Welcome to my Green Bangladesh: an Introduction (October 3-November 1, 2008)

Why Bangladesh?

Throughout my first month traveling India, I kept an eye out for travelers headed the same way as me--to Bangladesh. Turns out Bangladesh is not a big tourist destination. Finally, in Kolkata, I met one traveler who was going to Dhaka, but primarily to renew his Indian visa. This is why most people, it seems, make it to Bangladesh.

As for me, my situation was a bit different. My Uncle had been to Bangladesh two times, motivated by his connection with a girl he'd sponsored through Save the Children. He had connections to some nuns who ran an orphanage, an organization to which he also donated, and to some middle-class Bengalis he'd befriended. My general itinerary was to include volunteering at the orphanage, being hosted by his friend Mizan, and meeting Shilpi, his sponsor child.

Welcome to Green Bangladesh!

Throughout my email correspondence with Mizan, he kept welcoming me to his "Green Bangladesh." I passed off what he was saying as an exaggeration, imagining instead what I suspected to be the polluted, crowded, dusty streets of this impoverished country. Less than an hour after crossing the India-Bangladesh border (Petrapol-Benapole), what met my eyes were endless fields of nearly neon green, the midday sun reflecting off paddies of rice. The rice seemed plentiful, interrupted only for some small village huts, or one of Bangladesh's many fish ponds.

History

In 1947, when India became independent from the British, borders were drawn that would influence the geopolitical climate of the region for decades to come. Bengal and India were partitioned on the basis of religion at the demands of The Muslim League. Present-day Bangladesh became East Pakistan, governed thousands of miles away in Western Pakistan by people who spoke Urdu, a language more closely related to Hindi than Bangla (or Bengali).

Beyond their respective Muslim majority populaces, the two regions had little else in common. The first major conflict came when the Pakistani government tried to impose "Urdu and only Urdu" as the national language. In 1952, riots in Dhaka as part of the Bengali Language Movement erupted and 12 students were killed by the Pakistani army. Then, in 1970, a catastrophic cyclone killed around 500,000 people in East Pakistan, and the Pakistani government appeared to do little in response.

The Awami League, led by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, had emerged as the national political party in East Pakistan, with the Language Movement as its ideological underpinning (Lonely Planet Bangladesh, 21-22). Although the party won all seats but one in the 1971 national election and should have constitutionally formed the government of all Pakistan, then-president Khan postponed the opening of the National Assembly in the face of this unacceptable result.

At the Race Course rally of 7 March 1971, Sheikh Mujib was jailed in West Pakistan, igniting rebellion in East Pakistan. Bangladesh's Freedom Fighters fought a guerrilla war against brutal tactics of the occupying Pakistani army. During the nine months from the end of March 1971, 10 million people fled to refugee camps in India. As border clashes between Pakistan and India became more frequent, Indian troops crossed the border and were victorious by 14 December. Pakistan surrendered and Sheikh Mujib took over an independent government of Bangladesh.

The Liberation War remains vivid in the memories of Bangladeshis, commemorated in songs and by memorial sculptures.

I think the most powerful explanation of the nation of Bangladesh I heard during my travels was from a humble Bangladeshi I met on a night boat ride from Dhaka to Khulna. He could barely contain himself when he met me, an American. "I am ashamed, I am so poor," he said. I tried to ignore this, only one in a series of comments I would hear from Bangladeshis evidencing the extent of their self-awareness of their poverty. In any case, this man had an acronym for Bangladesh he wanted to show me--an acronym that summarizes the country's history well. This is how he wrote it in my notebook, minus the Bangla translation:

B-blood
A-achieved
N-noteworthy
G-golden
L-lovely
A-apriciated (appreciated)
D-democratic
E-evergreen
S-soberaign (sovereign)
H-habitation

Language

People in Bangladesh speak Bangla, which is the same as Bengali, the name for the language spoken in West Bengal, India. Not only is this a source a pride for them, so are some of the country's famous poets--Nobel Prize winner Rabindranath Tagore and national poet Kazi Nazrul Islam. Tagore was also the composer of many songs, called Rabindrasangit.

A few of the phrases I relied on while in Bangladesh:

asalam walekum (walekum asalam): hello (Muslim greeting)
nomashkar: hello (Hindu greeting)
donnobad: thank you
ha/ji: yes
na: no
kotai?: where
koto taka?: how much does it cost?
bondhu: friend
bhalo: good
eta: this
ami x jabo: I am going x
mas, mangsho khaina: fish, meat I am not eating
subji khai: vegetables I am eating

Food

As Bangladesh is a Muslim nation, the cuisine is heavily meat-oriented. Being a coastal state filled with ponds and rivers, much of this meat is fish. Bangladeshis eat fish almost every day.

My main dishes are bhat (rice), dhal (bean curry), pani dhal (bean curry that is more watery), dim (egg) and various subji (vegetables). I also occasionally have a tandoori naan (thick fresh bread baked in a tandoor oven). My hosts are often disappointed that I don't partake in what they feel to be the best part of the meal--the meat.

Although I didn't find the main course too appetizing, my favorite part of Bengali cuisine was its sweet desserts, its misty (sweets). My favorites were home-made shemai, vermicelli cooked in milk and sugar, and payish, rice pudding cooked with milk, sugar, cardamom and a small amount of raisins and nuts. These were a nice break from the extreme sweet of store-bought sweets, such as roshogulla, soured-milk balls boiled in syrup (similar to a donut hole that has been soaked in syrup).

And of course, there is chai, that liquid as ubiquitous on the subcontinent as the waterways that carve out the country of Bangladesh. Chai is black tea with milk and sugar, while masala chai, what Americans probably think of as chai, contains the addition of a spice mixture, usually cardamom and ginger, and sometimes other spices such as black pepper, cinnamon, anise seeds, cloves and ajwain seeds. Though the flavor is similar, the chai-making process varies regionally. In North India, chai wallahs (chai workers) boil the tea and milk together, and then add sugar and mix. They mix the tea by pouring it back and forth between two cups. This also helps to cool the tea to a drinkable temperature. In South India, chai wallas heat the milk separately, and then pour it through a tea-containing cloth filter into a cup and add sugar if it is not already in the milk. In Bangladesh, it seems all the chai wallahs use sweetened condensed milk and add this to a cup of tea. And, for the record, when I was staying with a friend in Karachi, Pakistan in 2006, his family used powdered milk. Here is a picture of a chai wallah in his Dhaka shop:

The other thing I will remember about Bangladeshi food is eating with my hands. Learning by watching Mizan mix subji and rice to just the right consistency so that the rice could be picked up and shoved into the mouth with a thumb. "There is more love this way because your hand is connected to your heart," his wife Shobnam explained. I watched many evenings as Mizan fed his wife from his hand, and she him from her hand, from one plate. Mizan arguing that Shobnam was not eating enough. This is also how mothers feed their children--from their hand--they said. This is Bangladeshi love, they said.


People/Culture

As a tourist destination, Bangladesh lacks the historical sights that India offers. It is a country that is not easy to navigate because almost every destination requires both a bus and a boat to reach. I think it is Bangladeshis themselves that make this country worth visiting.

Not used to seeing foreigners (I only saw about 8 Westerners in my 1-month stay), Bangladeshis are excited to meet anyone from outside. This excitement then turns into staring, or questions such as, "What country?" and then sometimes crowds of 10 or more people form. This made for some good photo opportunities, but ultimately got very tiring.



One time, I wanted to use the Internet after I hadn't done so in about a week. On the way, a young Bangladeshi boy asked if he could sit with me. I didn't think he'd stay for the entire hour, but he did, asking me questions about my family, and wondering why I didn't like Bangladeshi food (which I had written in an email). I really wanted to express myself to people back home, but this curious Bangladeshi stood in the way. After the Internet session, I wanted to buy a gift for my host, and the same boy who sat with me at the Internet took me to a grocery store and helped me pick out fruit.

Aside from their keen interest in me as a foreigner, I observed that Bangladeshis are more eager to talk politics than most of the Indians I met. When I told people I was from America (pronounced "Am-rik-a," with a slightly rolled "r"), they often responded with some negative banter about Bush, and some positive feedback about Obama. "100-percent of Bangladeshis support Obama," I was told by one hotel manager. It would have been interesting to be in Bangladesh during the election, but I was en route from Kolkata to New Jaipalguri at that time.

Bangladesh is one of the poorest countries in the world and also one of the most densely populated. Unemployment among educated persons is at around 80%, according to Mizan. Traveling here gave me new perspective on the problems associated with global "development." I have never met a people so self-aware of their own poverty. "I am ashamed to meet you," one excited Bangladeshi man said when I told him I am American, "I am so poor." Other Bangladeshis were similarly apologetic for their inability to offer me anything because of their poverty, or introduced themselves saying, "we are so poor." Though this self-awareness is accurate, I think it is gained in part by the strong presence of foreign NGOs and the UN working in Bangladesh and, as such, it is debilitating. Bangladeshis are innovative and resilient but believe they need so much foreign aid as the solution to their problems. I experienced that such aid makes beggars of entire nations, caught in a vicious cycle of dependence. In some cases, I was told, the aid organizations actually create more harm because their lending system puts Bangladeshis into greater debt. There are some organizations doing a great deal of good, but removed from the daily operations of such organizations and the changing situation of the country, I feel impotent to support them. I feel I should offer a solution, but I don't have one right now.

Despite the poverty, Bangladeshis in general are a very happy people. Perhaps, I was told, the happiest people in the world (according to some survey that was conducted)! They love to sing and, Mizan tells me, 70% of Bangladeshis are natural-born singers. I was asked to sing on many occasions, including one embarrassing situation in which I had to sing in front of a crowd of about 20 school teachers.

Bangladesh is a country of villages: almost everyone is connected to their family village (the village of their parents or grandparents), even if they have moved to Dhaka for work. Families are very tight, which is both good and bad. Although this creates a strong sense of stability and security, it is also accompanied by a sense of responsibility to fulfill certain duties, such as marriage and providing financial support to one's parents. This, in turn, causes tension, which Bangladeshis do their utmost to avoid.


Religion

Bangladesh is about 90% Muslim, 9% Hindu, and the rest of its people are either Buddhist, Christian (mostly Roman Catholic), or animist. I had the opportunity to interact with most of these communities, as Mizan's family is Muslim, I stayed with some Catholic sisters, and met my uncle's sponsor daughter, who comes from a Hindu family. Still, Islam permeates the country, from its food choices to the call to prayer I heard reverberating off tightly-packed rooftops, echoing from mosque to mosque in the dense city of Dhaka.

Friendly Kolkata (September 30-October 2, 2008)

Another of India's bigger cities, I find Kolkata to be much more friendly and pleasant than Delhi. The tree-lined streets are wide but the one-ways, crosswalks, lights and numerous traffic police make crossing much less death-defying. The visual impact of modern buildings, crowded streets and rubbish is offset by the pleasant presence of slightly crumbling colonial-era buildings having colorful, wide shutters and vines growing out of rusting pipes. The city feels more spacious and relaxed than Delhi, though it is equally hot at this time.

As my two train companions Jean and Ishtaq have only 1.5 days to see the city, we take a whirlwind tour. It is already the afternoon when we arrive, and by the time we find the tourist office to get a map, it is getting dark. We could have walked to the tourist office, but, after moral deliberation, we decided to take a rickshaw. Kolkata is the only city in India that has rickshaws pulled by men walking on foot, rather than bicycle, and many of them are barefoot. Of course there is moral debate surrounding this, and I believe that within a year these rickshaws will be phased out. However, they do provide an important source of employment for people who might not otherwise find work.

On the first night, we walk around BBD Bagh, which hosts much of Kolkata's finest colonial architecture. We view historic buildings such as the Writers' Building, originally built for clerks ('writers') of the East India Company and still a haven of bureaucracy. There are many churches in Kolkata, home of Mother Theresa's Missionaries of Charity, and BBD Bagh hosts St. Andrews Church. We also make our way to Babu Ghat in search of a celebration for the current Hindu holiday, Durga Puja. Turns out that although the holiday is about 9 days long, the main ceremonies--that of submerging large hand-made statues of deities in the river--only take place during the final days of the holiday, when I'll be in the heavily Muslim country of Bangladesh. On our way back to the hotel, we walk through New Market, the large market here, and after bargaining hard, I decide to buy two semi-silk saris as gifts for people I will visit in Bangladesh.

During my second day in Kolkata, I again tag along with Jean and Ishtaq. We decide to use Kolkata's only metro line to bring us closer to our destinations. I find it to be surprisingly clean and calm for a country whose streets are crammed with truckstaxisrickshawswalkerscarsdogs, an occasional elephantorhorse. First we visit Victoria Memorial. Built to commemorate Queen Victoria's 1901 diamond jubilee, the structure was finally finished nearly 20 years after her death. Inside, we visit the museum, which hosts somewhat faded paintings of India's spectacular sites, as well as a very informative history of the city focusing on the the experience of Indians living under British rule. After a quick thali, we take the metro to Kali Temple. More impressive are the Jain Temples we visit after. We also visit Mother Theresa's Missionaries of Charity-Home for the Destitute and Dying. We ask to go inside so that we can give a donation. I am surprised at how small the facility is, but it seemed very clean and quiet.

I let myself sleep in the next morning, which is lucky because I am still in my room when two hours of hard rain come. After the rain subsides, the air is cooler and I leave the hotel. I meet a local Indian named Pawan in the street. I am hesitant at first because I have had so many negative experiences with Indians trying to sell me something, but he turns out to be the first to offer me genuine help at no cost. I tell him I want to see Belur Math, the headquarters of the Ramakrishna Mission, and then continue on to Dakshineswar Kali Temple, where Ramakrishna started his remarkable spiritual journey. He accompanies me on this day trip, which is very helpful because otherwise I probably could not have figured out the transportation. It turns out Pawan was a Hindu priest for three years, so I had to listen to his preaching about life the whole time, but I suppose it was an appropriate backdrop for the day's journey.

The highlight of the day turns out not to be Belur Math and Dakshineswar Kali Temple but the time between the two attractions. Pawan buys me street food I had never tried, and it is a joy to eat. I try Bengali sweets, some of which are similar to donuts, fried and drenched in syrup. I try some fried rice (more similar to Rice Krispees than to Chinese fried rice) which is mixed with aloo (potato), onions, lime, masala and a slice of coconut. Watching the wala (worker) fold a piece of newspaper into a container with one hand and mix the ingredients with the other is just as fun as eating his product. Another wala mixes chow-mien-like noodles, lime and masala, shaking it loudly in a can, and then pouring it into a little packet made of recycled newspaper. For dinner we have chola batura, fried puffed bread and a chick pea sauce. Another highlight is the brief boat journey we take to get from Belur Math to the Kali Temple.

When we arrive at New Market, I am surprised at how quiet it is compared to its usual bustle. Tonight is Eid-el-Fitur, the Muslim holiday at the end of Ramadan, and people are at home feasting with their families.

Colorful Varanasi (Benares) (Uttar Pradesh, September 27-29, 2008)

From the Jhansi train station near Orchha, Yuri, Ramon and I take a night train to Varanasi.

Varanasi has been a center of learning and civilization for over 2000 years, and claims to be one of the oldest living cities in the world. Formerly Benares, it is also one of the holiest places in India. Hindus flock to this city of Shiva on the banks of the Ganges River to bathe and pray at one of the river's nearly 80 ghats, or bathing step leading town to the river. Loved ones are cremated at certain ghats, as throwing their ashes in the river cleanses their lifetime of sins. The city is itself an auspicious place to die, since expiring here offers moksha (liberation from the cycle of birth and death). My guidebook explains it well: "The city is the beating heart of the Hindu universe, a crossing place between the physical and spiritual worlds, and the Ganges is viewed as a river of salvation, an everlasting symbol of hope to the past, present and future generations."My rational, Western mind must make the comment here, however, that the river's environmental status, in sharp contrast to it spiritual one, does not project an image of hope and future salvation. The river is visibly filthy. If I understood our guide correctly, people of certain status, such as unmarried persons, as well as Hinduism's holiest animal, the cow, aren't cremated prior to submersion in the river. And the country's practice of throwing garbage wherever certainly has an impact. Upon further contemplation, however, I view the situation through Indian eyes and realize the river is exactly as it should be. In the stories Hinduism tells, the great waters of the Ganges function to swallow the sins of man and so, after ages of digesting man's spiritual grime, it makes perfect sense that the river is physically filthy. The practical-philosophical problem I walk away from this place with, then, is of the possibility of finding within Hinduism myths or an ethos that would inspire a reversal in the environmental degradation of the Ganges. There must be resources within the religion toward this end, but I know too little about it to offer solutions.In any case, Yuri, Roman and I arrive in the afternoon, quite tired and hungry. We are led on foot by our auto rickshaw driver through the old city's narrow labyrinth of alleys, called galis, to Shanti guest house. On the way, we are passed by a group of men carrying a board rapped in shiny red cloth, presumably housing a corpse en route to the burning ghat. After refueling--I with some Thali (a sort of North Indian sampler plate, usually with dahl, rice, roti, and some vegetable curry) and Yuri and Roman with some disappointing chicken burgers (there is no cow meat in India)--we make our way to Manikarnika Ghat, the main burning ghat in the city and the most auspicious place for a Hindu to be cremated. We are led to a viewing point by one of the "helpful" guides (who will later request a donation for money to buy wood to burn those who cannot afford to pay). Here I see three more of the shiny corpse packages. Surrounding the bodies--the red cloth indicates that they are women, a gold cloth indicates a very old person--are male family members who have shaved their heads completely except for a small amount of hair in the back.

In the evening we go to Dasaswamedh Ghat, where there is an elaborate ganga aarti ceremony with puja (prayer), fire and dance every night. People can choose to hire a small wooden boat to float down to the ghat and view the ceremony from the water, or stay on the land.

We decide to resist the constant touts of boat owners and take the short walk, and enjoy photographing the boats and river along the way. When we get to the ghat we watch as Hindus place small baskets of flowers and candles on the river's surface and as others bathe in the holy water. The song, fire and dance ceremony involves a group of male performers who use a variety of slow but grand arm movements, holding different props including fire, and accompanying the movement with song.The next morning we wake up early and leave at 5 am because Yuri wants to see a puja involving fire. We don't find this, but we stay for a long time at Dasaswamedh Ghat, photographing and observing Hindus bathing and performing rituals in the Ganges using natural objects, such as flowers, reeds and turmeric.

Men, women and children are all present and I am impressed at how discretely they can all publicly undress before submersion, using the cloth of a sari (women's dress) or lungi (man's skirt) to conceal the body. At one point, another male singing group parades through the crowd of devotees, playing on percussion instruments. We spend the rest of the day meandering through the galis, stopping for lunch, chai (Indian tea with milk and sugar), and German "apple crumble" (foreign delicacies are reproduced everywhere here for tourists). Yuri leaves this evening.

The next day I decide to go on my own to Benares Hindu University's museum, while Roman searches every guest house for a Nepal guide book. The most impressive part of the museum is a section about a female Swiss sculptor who was drawn to India and did extensive research on its sculptures, uncovering their geometrical patterns. Her reflections on India, and her visceral passion for living here, were particularly moving. After the museum, I walk toward the main road, trying to find a cheap rickshaw but also hoping I will find the international student office to inquire about the prospect of taking a dance class. As it turns out, the classes are only for long-term students, but I meet an interesting Italian girl who has decided to dedicate her life to Indian dance forms. We share a rickshaw until her hotel near Assi Ghat, one of the farthest ghats from the old city where I stay. I am glad I got to experience this part of the city as it is quieter and less touristy than the other parts I have seen.

I return quickly to my guest house, have a quick Thali, grab my bag and share a rickshaw to the train station with a German guy who is in even more of a hurry than I am. We both make it on time for our trains as well as a short power outage. The whole station goes black for a couple seconds. I find my train, as well as two new travelers, Jean (French) and Ishtaq (Belgian, with parents from Kashmir), who are also en route to Kolkata.

Hidden Beauty: Orchha (Madhya Pradesh, September 25-26, 2008)

I take the Shtabdi (express) train from Delhi to Jhansi, and then a tuk-tuk (auto rickshaw) to the small town of Orchha in Madhya Pradesh state.

The word Orchha means "hidden," as this medieval city was home to rulers who had to retreat after defeat. When the Tughlaqs, who were ruling Delhi in the 15th century, pushed the Bundelkhand rajas out of Garkhundar, they retreated to distant Orchha. After, in the 16th century, the Bundela Rajput became one of the largest and most powerful kingdoms in Central India, with Orchha as its capital, next to the beautiful Betwa River.

Hidden at its height, Orchha still seems to be somewhat hidden from the general tourist route. I find it to be a peaceful, slow-paced farming town with many beautiful palaces and temples to visit. The buildings are well-preserved and have a very unique medieval Islamic architectural style I have not seen elsewhere.

I spend two days climbing on and photographing the various palaces with two other travelers: Roman, from France, and Yuri from Colorado. We also visit the local Hindu temple. I try some excellent street food--a kind of chick pea-onion-sweet and spicy sauce combination, served in a bowl made of dried leaves.

This is the first place I have seen lots of critters in my hotel--geckos, a frog in the bathroom, cockroaches. But I remind myself of my brother, who likes these little critters, and I try to look on the situation positively.

Amritsar is Golden (Punjab, September 18-21, 2008)

I take the Volvo AC bus to Amritsar and arrive after dark. The weather is not bad on the drive, but when we arrive in Amritsar, the streets are flooded because it has just rained. The flood subsides by the next morning.

I meet a nice Belgian (Dutch-speaking) traveler at the hotel and in the morning we walk to Amritsar's main attraction--the Golden Temple. On the way we stop at Jallianwala Bagh, a small park commemorating the 2000 Indians killed or wounded here by the British authorities in 1919. According to my Lonely Planet guidebook, "Unrest in Amritsar was sparked by the Rowlatt Act (1919), which gave British authorities emergency powers to imprison without trial Indians suspected of sedition...On 13 April 1919, 20,000 Indians were holding a peaceful demonstration in Jallianwala Bagh, an open space surrounded by high walls. General Dyer arrived with 150 troops and without warning ordered his soldiers to open fire. Six minutes later, more than 400 people were dead, and a further 1500 were wounded" (272).

After Jallianwala Bagh, we move on to the nearby Golden Temple. This is the holiest place for Sikhs, who live in many parts of India but are mainly concentrated in the state of Punjab, in which Amritsar is located. Sikhism is a relatively new religion and has cultural elements of both Islam and Hinduism, but resulted from a resistance to both religions. Sikhs have been persecuted for their beliefs but show great tolerance and openness to outsiders. At the Sikh temples I have visited, Sikhs have tried to introduce me to their faith by showing me rituals or by asking how I feel about the temple I am in.

The sun brightens the dome of the temple, which extends into a pool of water contained in a marble square. Inside the temple is the Sikh holy book, believed to be the body of God. It is read continuously by devotees. Musicians sing traditional Sikh music, called kirtan, and it is broadcast throughout the temple arena over loudspeakers. Men bathe in the holy waters surrounding the temple. Just outside the temple is a huge community kitchen, in which the thousands of pilgrims who come here are fed daily.

At night, we take a small taxi to the Attari/Wagah Border between India and Pakistan to see the closing ceremony. This quite an event for all the Indians who have come to celebrate their country. Women are dancing in the street, and men join in (in a segregated section, of course) a bit later. Men wave Indian flags and crowds gather on the stands. The Pakistan side has far fewer audience members, perhaps because it is Ramadan, but I have also heard that this is the case even when it is not Ramadan.

The Belgian traveler and I had picked up a French traveler en route to solidifying our deal with the share jeep driver who took us to the Attari/Wagah Border. We also share the jeep with a British traveler, Glenn, and Belgian (French-speaking) traveler currently residing in Senegal, Mattieu. After the Attari/Wagah Border we head to the hotel where Glenn and Mattieu are staying. Its location in the old city, proximity to the old temple, sociable travelers and hyper-active, eager-to-please manager convince me to move here for my next two nights.

The next day we meander through Amritsar's streets, sipping on fresh-made pomegranate-orange-pineapple juice, and stopping for lunch at Punjabi Rasoi.

After dark, we head to the Golden Temple to see the closing ceremony and view the temple at night. We sit near the huge pool of holy water, marveling at the beauty of the temple by night, and speculating as to whether they really use cow's milk to clean the marble floors at night, as one traveler claims she's heard (turns out, they use water). A husband and wife join us with their new-born baby, and I try to talk with them and play with the baby. Then, about 10 boys come up and start talking with Glenn, asking everything about the UK (Why is it called both "the UK" and "England?" How old are you? Is this your girlfriend? What is your job?). This goes on for some time, and the intimidating Sikh guard comes by several times to disperse the growing crowd of curious boys. They are from nearby small towns and come to the temple every weekend. Religion here is a way for kids to pass time. At night, they will sleep outside on the marble floors of the temple, along with hundreds of other pilgrims. Glenn and I decide finally that we have made enough disturbance and leave. Also, he wants a cigarette, which is illegal in the Temple (and even at our hotel, because it is too near the temple, but he is discrete).

The next day, all the people I have been traveling with leave, and I am alone in Amritsar. I hire a rickshaw to take me to some of the temples and a museum outside the old city. First is a museum, Ram Bagh, about the bloody history of Punjab, which used to occupy land as far north as Afghanistan, Pakistan and Jammu-Kashmir.

Next, I visit Mata Mandir (Mother Temple), which is like a fun house. I enter through a low concrete tunnel that is painted black, then walk up some ramps to what could be called a hall of mirrors. Statues of deities are set in the walls, which are decorated in mosaics made of silver and colored mirrors. Truly sensory overload. After sneaking a picture of my reflection, I proceed down a path and under another tunnel, then walk through ankle-deep water. Looking back, I notice udders carved on the side of the tunnel, which is painted like a cow. What has just happened--where have I just been? As I understand, this temple is good luck for women who want to have children, and walking through this course is one way to ensure a positive outcome. I enter the main part of the temple, look at more deities, and sit down at the invitation of one devotee to listen to some music.

The next temple is less impressive, especially after the Golden Temple and Mata Mandir. It is Sri Durgiana Temple, a Hindu version of the Golden Temple. All in all, though, I have been pleasantly surprised at the variety of Hindu temples--no two are alike, as the religion has so much regional variation and many deities.

Back to India? (Chandigarh, September 17-18, 2008)

From McLeod Ganj I take an 8 hour bus to Chandigarh. McLeod felt very different from the dirty streets of Delhi, crowded and noisy with auto rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, trucks, pedestrians, cars and even cows. Chandigarh feels more like India--It is warmer, and there is no Tibetan presence. Still, it is India's only planned city, and its population has the highest rate of education and income. The city was planned by a French architect, Le Corbusier, after India's independence. The streets are clean and neighborhoods are divided into sectors.

The highlight of Chandigarh is visiting a friend from Milwaukee, Vipul Vohra, and his family. When he picks me up at the bus stand, he has a surprise: "In my car is the woman I am planning to marry!" he tells me. I am honored to meet Neeha, as well as Vipul's parents and relatives. They are so good to me and make sure I don't leave hungry. "Eat, eat...you are too shy...take more." We have an evening dinner at Vipul's uncle's house, and the food is excellent.

The next day, Vipul, Neeha and I visit Chandigarh's fantasy rock garden, designed by Indian sculptor Nek Chand and dedicated to "the imagination of the Indian people." We explore the labyrinthine garden's nooks and crannies, finding nice photo opportunities in the few spaces not saturated with young Indian visitors. At first the garden seems to be simply a maze with colorful pastel walls lined in the porcelain tiles from toilets, and interesting shapes formed by rocks and trees along the way. Eventually, small, playful sculptures of whimsical animals and people emerge--it seems like a hundred monkeys, then a hundred giraffes, then a hundred horses, then a hundred men, then a hundred women...all made of distinct materials. The women's saris are made of broken bangle bracelets. After the rock garden, we pay a short visit to Sukhna Lake, an artificial lake that was created as part of Le Corbusier's master plan for the city.

Vipul and Neeha drop me off at the bus stand, and I carry with me small gifts from his family, fresh fruit they have given me, and wonderful memories!

From British influences to Tibetan culture (Shimla to Dharamsala and McLeod Ganj, Himachal Pradesh, September 14-16, 2008)

The bus ride from Shimla to Dharamsala (both in Himachal Pradesh state) is 10 hours and a train is not an option. I am on an "ordinary" (as opposed to "deluxe") bus, and I am the only Westerner. We stop three times to fix the back tires. None of this is really a problem for me. The worst part of the ride is that two of the people around me--the girl behind me and the man next to me--are sick and vomiting throughout the ride. Still, I manage to get a few hours of sleep. I arrive in Dharamsala the next morning and wait about an hour for the first bus to McLeod Ganj.

Dharamsala is best known as the home of the Dalai Lama. The Tibetan government in exile is based just uphill in Gangchen Kyishong. Most travelers stay in the traveler town of McLeod Ganj, 10 km from Dharamsala on the main road, which is where I'm headed.

I meet a nice Korean girl, Suyeon, at the bus stand. She has been waiting since 4 am for the McLeod bus, and when it finally arrives at around 9 am, we both board. We realize that we are both on a waiting list for a Vipassana meditation course in Dharamsala. I decide not to take the course until later in my trip, but Suyeon does follow through. We share a room at the Ashoka Tibetan Guest House for one night and part later the next day, as she needs to go the meditation course. It is so nice to swap travel stories with her, have dinner and rest.

McLeod is the type of place where travelers hang around for weeks, sometimes months. Some are taking courses in Tibetan or Buddhism, some are volunteering to teach English or computers to local Tibetan refugees. The staple foods of travelers, including banana pancakes, on of my favorites, are readily available. At first I wish I could do the same, but know I cannot as I am on a tight schedule en route to Bangladesh. After three days in McLeod, however, I realize that I'm ready to move on.

In McLeod, I go to see the monastery where the Dalai Lama is based, called the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The monks are yelling and clapping their hands at each other. I gather that they are having philosophical debates. I walk around the temple, and when I return the monks have settled their debates and are chanting harmoniously.

The next day, I walk to a nearby small town called Baghsu. There is a beautiful waterfall here.
The next day, I walk to another nearby town called Daramkot. I continue walking toward Baghsu and the waterfall. More nice views and pictures of the area's lush green hills.

While in McLeod, I also go to a small but educational Tibet Museum, a museum of history and culture, focusing on the persecution of Tibetans in China and their exodus as refugees into India and neighboring counties. Many, even children, had to walk across the Himalayas to the refugee camps.