Well hello again from a beautiful sunny McLeodganj, to which I returned from an amazing two weeks on the march on Monday.
I must say that this little microcosm of Tibet with a hint of the west, buried in the Himalayan foothills, really feels like home now. It’s amazing how your standards change whilst traveling in India. When I first arrived in McLeod (when granted it was freezing) I was really quite perturbed by the frequent power cuts, likelihood of illness and the idea of moving into a flat with a squat toilet in which hardly anything worked. But after three months, between trips to Chamba, Shimla, Rishikesh and two stints on the march, McLeod seems to possess every comfort you could ask for, and returning from a hot dusty Delhi in an horrendous sleeper bus three hours late to the mountains of McLeod, I really felt I was coming home. I’m going to miss this place when I move on in a couple of weeks – possibly to Nepal.
To make things even better, I yesterday left my dark, grubby, electricity-forsaken flat and moved in with my partner in crime, Jenna from Northfield, Minnesota. My elderly crazed Tibetan landlady chased me out of the complex yelling some bollocks, but even with luggage I was able to outrun her, ha ha!
The weather in mid April is gorgeously warm MOST days, although yesterday’s rain, wind, hail, thunder and lightning was a clear exception. As I stood hanging out my washing on my balcony at around 11am, the whole town was suddenly engulfed in dense cloud which covered the surrounding peaks in a rapid white whirl before encompassing McLeod at such a rate, that at times it almost seemed as though we were in the midst of a forest fire rather than a storm. When you’ve become so used to a place it’s easy to forget you are over 5000ft up and yesterday’s phenomena, which plunged the town into a surreal dusky darkness, was quite unlike anything I have ever seen.
Perhaps the biggest downside of being here in April is the influx of western tourists which ironically makes it far harder to meet people. The hardier tourists that make it here during winter tend to stick together creating a real sense of camaraderie, but now following yet another mass exodus, my friend count has been reduced to two! However I anticipate being so busy over the next couple of weeks that I hopefully won’t be too bothered. Tomorrow I start work on the May edition of Contact and there should be quite a bit to do, although all being well it won’t be quite as frantic as last month. Activities following the Lhasa uprising meant that news in the run up to deadline changed sometimes hourly. Every time I thought I’d got on top of things, another huge story would break, and I would say that pretty much every story that made it into the 16 page mag’s six editorial pages would have made front page during practically any other month. Nancy Pelosi’s visit for example was relegated to one third of page seven. Add to that frequent power cuts, internet failure, and daily protests during which the whole town shuts up shop, and you have quite a challenge. But I’m relieved to say the edition, which finally hit the streets two days late, only contained one minor spelling mistake and was by all accounts accurate and well received.
The morning after the final proof reading I was on a bus to Chandigarh (India’s answer to Milton Keynes only quadruple the size) eager to rejoin the March to Tibet, which all the original marchers have happily rejoined following their release from jail. At Chandigarh I caught a bus to Kurukshetra – a very sacred place for Hindus as it was here that Brahma is believed to have created man and the universe. Wedged between six Indian guys on the only available seat however, whilst one insisted on stroking my hair and asking for my number repeatedly, it was hard to truly appreciate the area’s cosmic kudos. Finally, after 12 hours traveling and increasing confusion about my whereabouts, I was delighted and relieved to spot from my auto rickshaw three Tibetan monks sporting tell tale orange March to Tibet baseball caps. I had arrived. I eventually found my friends getting ready for bed on the stony roof of a monastery, where the march had set up camp. It was pretty damned uncomfortable and I doubt I got more than 10 mins sleep that night, but it was good to be back.
Three weeks on from its dramatic beginnings on March 10, the march fell into a steady rhythm as it pushed on through the Punjab into neighbouring Haryana, where I rejoined. Gone was the almost ecstatic enthusiasm which characterized its beginnings, replaced with a quieter more stoic and generally good humoured approach, mingled with a few moans from Tibetans and Ingies (Tibetan word for westerners!) We generally walked between 12 – 15 miles a day, getting up at cripplingly early hours (generally a 5am breakkie before marching an hour later) to beat the heat of the north Indian plains, which even in Spring sees maximum temperatures in the late 80s/early 90s (about 30 – 33C.) Jenna’s performance was sadly undermined by sickness and I think she only managed about three days marching, taking the truck on other days, but I marched every possible day - admittedly taking more long chai and breakkie breaks before catching up via rickshaw or hitchhiking than should have been allowed. During the 10 days of marching we slept in one Buddhist monastery, two fields, one Hindu temple, one Jain temple, two Sikh temples, an incense (dust) factory, and the shell of one almost complete house. It was at times tough, rough and unsavoury, but almost always fun.
The organisers were unfortunately quite anal at times and we were called to two meetings – the gist of which was basically no smoking, drinking or absconding from camp. During the second meeting the sentence ‘no singing and no having fun’ was actually used, setting in stone my plans not to march beyond Delhi. Most of us broke these rules of course – as marching at 6am meant we tended to reach our destination anytime between midday and 3pm, and who wants to hang around a scorching tent in a parched field for nine hours? Whilst the motorway between Chandigarh and Delhi, which we followed for the full 10 days, must be one of India’s busiest roads, Haryana is certainly the route less traveled by foreign tourists. The whole of Haryana, the bread basket of northern India with a population of over 21 million, takes up just one of my Lonely Planet India’s 1200 plus pages; such is the scale of this country. Local police even visited march organisers at the incense factory, where paranoia about rain kept us for two nights, warning that the local people were ‘not very nice,’ and to be careful when venturing out. We genuinely appreciated the safety advice dispensed by organisers, but we are all independent adults and experienced no trouble going out in pairs or groups – bar the usual attempts at small scale swindling and constant stares from over curious Indian men.
In all honesty I have been a little disappointed with the attitude of many Indian people towards westerners – at least in the areas I have visited. I have to admit that class seems to play a huge role in attitude; with the well-dressed middle class Indians generally expressing a friendly, pleasant curiosity. The vast majority however seem to regard us as something between walking ATMs and prostitutes. Constant staring (and occasional grabbing) from Indian men can become irritating and really got to a couple of the girls on the march. Even more exasperating for me were the constant attempts to cheat us which, whilst often by only a few rupees at a time (although some rickshaw drivers really take the piss) adds up. Fortunately many goods have the price printed on them, helping us argue our case when a vendor attempts to charge 20 rupees for something which should cost 12 or 15, but sometimes - especially whilst marching, you just can’t be bothered to argue. The assumption very much seems to be that if you have white skin you are rich, and they fail to understand that some of us have saved very hard for a number of years to come and volunteer here. More frustrating still, particularly in the tourist hubs of central Delhi and McLeodganj, are the hoards of beggars constantly vying for your hard earned cash. In Delhi’s
Connaught Placeyou cannot sit down for one minute without being approached by someone with their hand out (we tried it) and the beggars we encountered ranged from the mildly irritating to the downright grotesque. Perhaps one of the most shocking sights I have ever seen is Delhi’s child street performers. Jenna and I were taking a rickshaw along one of the city’s main highways when a boy who looked no more than eight or nine approached our rickshaw, smiled at us and proceeded to play a drum whilst a girl of about five who was ingrained with dirt (which to be fair, doesn’t take long in Delhi) performed a series of summersaults – amid six lanes of traffic!! Were they orphans or the victims of some hideous form of child exploitation? This was sadly not the last time we would witness such desperate antics, but whilst I think both of us would have liked nothing better than to take those children away to a safe place where they could receive good food and an education, we didn’t want to encourage such practice by giving them anything.
There were happily some far more positive experiences along the road. Stopping off at a Jain temple about 25 miles from Delhi, a lovely French photographer who recently joined the march, and I were keen to learn a little about Jainism, and my friend suggested looking in on a Jain school for girls a short walk from the temple. It is however difficult to keep track of time on the march as you are so far removed from everything (think I went virtually a whole day at the incense factory without knowing what the time was, which was strangely fabulous) and we had completely forgotten it was Sunday. But we got chatting to a Jain family who were at the school visiting a traveling guru. Jainism is a very peaceful deviation from Hinduism, with all believers following a vegetarian diet which often excludes root vegetables such as onions and potatoes – as harvesting these crops is likely to harm insects. Strict followers carry a broom to sweep the path before they tread it, and face masks to prevent the accidental inhalation of insects. Gurus are always naked and follow strict rules including the allowance of just one meal and intake of water a day – even during the scorching Indian summers. Anyway, after chai and nibbles we were invited to meet the guru who, sure enough, sat cross legged on a platform completely starkers, with his feet strategically placed! After we were invited to share a meal laid on for devotees which, as I had hoped, was truly delicious. I was so excited, I love anything spontaneous and in the space of an hour or two I had learned loads, eaten a fabulous meal and seen a naked man. What more can a girl ask?? But the Indian family who made it all possible were patient and friendly and seemed genuinely pleased to meet us, especially the very pleasant 15-year-old daughter who hopes to train as an engineer – quite refreshing in a country in which customs and culture render so many women virtually housebound. For me, a moment in another Delhi rickshaw, during which two middle class women, one Hindu and one Muslim, cheerfully chatted to us from a neighbouring rickshaw, whilst a gaunt rag clad beggar lady clung to the other side of our vehicle and harassed us, epitomized the two faces of India.
All said, the march was a great experience. It was not easy to grab as much sleep as I would have liked, due to a combination of hard ground, monks playing tinny Hindi radio at 5am, an enthusiastic (but very good) American flautist and marauding mosquitoes, but the food, simple but plentiful, was almost always exceedingly good. Perhaps the one exception was tsampa, a Tibetan staple, consisting of sweet tea, barley flour, sugar and butter which you are required to mix and roll into a ball. Mine however, generally took on the consistency of wall paper paste and at first I was most unenthusiastic, but after a few attempts learned, if not to enjoy it, certainly to tolerate it. Another downer was the dusty filth of Delhi which clings to you – no matter how hard you try to keep clean. Last May I spent eight days in rural Romania where I got really quite grubby, but at least that was good honest agricultural dirt, as opposed to the disgusting grime which hangs in the air and fills the gutters of this vast polluted city, like dirty grey sand. The biggest challenge of the march for me however, had to be the mosquitoes which plagued me throughout. Everyone got bitten, but they seemed to particularly love me and I had literally hundreds of bites of my arms and face - making me look as though I had some foul tropical disease. The absence of mirrors for much of the time spared me a lot, but whenever I did find one I had a shock, and I couldn’t go anywhere without attracting sympathetic tuts and comments from Tibetans, Indians and Ingies alike.
After marching through Karnal, Gharaunda, and Panipat (all large towns totally untouched by tourism – which was both confronting and absolutely fascinating) we arrived in Delhi’s Tibetan settlement, where Jen and I (along with half the other Ingies) booked into an hotel, and it was amazing how quickly the bites cleared up after just a night of isolation from the mozzies. After 10 days of roughing it to the extreme, the hotel with running water, a western toilet, TV and room service felt like sheer heaven. The excitement we expressed upon discovering our room even had toilet paper was actually quite sad.
In the days that followed we participated in a three day protest rally in central Delhi (between numerous tea and brownie breaks of course.) Interspersed with many long speeches in Tibetan during which we often absconded, were graphic demonstrations staged by Tibetan solidarity groups. One particularly hard hitting piece of street theatre staged by Gu Chu Sum – an NGO formed by former Tibetan political prisoners, demonstrated the capture, imprisonment and torture of Tibetans under Chinese occupation – made all the more brutal by the knowledge that many performers had first hand experience of the horrors they portrayed. There was also an extremely vocal march in which we all participated, and a daily candle light vigil in which Jen and I took part on the second day. For me this quiet form of protest was somehow more poignant than many of the louder demonstrations.
Perhaps the greatest thing about everything we have participated in however, is that it does not seem to have all been in vain. Outside of the ultimate goal – a dialogue between the Chinese government and the Dalai Lama, the thing the Tibetans really want from this dramatic period of protest is international support triggered by world media attention – and they’ve certainly been getting plenty of that. We have been quite overwhelmed by the way the world has seized upon it, leading to the complete sabotage of the Olympic Torch relay in London and Paris, and the boycotting of the Olympics’ opening ceremony by Gordon Brown and Canadian PM Stephen Harper – among other notables. We jumped up and down in our hotel room as we watched our friends on CNN (almost as exciting as the toilet paper) and it’s all so great as it makes us feel we are part of something really worthwhile. We are all making history in our own small way and the important thing now is to keep the impetuous up. Even as I write, the torch is in Delhi where, in spite of the fact that it’s being shielded from all but WORLD media (we local journos don’t get a look in) numerous demonstrations are being staged. A Facebook friend of mine has already been arrested and I fear for other friends still in the capital. Another concern is that the march is not allowed to continue beyond Delhi. I don’t know how they plan to smuggle 150 maroon clad nuns and monks plus supporters out of Delhi, but they’re a tenacious lot and I imagine they’ll manage it somehow.
As for me, I’ll continue to gather updates from ‘the front’ until the mag’s deadline and will follow its progress closely, with a possible view to rejoining just for a few days in the future, although with just a couple of months traveling time after publication before the monsoon kicks in, I can no longer afford to make it my priority. The next couple of weeks will be dedicated to getting the mag out and just enjoying McLeod (on the cheap as finances are beginning to pinch) before I take off – probably around May 1.
Oh well, think that’s most of the news, hope I haven’t bored you all too much. Keep in touch, Lots of love, Soph XXX
