not being the most perfect animal we think it to be because humans shouldn't drink its milk cuz we don't digest it well, and most mammals don't drink milk after childhood. Some people were upset and said she shouldn't be there. Which reminds me that I did feel some Hindu nationalist sentiment at the ashram. For example, in a lecture about the culture of India that totally ignored all but Hindu religion and culture. I feel the university must get money from Hindu nationalists.

One other thing...I became quite sick at the ashram. I think it was the culmination of so much pollution, plus the lack of sleep and intense schedule, and maybe also the kriyas. In any case, I developed a very audible cough in my lungs. It was nice to be in a place with so many people dedicated to healing at that moment. Satish made sure I was gargling with salt water. He also wrote a prescription for cough medicine, which Lisa and Jane bought when the went into Bangalore. I was advised not to consume dairy. Padmasri Did advised me to drink warm tumeric water. Alan recommended an ayurvedic doctor, who prescribed ayurvedic medicine which, ultimately, I did not purchase. Jin and Yung Gu told me to get rest. When we were in Gokarna after Prashanti, Markus performed pranic healing on me. Although my cough lasted for maybe a month after Prashanti, it was nice to have so many people helping me out. I went to several doctors, took several antibiotics, had an x-ray taken and an IV of saline water, and eventually, with the right antibiotics, my cough got better.

What did I learn in the ashram?

One, observing the Indian students in the ashram, they were so comfortable improvising things at the last minute. When the foreign students were freaked out because the teacher only gave us a day to prepare for an exam (because she didn't want us to have tension), they took it in stride. When we had yoga games (mainly playground-type games, and the winner/loser has to perform in front of everybody), they were awesome at getting up there and throwing something together. I think this, more than the yogasanas, taught me about the bliss that is the yoga lifestyle. The contrast in approaches to coursework and games was articulated well by one of our gurus, who said that Westerners have conquered the external and excel at environmental control, while Easterns have conquered the mind. This is something I try to keep in mind now that I'm home, and something that helped while traveling in India, when I was standing in a densely packed bus, holding onto the side so I wouldn't fall onto anybody, for example.

Two, I got to examine myself and my habitual psychological tendencies in an environment very different from what I am used to, and shed new light on these. For the first two weeks, I was my usual shy, reserved, judgmental, guarded self. But I soon realized I only had so little time with all of my wonderful classmates, and I tried to bond more with them. I really appreciated all the interesting talents they brought to the experience...Spurthy's angelic harmonies during devotional singing; Naveen's comedic charictures; Lisa's positive energy and compelling life story; Julie's natural curiosity and willingness to confront tough questions; Yung Gu's natural friendship, hospitality, and love of adventure; Jin's care and compatibility as a roomate; Virginia's yogasana talent; Mangala's frienship and beauty; Satish's discerning intelligence and patience; Aswini's innocence; Sangay's care and hospitality; Ahalya's quiet wisdom; Ayoush's humor; Heman's talent; Jai's relaxed ways; Markus' dedication to healing; Alan's perpetual cynicism; Beena and Remi's friendship; Padmasri Didi's care for the wellbeing of us all...there are so many people I do not want to forget, I fear I am already leaving someone out...

Three, I try to make relaxation and bliss the goal of yoga classes I teach, rather than physical postures. I believe a slow, less intensive physical practice can be as productive (or more productive) than a physically intense yoga practice, when executed with total awareness. In my teaching and personal practice, I am trying to balance the typical Western yoga practice with what I discovered at SVYASA.

Ashram Schedule (Prashanti Kutiram, Jigani, December 1-30, 2008)

This was the general daily schedule for the YIC program at Prashanti. Some things changed slightly, but for the most part this is reflective of a typical day.

5-6: yogasanas/kriyas
6-7:10: pranayama, meditation
7:15-7:45: breakfast
8-8:45: maitrimilan (friendship meet; short lecture and Q&A by Guruji, Dr. Nagendra)
8:45-9:45: karma yoga/group work/study time
9:45-10:30: bath and wash
10:30-11:20: lecture
11:30-12:25: yogasanas
12:30-1:30: lunch
1:30-2:30: rest/library
2:30-3:30: lecture
3:30-4:30: yogasanas/Self-Management of Excessive Tension (SMET)
4:30-5:00: malt/milk
5:00-6:00: yoga games/group work/study
6:00-7:00: satsangh (devotional chanting)
7:00-8:00: dinner
8:00-9:00: trataka/happy assembly/report presentation/study
9:00-9:30: study, lights off

An explanation of some of the terms:
maitrimilan (friendship meet): recitation of verses from the Baghadvad Gita, short lecture and Q&A with Guruji, Dr. Nagendra
yogasanas: physical yoga postures
kriyas: cleansing practices (jal netti, sutra netti, bhamana dhoti)
pranayama: breathing exercises
yoga games: improvised physical and theatrical games played with the whole YIC batch
satsangh: devotional singing (bhakti, or devotional, yoga)
happy assembly: talent show, filled with Indian classical dance, comedy, music, etc., usually put on by a specific group within the university, i.e. arogyadhama patients
trataka: kriya (cleansing practice) for the eyes and meditation technique

Abode of Peace (Jigani, November 30-December 30, 2008)

At the SVYASA Bangalore center, I am told to wait for a ride to Prashanti Kutiram (Abode of Peace), SVYASA's ashram in Jigani, maybe a 1.5 hour drive from Bangalore. In the mean time, I head to a small restaurant and have my first official South India breakfast--idlis (savory rice cakes) dipped in sambaar (a soup of dhal, tamarind, tomatoes and other vegetables). Indeed, South Indian food is spicier than North India food. But I am comforted by the fact that the ashram is supposed to serve South Indian-style sattvic food, or typical ashram food that does not use intense spices such as peppercorns, peppers and garlic. I also get a ride to a nearby bank to take out funds to pay my tuition. Unfortunately, I can only take out half as much as I need.

Finally, two men, participants in a short residential class for business employees, join me, and we all get a ride to Prashanti. We have to stop when we have car trouble mid-way, and then continue on. They are very friendly, and are eager to say "hi" and ask how my program is going, how am I settling in, etc. whenever they see me on campus. It is a good feeling to meet such friendly people right from the start. They had already been at Prashanti prior to their yoga for business program, and they both spoke very positively of the ashram experience. They say it is a wonderful time to relax in such a quite place.

I spend my first day on campus orienting myself. The campus is full of YIC participants who have just finished the November batch. I ask some of them if the program was good. One Indian girl spoke very highly of it. One European yoga instructor said it was just too much philosophy packed into one month, but that you get a feel for what lectures/programs you really have to attend, and what ones you can skip. A performance artist/dancer from San Francisco advises to make the best of it. I meet two girls in the Internet room who will be in my December batch, the 89th Yoga Instructor's Course (YIC) batch. They are Jane from the US (but also a Canadian citizen) and Lisa from Toronto. They also seem apprehensive about the quality of the course and are writing to the Yoga Alliance to see if this course will count for 200 hour certification. But they are committed, and so am I.

After a little mix-up, I am shown my proper room and meet my roommate, Jin from South Korea. I really like her, and it seems like we will get along well. The room is sparse--we each have a bed and a thick blanket. Unfortunately, her bed is damp and she needs to wait for new bedding. The campus is very busy, as there is a youth school group visiting, and the old YIC batch is leaving, so there are not many extra blankets. We also have an attached bathroom. I am happy we have an Indian-style toilet. We have a bucket shower and hot water only at about 4:30 am, and whatever hot water remains into the morning after others have showered.

I remember my first eating experience at the ashram vividly. I walk into the cafeteria, and it is full with people. I walk into a the washing room, where I learn I am to pick up my metal plate, small cup and bowl. I walk over to the women's side of the sinks, and begin washing the dishes with water and damp brown detergent. I then walk into the eating area, lined on both sides with three or so rows of thin straw-woven cloth for sitting. Men and women are separated. My first subji (vegetable) features bitter gourd, the bitter vegetable I tasted during my first Bangladesh meal, and with which I associate my Bangladesh stomach problems. It is so terrible, and I fear I am in for a long month of barely edible food.

Very happily, bitter gourd is seldom served after this. The food is difficult to adjust to at first, but by the second week, I love it. Ahalya is an older woman in our course from Tamil Nadu, near Auroville. She is a mother figure to me and others throughout the course. She recognizes that I love the food and is always telling me what's good and what I should eat. When she serves, she always asks if I want more.

During the first few days of class, we are issued a textbook, yoga mats (thick woven cloth mats, different from the sport yoga rubbery mats found in the US), shoulder bags for carrying our textbook and other supplies, and a uniform. Women get a one-size-fits-all white salwar and light blue kurta with machine-embroidered flowers along the collar; men get black sweatpants and a white polo shirt with a screen printed image of Swami Vivekananda on the back.

I orient myself to the bookstore, a small shop across from the Internet and STD phone booth room. The bookstore has SVYASA's publications, along with yoga publications from Bihar Yoga and others. It also has toiletries, school and yoga supplies. Down from the cafeteria is the canteen, where we can purchase fresh fruits and snacks in addition to the cafeteria food, which is included in our tuition. Near the canteen is an ayurvedic pharmacy. Near the center of campus is the Arogyadhama, SVYASA's yoga hospital and yoga medicine research institution. There is also a library, but it has no card catalog so finding books is a little tricky. YIC students are only allowed to check out one book at a time. Mangala mandir is the main meeting place for the campus and the building in which we have most of our yoga practice, lectures and devotional sessions. There are other smaller classrooms throughout campus. There is also a nice, wooded walking path through campus, and a cricket field.

The first night, I go with Jin, Yung Gu (South Korea), and Victoria (Hong Kong), Remi (UK) and Beena (UK) to a trataka session. Trataka is a kriya (cleansing practice) for the eyes and meditation technique. Yung Gu and Victoria are roommates, and their room is just two doors down from ours. Remi and Beena are cousins, currently living in the UK, but descendants of Gujrati Jains. Remi was actually born and lived in Tanzania before moving to the UK.

The next day, we meet as a class with our coordinator, Padmasri Didi, and assistants, who are recent graduates of SVYASA Master's programs. We are to address all women at SVYASA as "didi" (sister) and all men as "bhaiya" (brother). We fill out requisite forms, and I meet more of the YIC students.

Alan, from Ireland, is in the one-year Yoga Therapy program. Many of the Indian students are in the Bachelor's program. I realize YIC is a requirement for any of SVYASA's BSc, MSc, PhD, or other programs. Suriya Bhaiya works on campus and is attending YIC for the first time. Ravi is the webmaster with whom I communicated via email before arriving, and he will also be in our YIC batch. Julie is from Rhode Island, but attending an international college and spends each year in a new location.

North to South on the Bangalore Rajdhani Express (Delhi-Bangalore, November 28-30, 2008)

My train is scheduled to depart from Delhi's H. Nizamuddin station at 20:50, and arrive two days, or about 34 hours later, at Bangalore CYJN at 6:35. I will spend two nights on the train, which I am excited for. I love train rides, and I've just started The Kite Runner, so I have an excellent read for the ride. Once I am on the train, I discover that all my meals were include in the ticket price, as this is how the Rajdhani Express caters to its passengers. We are continuously being fed meals of rice, dhal (lentils), subji (cooked vegetables), curd, a sweet, pani (water) and a juice box. In between meals, there are snacks--chai and biscuits, bread with butter and jam. It is difficult to be bored when continuously served culinary surprises.

Along the ride I meet a Pakistani-American man who is about my age. He is in India with a group of Muslims that do service projects. He had already spent some time in an impoverished community in India, and he will eventually head to Bangladesh and Pakistan. I am jealous because he paid the same price as me and got a Bangladeshi and Pakistani visas that last several years, I suppose because he plans to return to these places to do service work and visit family. We talk for a while about values and religion. He tells me about his wife, how they met and fell deeply in love, how she respects his decision to leave for a while and do these service projects, how they have very open communication. When he is in the US, he does IT work for large corporations. It seems good for him.

Later, I join the Muslim-American man in his cabin and meet his two Uzbekistani cabin mates. They are a couple; the man is of Russian heritage, and the woman of Uzbek heritage, but both citizens of Uzbekistan. They are traveling in India to meet a religious teacher they have been following, especially the man. I think the woman works for the Uzbek government, and I cannot recall the man's line of work, but he seems very intelligent. We talk about Uzbek culture and history, Russian culture, and the future of the Russian federation as it relates to Uzbekistan and other former satellite states. The man seems to be very interested in conspiracy theories and the impact of Christian/Western mythology on the development of the world.

I also finish reading The Kite Runner on the train. I am thankful for the time to read. Several times the book makes me cry as I lay in my bunk, hopeful that my Indian cabin mates don't see the tears.

In my last hour or so on the train, I make friends with my cabin mates so that they can help me find a taxi or rickshaw at a decent rate. The group of young men find a ride for me and try to get a good rate, as I stand back so that hopefully the driver will not realize he is taking a white person that he should be charging more.

I thank the men and head off to the Swami Vivekananda Yoga Anusandhana Samsthana (SVYASA) center in Bangalore. It is early morning and the streets are surprisingly calm. My first impressions of Bangalore, and of the South, are positive. It seems like a smaller, more navigable city than Delhi. But maybe this is only because it is morning. We drive past some impoverished areas, and then finally find the SVYASA office.

Thanksgiving and Terrorism (Gurgaon, November 25-28, 2008)

I take a taxi from Old Delhi to Austin's Google guesthouse in Gurgaon. It is the first time I have had to get a cab from Delhi, and I bargain hard just to get the maximum price Austin told me I should pay. Because evening is falling, I will not be able to find a better price. I get to Austin's at night. I'm sure Aarif greeted me and told me the staff missed me.

I inform Austin that I'm planning to stay in India a bit longer, and thankfully he is okay that I will leave my things in his room while I travel. We plan to celebrate Thanksgiving at his guesthouse, and he will invite some of his friends to the celebration. I also reserve my train ticket from Delhi to Bangalore, where I will attend the one-month Yoga Instructor's Course (YIC) at the Swami Vivekananda Yoga Anusandhana Samsthana ashram called Prashanti Kutiram (which, I think, means abode of peace). SVYASA is a yoga university based in Bangalore, but the ashram is in nearby Jigani. There is also a yoga hospital (arogyadhama) on campus, where research is conducted on the healing effects of yoga for a number of physical and mental ailments.

One evening, Austin and I go to his acquaintance's apartment for a party with a bunch of Indians and ex-pats. I don't think Austin knows the host as well as he knows some of his co-workers at the party. I'm quite awkward all-around, because I really don't know anybody. I am thrust into the kind of ex-pat life I saw in Hong Kong, and I don't really like it.

Austin and I plan for Thanksgiving. I spend most of the day at the Internet cafe while he is at work. We meet up and Manbir takes us to grocery stores that tend to have Western fare. Austin finds a smoked turkey that is more like a processed lunch meat than the real bird. I can't remember what else we find, but I know we cannot find pumpkin pie filling. We might also have mashed potatoes. The guesthouse cooks will make our American food, and also Indian food in case the Indian guests don't like the American dishes. We are fortunate to find some nice pastries at a bakery, and these will suffice instead of pumpkin pie.

I learn that on Thanksgiving day, there has been a huge terrorist attack at two expensive hotels in Mumbai. After Thanksgiving dinner, I call home to talk to the family. I tell my mom that I have decided to stay about three months longer in India, and she is worried. She said she was doing so well with my being gone, until she heard about the Mumbai blast. Now she wants me to come home. I assure her that when I am in the ashram, I will not be mobile for an entire month, and I will be in the middle of nowhere, a place not likely to be attacked. She finally says it is okay for me to stay. I talk to everyone, especially Andrew.

I take the next day to finish laundry and pack, and Manbir brings me to the Delhi train station for my 34-hour train to Bangalore on the Bangalore Rajdhani Express.

Decisions in Old Delhi (November 23-November 25, 2008)

After breakfast, the German man and I part ways.

I wander the streets of Old Delhi, probing shops, trying to find cheap Kashmiri pashmina shawls and a place where I can exchange books I've read for ones I haven't. I am looking for a shawl similar to the one a Pakistani friend of mine gifted me in college, the kind with hand-stitched embroidery embellishing the corners and borders. I learn that Old Delhi, such a touristy place, is probably not the place I will find a good price. In fact, although pashmina shawls are probably cheaper in India than in the States, they are still more expensive than I had expected. After trying on some real (and expensive) pashmina shawls, and interrogating the salesman about discerning an authentic pashmina, I find another salesman selling cheap, wool shawls that have embroidery similar to what I had been looking for in pashmina. They are clearly of much lower quality than I would have hoped, but he takes me to his upstairs room and shows me his whole selection. I try on a red and black one, and as he has no mirror, he uses my digital camera to photograph me so I can see how I look.

I bargain hard and he offers them to me for the incredibly low prices I had requested (I think Rs. 400 for the two of them). I didn't think he'd give me that price, and I realize I don't really want them, so I say, "No, never mind, I've changed my mind." He says, "No, you can't do that." I think I've violated a rule of bargaining here, and begin to feel guilty. He begs me to buy the shawls. I will be his first sale for the day, and he's having a slow day. If he can sell these to me, it will guarantee he'll have a good day. The first sale is always a lucky one, he indicates. I buy the two shawls, justifying the purchase by telling myself they'll make good gifts for my mother and Nonna, or at least keep me warm as I travel. Only thing is, they're pretty thick and bulky (compared to pashmina).

I look for some books, but I can't find anything. I cannot remember if it is today or the following day, but one day while I am eating my thali lunch, a parade starts up in the main street of Old Delhi. It is a Sikh festival, and the Sikhs bring their communal kitchen to the streets for all to enjoy. There are brass bands and groups of school children marching through the street in parade fashion. A bus comes through decorated with strings of flowers. The Sikhs have prepared food dishes to share with all the people lining the streets of Old Delhi--chole bhature (spicy chick peas with maida flower fried bread that puffs up like a bubble), and others. Crowds surround some men giving out juice boxes and food. A good time is had by all, but the streets are left to bear the brunt of the festival.

Later in the day, I bump into the German guy. He tells me he's left a note for me with the front desk staff at our hostel. When I get to the hostel, I ask for the note. "Think about it. Do it. You may not get another chance," it reads. Of all the people to give me such advice, he must know something about not getting another chance, I reason. This is the kind of serendipity people come to India for, the kind of coincidence I had heard in other's experiences, but hadn't yet experienced myself. I've been waiting for this all along. Something outside of myself to direct me. My inclination to stay in India for another three months is gaining validity.

Now, I must insert here, that I think I was in Old Delhi for approximately two days and three nights, before I headed off to Gurgaon for Thanksgiving and R&R at Austin's Google guesthouse. I cannot recall the exact order in which the aforementioned events took place, and in what order they occurred.

In any case, I believe it was on the evening of my first day in Old Delhi, after the shawls and the Sikh festival and the note, that I had another serendipitous encounter. I returned to the cute, comfortable cafe where I had been treated to breakfast that morning. I sat alone, looking around at all the travelers who had others to talk to, or who were reserving places for friends. I felt alone, but strong. In came two travelers. They tried to sit down, but another person said, "these seats are reserved for friends."

"Sit here," I said, "I have no friends." I guess I was a little down on myself. They sat across from me, and I recognized American accents. I hadn't talked to an American in a while. Although I was a bit sick of talking to travelers by this point, I asked them where they were from, how long they'd been in India, when they were heading home, etc. They were both originally from San Francisco, but the woman was currently residing in Oregon and running her own travel and outdoor recreation business. They had come to India for a friend's wedding. "I'm leaving early tomorrow morning," the woman said, "but he's..." Stephen was his name. Turns out he was scheduled to leave with her, but contemplating extending his flight.

I told them I had the same quandary. I couldn't believe I was meeting someone even more indecisive than myself, someone who would wait just a few hours before his flight to change his itinerary. He said he felt that he hadn't fully experienced India, that he was still waiting for some spiritual inspiration, the thing people come to India for. I think that for both of us, the decision-making process brought us into our first serendipitous moments in India. For me, these were with the German man and Stephen, and for Stephen, it was with me. I told him about my experience with the German man, about how with his advice, I was leaning very strongly toward staying another three or so months in India, and fulfilling my goal of staying at an ashram and visiting spice gardens. I think this was the mirror Stephen needed to look in, to learn that his soul also wanted to stay a bit longer.

He decided that night to call his airline and change his ticket. He told me that it was because of his meeting with me that he was able to make this decision. I divulged that now I felt very responsible for his well-being and positive experience in India, but he assured me that it was not my responsibility. He seemed very happy about his decision and promptly made plans to leave some of the heavy luggage (for example, a bike kickstand) at the hotel so he could travel light.

I stayed one more day in Old Delhi, and probably met up with Stephen after his friend left on her scheduled flight. But I cannot remember exactly what I did on those days in Old Delhi.

I do know that Stephen was a wonderful person to have in Inida. Although we did not meet up after Old Delhi, we kept in touch via Facebook messages, offering each other our joys and struggles, our doubts and assurances about our decisions. He thanked me many times for helping him fulfill his personal destiny and deepen his spiritual journey in India. He sat in a 10-day Vipassana meditation course and made good friends with a Keralan family who owned a guesthouse. He ended up staying in India maybe 1-2 months longer than I, but we still kept in touch.

Mahananda Express to Old Delhi (New Jaipalguri-Old Delhi, November 21-23, 2008)

I usually book my train tickets online and it has overall been very convenient. At the time of booking a train from New Jaipalguri to Delhi, the only open train I can find is the Mahananda Express, which travels this route every day of the week. Little do I know, it also has a reputation to be one of the slowest trains. I am scheduled to depart at 11:15am on November 21, and arrive at the Old Delhi station at 6pm on November 22. That's already a 31 hour train ride. In the middle of the night, I wake up and realize we are often stopped for long periods of time. It seems the Mahananda Express is no "express" at all; it must have a low priority on the tracks. We stop for long periods of time on and off throughout the journey. The train ends up arriving at the Old Delhi station about seven hours late, at around 1am, making the journey a 38 hour ride.

I don't mind a slow train. I really love train rides, just sitting back and enjoying the scenery, both outside and inside the cabin. And getting through books I want to read. Time stops when I am in transit, and I like the opportunity to relax.

I cannot recall who shares my cabin. It may be a mother and her two daughters on the long bunks, and a man on the short window bunk, with a few bunks to spare. Somehow the conversation turns to dance, and I learn that the mother is a classical Indian dance instructor near Delhi--maybe in Chandigarh. I ask if she can recommend places to study dance in India, and she says she can teach me! I am too timid to ask how this might work--fees, housing, other logistics. But I politely say that would be nice, though I might be leaving the country in just four days. I also have a conversation with the older daughter about Bollywood. I tell her my friend's co-worker at Google is the cousin of Deepika Padukone, one of the biggest heroines at the moment. Smart and mature, she says, "Eh, these things pass. In a little while, there will be someone new." At one stop, the mother and daughters meet some relatives on the platform. The relatives hand them some fresh food. The younger girl looks like she's crying because she had to say goodbye to her relatives so quickly. The man at the short window bed offers us bananas throughout the trip, always saying, "take, take."

I cannot recall if I am confusing train trips, but I believe that at one point the mother and daughters disembark. The short window bed man stays on. This might be a memory from another trip, or it might be from this trip. I also remember sharing a cabin with two men who are apparently powerful members of the Indian police. They tell me that if I need anything, they can help. Near the end of the trip, they seem to drink some alcohol and get a little tipsy. The higher-up in the police force keeps inviting me to his mother's village home. He says that 70% of Indians live in villages, and if I haven't been to a village yet, then I haven't seen the "real" India. He says his mother will treat me like a daughter. It sounds interesting, but I am much too wise by now to accept such an offer as a single female traveler. Luckily, I have an excuse because I have a flight scheduled to leave the country in a few days.

The other memorable passenger from this train ride is the only other Western traveler on my train car. I avoid talking to him for the first part of the journey. I am sick of small talk with other travelers by now, repeating questions such as, "Where are you from? What have you seen? How long will you be in India?" But then, maybe halfway into our journey or so, after having stepped out on the platform and staring out the open door for a while, he comes and sits across from me.

"This train is so slow. We're already so late," he complains to me. "Yeah, this is India," I reply. This short sentence is often used by travelers and Indians alike as a comprehensive explanation of situations here. He doesn't seem placated. I can tell he needs someone to complain to, and that someone is me. He says he's taking the train back to Delhi because he has to go to a travel agent to pick up a refund on a flight that was canceled. This is another thing he's angry about.

At one point in our conversation, a very young newspaper wala sells us the newspaper. I don't know the real price, but I am happy to pay the five rupees he requests. I reason that if he is ripping me off, I don't mind because I am supporting a child who's working rather than begging, and it's only five rupees. But the Westerner across from me argues with the mere child. "It's really supposed to be three rupees, but you blacked out the price on the front. I'll only pay the real price." Then the man brushes the child away. At another point I give a child who is sweeping the cabin a tip, and the man again shoos the child away. "Sometimes you have to tell 'em to fuck off," he says, "Sometimes it's the only way to get 'em away."

I am certainly not impressed by this man, but it's nice to be able to talk to someone, and I have nothing else to do, so we continue our conversation. I soon realize that the conversation is basically one-sided, that this man doesn't want to listen to my India stories, and merely needs to voice his. I learn he is from Germany and has just started receiving his pension, and so decided to revisit India. He had been here many years ago and wanted to see how it changed. He looks young to be receiving a pension, so I ask how this was possible. "My medical condition," he says, "I went to the doctor and they filled out the forms, and the government approved."

A little later in the conversation, I ask him what his condition is. It may seem like I am asking very personal questions, but I find that travelers usually open up to each other because we'll probably never see one another again. "AIDS," he says. I am a bit taken aback, although I do my best to hide this. He is the first person I've met who I know has the disease. I always thought I'd meet a person in a third-world country with AIDS, or in a shelter or something. But he looked so normal. Which is, of course, the point. AIDS is not obvious.

I continue to probe whenever I feel this is appropriate in the conversation. He says he worked in Japan as a young man, learning how to translate Japanese and German. He seems very intelligent. The type of person who is maybe too intelligent to know how to interact with others. He says he believes he contracted AIDS sometime while he was traveling in Asia. I'm thinking he got a bad blood transfusion or stepped on a used needle. He didn't find out he had the disease until maybe 10 years after being infected.

I am just baffled by how this could happen to a person. Later, I ask if he knows more specifically where he was infected. "Thailand," he says. Oh. Sex industry, I realize. Wow. This is the first person I meet with AIDS, and I am sorry to say I have no sympathy for him. He has complained to me, acted uncaring toward street children, and now I learn that it was his own risky (and, in my mind unethical and disgusting) behavior that caused his situation. Writing this now I feel terrible. But at the time, I was just stuck with this gruff man talking at me.

We continue talking. He says his antiretroviral drugs are working the way they are supposed to. He got an early pension because he needs to take mid-day naps and tires easily at work. But he doesn't seem to be in a terrible situation. Yet, he will not tell his doctor about his India trip until he returns to Germany. And one of his medications is supposed to be refrigerated, which traveling in India does not allow. He says he has three chances to relapse, and this hasn't happened yet. He'll get his blood tested when he returns. He also thinks he contracted Hepatitis B while traveling, another thing to deal with when he gets home.

The train is so late, it's looking like we'll be arriving at the Old Delhi station past midnight. I am beginning to be worried about navigating Old Delhi alone to find a hotel, so I ask what the German man's plans are. He thinks he'll just sleep at the traveler's room at the train station, or in the station waiting room. I don't want to do this, and finally I convince him to split a rickshaw with me to get from the station to Old Delhi. I call a hotel listed in the Lonely Planet and make a reservation--two single rooms--for us. Then we go to our bunks and sleep for the beginning of our second night on the train. We are woken up at around 1am to disembark. I try to bargain hard for a rickshaw, but at this hour in such a touristy destination, we have little luck. Because we got in so late, when we arrive at the hotel, our rooms have already been occupied. The hotel owner recommends another place and promises we'll get the same price. One of his workers walks us to the second place, probably owned my the first owner, or by a close relative.

We are given two rooms--one cheaper room on the first floor just across from the reception desk, and a much nicer room upstairs. Somehow the German man manages to get the nicer room, and I am stuck with the noisier reception area room. He goes up to sleep and I double-check on the prices to make sure they're really the same rate. Not surprisingly, both rooms are more expensive than the original hotel--especially the upstairs room. I bargain hard to make sure we only have to pay the first price we were quoted.

The next morning I see the German guy (I cannot remember his name) and he thanks me for getting him a beautiful 400 rupee room for 200 rupees, which he will stay in for the next few days before his flight. Apparently he had heard my bargaining. He says he'll buy me breakfast as a thanks, and we head off to a nice cafe he remembered from the first time he was in Old Delhi.

At breakfast I divulge my dilemma. I don't know if I should leave with my scheduled flight on November 25, or if I should extend my ticket and study yoga at an ashram and see more of India. Thanksgiving is coming up and I am getting a little homesick. It will be hard to be away for Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I have this nagging feeling that there is still more for me to do in India... I haven't accomplished all I had set out to do...

Sightseeing in Darjeeling (West Bengal, November 18-21, 2008)

I end up spending about five days in Darjeeling, which is more than I had expected. There are many sights on the Darjeeling tourist list, and I am determined to see most of them. My arrival and departure dates are quite rushed, so I suppose I really only end up using three of the days for sightseeing. The other two days are for moving in and out.

First, I take a two-hour tourist "joy ride" ride on the Toy Train, and visit the train museum en route. The British are credited with directing the construction of the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, or Toy Train, in the mountains of Northern West Bengal. Its inaugural journey was in September 1881, and it is one of the few hill railways still operating in India (India Lonely Planet 535). Without it, the region would have been geographically and economically disconnected from the rest of the country. Thus, although the British presence in South Asia was detrimental in many ways, colonization also resulted in important development projects that had a positive impact. Despite their oppression under British rule, many Indians today seem to retain a subtle sense of reverence for the Crown.

I also visit Observatory Hill, which was the site of the Dorje Ling Monastery (the city's namesake), and is sacred to both Buddhists and Hindus. Today, devotees of both religions come to a temple in a small cave to honor Mahakala, a Buddhist deity and an angry form of the Hindu god Shiva. I arrive at dusk and am a little confused as to where the interfaith temple is located. There are a few other worship spaces on the hill, a labyrinth of prayer flags and devotional bells. A Hindu man eagerly offers to take me on to the temple. Although I should know better by now, I tell him "no money," and because he concurs, I decide to follow. He shows me that, indeed, this is a site for both Hindus and Buddhists--pointing out the iconography and small sculptures unique to each religion. He then walks me through a Hindu prayer, dabs color on my forehead, and shows me now to tie a special knot with a red string, which he advises me to use to pray for my family. As we are walking away from the temple, he asks if I want to buy some marijuana. I didn't see that one coming! Apparently at the other worship spaces, it is common Hindu practice to smoke weed. I tell him no and walk away. I circle the hill a few times, hoping for a nice sunset view and photo opp of the Himalayas and Mt. Khangchendzonga, but this is not to be had.

I cannot recall the order in which I visit the next sights (it has already been six months since I was in Darjeeling), but during the next couple days I visit the following:

I walk quite a ways from my hotel, through Chowrasta, Darjeeling's town center, and to the Tibetan Refugee Self-Help Centre. According to my India Lonely Planet, this refugee center, established in 1959, "comprises a home for the aged, school, orphanage, clinic, gompa and craft workshops that produce carpets, woodcarvings, leatherwork and woollen items" (536). Not listed are the village toilets, my first stop. A sheltered, long, shallow trench (rather than the usual deep hole in the ground), they definitely make my "worst toilets" list for the trip. Things get better as I visit the craft workshops, however. Most of the Tibetan artisans are willing to let me photograph them, and I get some great photos as they spin yarn, some on bicycle wheels.

After the Refugee Center, I continue walking quite a distance in search of Happy Valley Tea Estate, the only Darjeeling tea plantation listed in my guidebook. En route, I take a break at some roadside stands selling Darjeeling tea. Not knowing how long I'll have to wait to find a proper restaurant along my walk, I'm happy to satisfy my hunger a stand that prepares fresh vegetarian momos for me. The savvy saleswoman also prepares samples of tea for me, and I am sold on the silver leaf tea. I buy a nice box for Austin, who has been such a gracious host in Delhi. I also buy a cheaper bag of green tea to take back home.

I continue walking on my way, asking for directions to make sure I don't get off track. I am determined to see a tea plantation here because Darjeeling is famous for its tea. According to my India Lonely Planet guidebook, "The tea bush was first brought to Darjeeling from Assam by British planters looking for a way to break China's monopoly over the tea trade. Credit for the discovery of tea as it's drunk in the Western world should really go to the Khamti and Singpho tribes of Assam, who first introduced British explorers to the healing powers of fermented tea leaves brewed in hot water. Darjeeling produces around 25% of India's tea, including some of the world's finest brews...Teas from estates around Darjeeling and Kurseong (also marketed as Darjeeling tea) regularly and justifiably achieve the world's highest prices" (535).

I finally arrive at the Happy Valley Tea Estate, only to find that I am late for the unofficial tour. A friendly employee, however, lets me inside and doesn't even accept a tip! Although the machines have shut down for the day, I still get to see the withering trough, where high-speed fans reduce the moisture content of the leaves, before they're rolled with heavy rollers to force the remaining water onto the surface. The rolled leaves are then fermented in a high-humidity chamber to produce their distinctive flavor. Fermentation is stopped by passing the leaves through a dry air chamber, which reduces the moisture. The finished tea is sorted into grades--unbroken leaves are set aside for Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe teas, while broken leaves end up as Golden Broken Orange Pekoe, Orange Fannings and Dust--and then graded by expert tasters. Low-grade leaves are blended into household teas, while the best leaves are sold to international tea traders (India Lonely Planet 535). I also see a few women working in a separate room, finishing off their leaf sorting for the day. After visiting the tea plantation, I continue on my way back to the center of town and to my hotel.

Another day I walk from Chowrasta to the Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park and the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute. The zoo was built to conserve and preserve Himalayan fauna, including Himalayan black bears, red pandas, snow leopards, Tibetan wolves, and India's only collection of Siberian tigers. It is quite impressive in that the animals are caged outdoors, in a rocky and forested natural environment.

The Himalayan Mountaineering Institute is near the zoological park. Although this is not my main interest, my Uncle Mike and brother are both climbers, and they have piqued my interest in the sport. The Institute, founded in 1954, both provides training to some of India's leading mountaineers, and hosts the fascinating Everest Museum, which traces the history of attempts on the world's highest peak. Next door is the Mountaineering Museum, with a relief model of the Himalaya, dusty specimens of Himalayan fauna and more historic mountaineering equipment (India Lonely Planet 536). I am especially interested in the history of attempts at Everest, captured in historical documents such as newspaper clippings.

On my third day in Darjeeling, I am surprised to run into the Czech Buddhists I had befriended in Sikkim. We plan to tour Darjeeling together the next day, but they have to book a flight to Nepal as the overland route is temporarily closed due to flooding. Instead, I tour myself and we plan to meet up in the evening to see a Bollywood film. Unfortunately, I am running late and so I go to the theatre alone, hoping to run into them.

I enjoy the film Dostana, which is Hindi for "friendship." It is a comedy about two Hindi men living in Miami who pretend to be gay in order to convince an apartment owner to rent an apartment to them. The owner hesitates because here niece lives in one of the three apartments, but because they are gay, she allows them to rent. Predictably, they both fall in love with the woman, named Neha. What follows is a series of funny scenarios as they try to win the girl while juggling their fake identities. Although the plot is unoriginal, it makes the Hindi film easy for me to understand. I enjoy the music, dancing and humor very much. Apparently, this is the first Hindi film that addresses homosexuality.

I am disappointed to miss the Czechs at the theater, so I walk to their hotel, hoping they will be in the dining area. Luckily, the two Katkas are sitting at the table, and I am able to deliver the box of sweets I bought for them. Soon, the rest of the Czechs come into the dining area, and I am able to hug them all goodbye one last time.

The next day I leave my Darjeeling hotel and take a 2.5 hour share taxi to Siliguri. I am a little worried I will miss my train, as the car isn't filling up quickly, and we have to slow down to pick up travelers along the way. But the driver assures me I'll make the train. He leaves me off in Siliguri, and I take a share rickshaw to nearby New Jalpaiguri, where I will catch my train to Delhi on the same day. At this point, I am still debating whether I should extend my flight, which was originally scheduled to depart Delhi on November 25. I don't want to miss the train, because it might be a few days before I can book another seat, and that would be cutting it close to my flight.

Arriving in Darjeeling, aka Gorkhaland (West Bengal, November 17, 2008)

In the early morning, I take a share jeep from Yuksom to Pelling, where I pick up the bag in which I had left the majority of my stuff with the kind folks at Hotel Kabur. From Pelling, I take a short ride in a share jeep to Geyzing, a transit hub where I catch a third share jeep to Jorethang. Here, I have a quick lunch of vegetarian momos, a Tibetan dumpling with spicy red sauce which I know will be harder to come by in less Buddhist parts of India. I find the share taxi to Darjeeling, climb into the front seat and wait until the taxi fills to capacity and we are able to embark on the two-hour journey to Darjeeling, West Bengal.

After arriving in Darjeeling, I climb a huge hill, following a maze of crowded, narrow streets that weave between homes, restaurants and shops. The lower portion seems to mainly appeal to the locals, and as I climb, I see pockets of markets and streets geared to the tourists, likely climbing the hill for a panoramic view of the Himalayan backdrop, and especially Mount Khangchendzonga (8598 meters). I have also found that the higher, more strenuous the climb, the cheap the hotel.

I follow the advice of the Deepen and Deepesh at Hotel Kabur an find the hotel they recommend, near the top of the hill. After comparing this to a few other hotels, I decide on it because of the price and the functional hot water heater for the shower. Darjeeling, like Sikkim, is cold, and I want to be sure I will have access to hot water, even if it is only during certain times of the day. Other than this, there isn't much special about the hotel, except for a very helpful young man (perhaps the owner's son), who draws me detailed maps to facilitate sight-seeing in a city with very confusing paths and roads. There is also a nice restaurant near the top floor.

Even though we are not supposed to do laundry in our rooms due to water shortages--and are instead supposed to pay someone to do our laundry for us--I manage to continue washing my own clothes. It is something have done throughout my journey not only to save money, but because it is the little bit of work I have to do while traveling, and I grow to enjoy the daily routine of bucket washing my clothes, stringing a drying line between chairs or window frames, and hoping my clothes dry reasonably quickly.

According to my India Lonely Planet, "the Darjeeling area belonged to the Buddhist chogyals (kings) of Sikkim until 1780, when it was annexed by the invading Gurkhas from Nepal. The Gurkha's aggressive territorial expansion led to growing conflicts with the British and, after several battles, the East India Company gained control of the region in 1816. The company then returned most of the lands back to Sikkm in exchange for British control over any future border disputes.

"During one such dispute in 1828, two British officers stumbled across the Dorje Ling monastery, on a tranquil forested ridge, and passed word to Calcutta that it would be a perfect site for a sanatorium; they were sure to have also mentioned its strategic military importance in the region. The Chogyal of Sikkim (still grateful for the return of his kingdom) happily leased the uninhabited land to the East India Company in 1835 and a hill station was born. Forest gradually made way for colonial houses and tea plantations, and by 1857 the population of Darjeeling reached 10,000, mainly because of a massive influx of Gurkha laborers from Nepal.

"After Independence, the Gurkhas became the main political force in Darjeeling and friction with the state government led to calls for separate state of Gorkhaland in the1980s...A compromise was hammered out in late 1988, which granted the newly formed Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (DGHC) a large measure of autonomy from the state government. Although this appeased some Gurkhas, the breakaway Gorkhaland Liberation Organisation (GLO) and its armed wing, the Gorkha Volunteers' Cell (GVC), have continued to call for full secession" (530).

Indeed, the Gorkhaland independence movement is still very alive today. I had heard from other travelers that during the month preceding my visit to Darjeeling, local people had organized a series of Gorkha cultural events. They used these as a peaceful protest demonstrating their unique culture compared to the rest of West Bengal, and as an argument for independence. When I was in Darjeeling, I came upon an ongoing hunger strike in Chowrasta, the town center near the top of the hill. At this time, a group of girls from a school were participating. I also saw numerous Gorkhaland flags flying high, Gorkha independence slogans painted in public places, and even Gorkhaland license plates.

Yuksom (Sikkim, November 15-17, 2008)

We arrive in Yuksom in late afternoon and have lunch. While the Czechs go to Sikkim's oldest gompa (monastery), Dubdi Gompa, I use the Internet at the Community Information Center to write mom and buy a train ticket to Delhi so that I don't miss my flight in the case that I decide against extending my plane ticket.

We stay at Hotel Demadzong. It is actually colder here than in Khecheopalri Lake, but I have three blankets, so I am warm at night. I take a lukewarm shower and then crawl into bed the first night. I had planned to meet the Czechs at a restaurant for dinner and for a beer, but it turns out everything closes at 8pm. I am so tired and cold that I don't meet them later at the hotel bar/restaurant.

The next day, we wake up and have breakfast at the hotel restaurant, as the Czechs had arranged it the previous night. The food served is not nearly enough, and so we go across the street to the restaurant at which we ate the previous night and extend our breakfast. I order an apple pancake in addition to the banana-honey porridge I had at the hotel restaurant. The apple pancake is amazing! The Czechs eat a lunch-like breakfast--ordering chop suey and much else.

After breakfast we walk together to Norbugang Park, which contains a prayer house, chorten and the supposedly original Coronation Throne (Norbugang) where the trio of Tibetan holy men were crowned the first chogyal of Sikkim in 1641. In fact, according to the Lonely Planet, the word Yuksom means, "meeting place of the three lamas." We visit the prayer house first and find a giant prayer wheel inside. We not only spin it, we hold onto it and let it drag us across the floor (clockwise, of course) as if it is a playground game. Sacrilegious, yes. The throne is not that impressive, but we are excited to spot the governor of Sikkim and his entourage walking through the park. The Czech Buddhists decide to meditate at one end of the park, and Katka and I decide to go on a hike while we wait for them. We start heading down a hill, but stop because we don't want to have to hike up again. We return to the site of their meditation, and notice some locals sorting a wheat-like crop nearby. We try to ask what it is, and I think they say it is millet, used to make the local brew.

Later in the day, I make my way to Dubdi Gompa, Sikkim's oldest monastery, established in 1701. The climb is steep, and there is no resident monk to open the buildings, but I am determined to see the sight. There are some stupas along the path leading to the gompa. Characteristically, the gompa and the newer cubic prayer house at the top of the hill high above Yuksom are painted colorfully. There are few people around, except for three local guys who ask me to take their picture. I am especially proud of a close-up picture I take of a bright green grasshopper clinging to the monastery's vivid red and yellow wall.

That night, we gather at the hotel restaurant/bar and, at the request of the Czechs, the owner has prepared the local millet-based alcohol in a huge pot. He adds hot water to the millet and we sip through thin straws made of wood. He says he won't serve us dinner until we finish all the alcohol, to which he keeps adding hot water. We circle the straws around the room. Finally, we finish the alcohol to the manager's satisfaction and can have dinner. At some point, Beda finds a guitar and plays and sings. We have such fun. Finally, it is time to go to sleep, and I say good-bye to each of the friends who had been so kind to let me tag along on their hikes and share biscuits and meals. They have shown concern for me as a single female traveler, and offer their hospitality if I ever make it to Prague. I am sad to be separating from them, but know I have my own time constraints.

I wake up early the next morning, quietly dress and pack so as to not wake my roommate Katka, descend the stairs to the street, walk to the share jeep stand and wait. I am on my way to Darjeeling today, but the route is not direct. I will go from Yuksom to Pelling to pick up my pack and the bulk of my belongings at Hotel Kabur, then take a short share jeep ride to Geyzing, which is a transit hub, then take another share jeep to Jorethang, another transit hub, and finally arrive in Darjeeling, West Bengal.

Khecheopalri Lake: The Dalai Lama's Personal Chef, Czech Buddhists and Mountain Caves (Sikkim, November 12-15, 2008)

In the afternoon a share jeep that has left from Geyzing picks me up at Hotel Kabur in Pelling, along with two not particularly friendly Australian tourists, and takes us to Khecheopalri Lake. One of the Australian tourists had just finished reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy and is going to donate it to the hotel library (which consists of about five shelves of books), but I ask him if I can have it and he gives it to me. "It looks like a quick read," I say. "It's good. It's depressing," he says. When I later read the book on a train ride back to Delhi, I am endlessly grateful he gave it to me. I am awed by McCarthy's writing as I absorb his post-apocalyptic story of a father and son venturing across a desolate America.

The hike up to Pala's Guest House is up an incredibly steep hill. A boy, maybe 11 or 12 years old, wearing a T-shirt that reads, "Sid Vicious--Drugs Kill," is at the bottom of the hill to ensure we make the ascent. I am surprised that I stay ahead of the Australian couple, who seem to be struggling. I walk with the boy most of the time, but when he asks me questions, it is difficult for me to catch my breath and respond. I am just hoping the guest house is nice, because I don't want to leave the hill and find another after the climb. The rooms are perhaps the most basic I stay in throughout my entire trip. The walls and floors are thin wood, my bed is a slab of hard wood, and I have to ask several times for another blanket, as nights are cold. My light switch is in the room of another traveler, so I turn my light on and off by screwing and unscrewing the light bulb.

Despite the rustic conditions of the guest house, the legacy and personality of its owner makes the stay worthwhile. Pala, born in the same village that is now home to his guest house, lived in Tibet to attend monastery when he was younger. He eventually became the personal chef of the Dalai Lama. He had two previous wives, but they were killed by the Chinese during the Communist Revolution. He then moved back to his village near Khecheopalri Lake in Sikkim, where he now runs the guest house and teaches meditation. He is a lama in the Nigma tradition, which is a part of Tibetan Buddhism. (The Dalai Lama is a lama in the Galupa tradition. The third form of Tibetan Buddhism is Karmakachi. This is information I gleaned from the Czech Buddhists I befriended.) Pala is ethnically Lepcha, which is a tribe from Tibet. He is 82 years old and has fathered 11 children with his third wife. The youngest child is six years old. A lama is a teacher who, unlike a monk, is allowed to have a family.

Almost immediately when we arrive, dinner is served. With the former chef for the Dalai Lama overseeing the preparation of food, all our meals are excellent. They usually consist of bhat (rice), dhal (lentils) and two choices of subji (vegetables). On this particular night, one of the subji is beans and potatoes and the other is greens. There is always hot water in a thermos for making hot chai, and sometimes cardamom pods to add. When it gets dark, I move to the fire, around which other travelers sit for warmth. I chat with the Australians and also meet a guy from the UK who likes to talk. I go to bed early, as it gets quite cold at night.

I am very fortunate to meet a group of 10 friendly travelers from the Czech Republic, nine of whom are Buddhist, and one of whom is a friend and tagging along. With the fall of Communism and state regulations on religion, there is a surge of young people exploring their religious options in the former USSR. Consequently, there are quite a few Czech Buddhist tourists who are attracted to this part of India. The Czechs I befriend all belong to the same sangha back home and Pavel, who has already traveled in India and Nepal, has organized the itinerary for their pilgrimage. They are mainly sticking to the important Buddhist sights, found in Bihar, Sikkim, Nepal and Bodhgaya. They prefer the more natural, peaceful parts of India and didn't seem to have the best experience when they first entered the country in Delhi. Then again, most travelers don't have positive first impressions of the country. That comes after learning how to navigate the touts and traffic, and after making many mistakes.

Katka is Pavel's girlfriend, and she has brought her friend, also named Katka, and the only non-Buddhist in their group. Beda and Mira are two of the more boisterous members of the group, often cracking jokes and drinking alcohol. I didn't know Buddhists could drink so much alcohol, but I suppose culture overrules religion in this situation. Beda, Mira, Katka and I spend maybe two nights talking and laughing around the campfire as the other Czechs couple off to bed. Alena and Tomas (I think, but could have been Dan) are a couple, but I cannot speak to them much because they don't speak English. Dan (or could have been Tomas) is a nice guy who is very precise with the photographs he takes. There is one other couple, but I am sorry I didn't record their names. They are on a slower travel schedule and will spend more time in Sikkim and in South Asia.

The next day (November 13), the Czechs invite me to hike with them to important caves where famous Buddhists have meditated. Apparently they had tried to get to the first cave the previous day, but had become lost in "the jungle" in the dark, and so decide to attempt it again with a guide. The guide is the same young boy who led me up the hill, presumably Pala's son. Our first hike is to Guru Rimpoche cave, where Rimpoche, an important yogi/lama in the Nigma tradition had meditated. Pala has meditated in the same cave for three months at a time. The hike to the cave is quite a surprise for me. We go through jungle-like forests, with walking paths no wider than two feet and having a steep drop-off on the edge, and with ground that is often wet, slippery and not always dense or stable. I am impressed that the Czechs were able to navigate the jungle the previous night, and now understand why they kept calling it "the jungle" in their retelling of how they got lost. I find that going down is more difficult than going up for me because I am so afraid of slipping and falling. I am surprised I am able to keep up pretty well, however. We return to Pala's guest house for an excellent lunch, similar to the previous night's dinner. Our breakfast this day had consisted of a Tibetan pancake (my favorite of Pala's creations), fried egg and sliced potato with a light sauce.

After lunch, Pala leads us to the next cave, named after Mela Ripa, the most famous Tibetan yogi. As legend has it, when Mela Ripa's father died, people wanted to steal the belongings of him and his mother. At his mother's request, he began to practice black magic and was successful at killing his enemies. He then realized what he had done and began to practice meditation. He became a very good ascetic and had to practice very hard to make up for his tremendous sin. Because he ate only nettles, he is always depicted as having green skin. As with the Guru Rimpoche cave, there is a small opening through which to go further into the cave. We go in and out the same hole at Mela Ripa cave, but Pala comes out a different, more challenging hole.

On our walk home, Pala leads us to the home of one of his village friends. We are invited into an attached room where there is a fire pit and cobs of corn hanging densely from the ceiling. Two men are performing a Nepalese healing ceremony, dancing ecstatically throughout the house and outdoors. Apparently a sick person died recently and they need to purify the area by doing this. We are given chhang, a local alcohol made out of fermented millet. I take a sip and decide to stop, trying to pawn my cup off to one of the Czechs who is willing to drink it. We hike back to Pala's Guest House and chat over dinner and around the fire.

The next morning (November 14), we gather for a breakfast of fried noodles with vegetables, tossed with spongy chunks that are either yak cheese or eggs. The Czechs invite me on yet another cave excursion, and once again I tag along, completely oblivious to the challenging hike that is to come. Today we are headed to Green Tara cave, the most famous in Khecheopalri Lake. According to my Czech Buddhist friends, Green Tara is an emanation of the Buddha's energy field. She gives people a kind of wealth--that is, she gives them what they need so that they are satisfied. Doma is the Tibetan name for Tara and means "to liberate." The color green symbolizes a strong connection with animals. Since it is the most well-known cave, Pavel (the unofficial group leader) erroneously reasons the route leading to it will be the easiest. In actuality, it requires a 500 meter ascension at a pretty steep grade, and a 500 meter descent to return. Our guides are Deepen, the twin brother of Deepesh, who owns Hotel Kabur in Pelling, and Deepen's girlfriend Chudy, one of Pala's daughters. Near the cave, Pala has a small building that is a meditation center. We return to Pala's Guest House in the afternoon for a great meal of dhal, bhat and subji.

At night, we sit around a fire and Pala tells stories. I have a difficult time understanding because his English is so broken. The Czechs seem to be able to understand better because they have a background in Buddhism. Deepen sometimes translates. One lesson I do understand is that being clean inside, as opposed to outside, allows one to rise up. At one point Pala picks up a red coal from the fire, juggles it between his hands, and then places it in his mouth for maybe one minute, maintaining a placid expression on his face. The Czech Buddhists tell me this is a technique used to warm the body, especially during long meditations in the cold mountains. The coal meditation unites the internal fire with the fire from the coal. Since this is our last night, Pala gives us a farewell gift of a locally-brewed alcohol made of vegetables and rice. As with the chhang, I don't drink more than a few sips.

The next day (November 15), we plan our departure. I am torn between hiking to Yuksom or sharing a jeep. Seven of the Czechs do the hike from Khecheopalri to Yuksom, but three of them and I share the cost of a jeep. We also take many of the hiker's bags with us. The ride is only about two hours long, but on very rough roads, so the driver needs to backtrack to Geyzing to get more oil before picking us up, and this makes the ride expensive (Rs. 1400 total; I pay Rs. 225). I do regret not having done the hike, but I chose not to for good reason. I was afraid I would have slowed everyone down. Also, I was sore from the previous two days of hiking and didn't want to get sick or hurt.