Visa Problems

So my first not travel journal blog. This is a summary of my last couple days and how my plans have changed. Its a testament to how volatile traveling can be and how it pays to be able to adapt- something Im really trying to do. It starts after I have come down the East coast from Calcutta to Chennai and am leaving India, flying to Sri Lanka in order to get a new visa for India.

So long story short, i go to the airport, check in go through
immigration and get stopped. I dont have some paper that is required- but not
really but they think it is and i cant prove its not without another piece of
paper, so im missing some sheet of paper.

So then I talk to this guy who is
somewhat helpful but acts like im an idiot for not having this sheet of paper
ive never heard of (especially since no one on my trip had a problem leaving the
country). So he tells me to have someone fax it and i think maybe i can get in
touch with my director, Keith, in America.

I go to the phone and realize i dont
have his number in America. I call a bunch of people in India, no one has the
sheet or his number. So i go back and talk to them.

Now its a new girl the other guy went home. This girl is decidedly less helpful and again acts as if
im some felon trying to leave the country without proper documentation. Shes
gets on a phone with yet another superior and more people come up, take my
passport, stare at it and I again try to explain the situation to them, but
altho they all ask they cut me off after like 5 words and dont want to hear the
explanation that my man Ashish explained to me on the phone.

Finally she gets
off the phone and says I have to go back to Nainital to get registered and then
i can come back and leave the country. For clarities sake, pretend you are
driving up to Vancouver, you wait in line at the checkpoint and then get
up there. They look at your passport and eventually decide, nope, you have to go
to Miami, then you can come back. Literally to get back to Nainital would be
DAYS and DAYS on trains and buses just to get there. Its ridiculous. So after
much standing around I am returned my checked bag, call more people and get in a
cab to a hotel in the city.

The next day I finally get in contace with Keith and get faxed the letter from someone on high saying I actually DIDNT need that registration form that the people at the airport the night before said I did. But now I have 9 days to get out of India and no plans.

So i go to a travel agency and start asking about next flights to Sri Lanka. 12,000Rs- my last flight was 6,700 Rs. No dice. How about up to Kathmandu? Even more, 17,000 Rs. Ok... What if I fly to Calcutta? Then go overland to Nepal. 3,400Rs. Ok deal. So I buy this ticket for Wednesday on Monday the 29th. As I write this, its Tuesday 30th.

Then I go online and get all these emails from my friend Hala who is also in the country in the north just east of Nepal. She says call me quick. Then says theres violence and borders are closed. Call me.

When I call she informs me about violence in the Terai- the plains area in the south of Nepal. From what I understand there is violence both on the Nepal side and the India side. This doesnt really affect me since Im not trying to cross there, but it was an option.

However, she also informs me of problems in Nepal where we will be crossing. Protesters have blocked highways and people are in buses for a week without a way to move. But apparently its still possible to get to the border and cross, since I jsut have to get out of India in the next week or face more consequences.

THEN, I go back to my hotel room and flip on the news and see not only violence near the Nepalese border, but 5 day gas tanker strikes in Calcutta leaving the transportation crippled and the city at a standstill. There is 10% of taxis adn buses running.

THEN, I see that there is crazy fog at the Calcutta airport and tons of flights have been canceled. Less than two days before I fly.

The last I heard, just a few minutes ago, its possible to get into Nepal from the mountins where I was planning to go. Theres no problem with that. But then there are no buses goin to Kathmandu right now. And the strike is still on in Calcutta making it sound nearly impossible for me to get out of the city into the mountains in the first place.

But im going to try anyway. I have a week. Once I get to Calcutta its just a matter of getting a train or a bus or somehow getting out of the city enough that I can get to the mountains. From there I just have to get the hell out of India before my visa expires and i face worse things than strikes and fog. From there I plan to wait out the buses to kathmandu. i have to be in Delhi on Feb 16 for a friends wedding. I will see if thats possible.

Wish me luck, and ill update this when I get achance, hopefully from Kathmandu in a few days.

Rishikesh

From my Travel Journal February 6, 2007:

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love everything about it: family, food, booze, football, and a break from school, whats not to love? Being stuck in India, I was unable to celebrate this last thanksgiving with my family. Instead I took advantage of my last opportunity to travel for a weekend, and left on Friday, November 24th for Rishikesh.

A number of weeks earlier, two of my close frinds on my program in India, Nate and April, and I discussed where we wanted to travel during our quarter of study and all agreed independently that Rishikesh was highest on the list and that we would find time to go together for a weekend.

After many weekend plans being thwarted by midterms, birthdays and field work for our NGO, we had one last chance. Bringing along our good friend Tara, but limiting our group to four in order to reduce hassle we made our escape from our studies and projects on a long bus ride from our mountain home down to the transit hub Haldwani.

This city also happens to be the home of our princely host, Ashish, and this weekend he was down with his wife Deepa and child Vanya to stay with his parents. We made great time and arrived in Haldwani at 6 pm before finding out that there was a night bus to Haridwar- literally the door to the gods- which is where we planned to spend the first night, leaving at 10 pm.

With time to kill we called Ashish who was more than willing to come meet us in a little bit and recommended a good small restaurant to eat at. Right after we had finished eating, The Don- Ashish’s nickname because of his stature in our mountain resort and community- showed up with his family in tow. He directed us to his old, beat up, white hat box of a car, and drove us to a liquor store where we purchased a bottle of Old Monk Rum for our night.

Our host took us to the best restaurant in Haldwani were alcohol isn’t allowed, but he assured us we would be okay. True to his name, it turns out that the owner of this establishment has been a good friend since first grade and is willing to look the other way on the dry rule provided discretion is upheld. Not only did we gain entrace to the restaurant but we were set up outside uinder a tall tented rook with yellow stringed lighting and even a fire in a half barrel drum to keep our table warm. We sipped rum and cokes and nibbled on french fries and laughed and joked for hours.

We killed the bottle and even had ice cream to top off the fantatstic night before we left. The Don wouldn’t even let us pay. A true prince. This unexpected night was summed up perfectly by Tara’s clever remark about our relative ignorance to Indian cultural nuances but our amazing experience so far . “It’s not what you know, but who you know.” An hour later we were on a bus destined for Haridwar, trying desperately to sleep in our slightly reclining seats.

The Ganga River, or River Ganges, started in the high Himalaya near the Chinese border in the state of Uttaranchal. It flows southeast for about 2,000 km, winding its way through the plains of Uttar Pradesh, Bihar and West Bengal while meeting up with other rivers, and finally entering Bangladesh on its way into the Bay of Bengal. It is said to flow from the head of Vishnu- one of the Hindu triad- and is therefore very holy. Thousands upon thousands of devotees travel to a numbre of holy cities set on its shores to step out onto the ghats- steps down into the water- and bathe. This act is said to wash away one’s sins.

Haridwar is one such pilgrim-filled holy city, and Rishikesh, a little further upriver, is more touristy. Made famous by the Beatles in the 60’s, Rishikesh is home to a number of ashrams housing hundreds of hippies who come to spend weeks or months meditating and practicing yoga. Becaust it is so far upriver, the water that flows through this city is incredibly clean compared to the water in the most famous and most holy city, Varanasi, hundreds of miles down into the plains.

I arrived in Haridwar knowing that if given the chance, I would als love to bathe in the hold water, cleansing myself of sins. Also truthfull, I hadn’t bathed in over a week. I love India.

We though we would arrive in Haridwar around 6 in the morning but we were awoken out of dazelike slumber and told we had arrived at 3:30. Although we had planned to arrive later and in no need for a hotel, we were still exhausted and decided to take a couple of eager cycle rickshaws to a cheap hotel listed in the guidebook.

At this hour, after little uncomfortbale sleep, and shivering uncontrollably from the mountain wind, we were in no mood to be yanked around by our rickshaw cyclists and we expressed ourselves very clearly when they tried to bring us to the wrong hotel to collect a commission.

Once we’d arrived to our choice, we were shown two side by side double rooms. The price was cheap, but I noticed a problem. There was only one blanket fit for a single bed per double bed room. And we were freezing. The boy in charge at this hour insisted only one blanket per room so April came up with a happy compromise. We took one blanket and one room, and shared, spooning to keep warm. It worked for the most part though we all admitted we were still cold the next morning.

And so we began our adventure in Haridwar. Later that morning we walked through the bazaar where I contemplated buying another sweater remembering the intense chill of the previous night. However in the heat of the day and with an already overstuffed small pack, I decided against it.

For hours we explored the city walking along the ghats and often crossing the river back and forth over the many bridges. In the heart, the ghats and connecting riverbanks were packed with pilgrims come for the weekend. In fact for most of the day, we were the only white faces among the crowds of people lining the river. It is for this reason, along with a more veritable feeling that later made me favor Haridwar over the western hippie infested Rishikesh. I have been called a rascist from time to time in India, but only against my own kind.

Old men and women bathed in t-shirt and boxers or colorful saris. Families came to take pictures, a few even with me. Powdered white faces of sadhus with dreaded hair and orange robes mix with enormous pregnant cows eating cardboard and supplying the riverbank with landmines. I kicked one when I wasn’t looking. Beggars asked for a baksheesh and aggressive men, women and children tried to give uncareful visitors a bindi on the forhead with colorful powder, only to then ask for a “donation.”

The riverbank was packed and we loved it. It was India at its most real: pilgrims coming to a holy place (almost) completely devoid of foreigners to interact with each other and their gods.

As the sun began to set, we walked up to a temple on a hill. This was another monkey temple, of course named for the hundreds of resident brown monkeys living, playing, and if you’re not careful, stealing cameras or bags held by visitors during the walk up. The temple had many visitors and seemed vast, but the parts open to those not staying in one altar to pray do not take long to visit.

Just outside the back was a flat rocky area set against a cliff overlooking the temple and city. Walking up to it, our foursome sat on a bench watching the sun set over a lonely sacred city. As we watched, the river flowed through the valled, into the city and beyond, the water making its way to the ocean, another world away.

We walked down th steep trail on the hillside as dusk gave way to night. Crossing the river we had one last order of business in Haridwar. For a small donation, one can receive a river puja, an offering to the river deity in the form of a large leaf boat, complete with flower petals and candle to light before ceremoniously releasing it to its destiny downriver.

The theory and concept behind the act I find to be serenely earthly but divinely sacred- saying a prayer before liberating an illuminated leaf boat down a holy river. April went first and was handed a puja down on the ghats across for the red main temple set on the riverside.

Althogh I love the idea, the practice is not as serene as it sounds. I sat on the ghats next to Nate and Tara and had the dual pleasure of attempting to keep old women and small children from reaching my forehead with their thumbs, and also preventinga number of young men from harrassing April, insisting she needed them to show her the process of carrying our the puja offering.

This behavior is reminiscent of the reasons Ashish ahd given us the night before for not liking the city. Not a religious man himself, to him the corruption of the sacred for money proves Rishikesh and Haridwar to be falsely advertised as holy places.

One man refujsed to be rebuffed and stayed by April’s side the entire time, trying desperately to instruct and assist so that she might feel obligated to “donate” to his cause. April seemed able to handle him herself so Nate and I only sat back and watched annoyed at his aggressive tactics. It amazes me now that I didn’t push him into the river, but I was probably distracted by the need to guard my forhead at all times.

To her great credit, April responded to her helper’s repeated calls for a donation with a simple, “I’ve already given a donation, thank you.” While she walked away, Nate and I ran interference until it was clear he would get no money for his unsolicited company. He gave up and disappeared into the crowd. Nate and I quickly decided agains doing one ourselves, although I had looked forward to it up until that point. We didn’t want to pu up with the hassle any longer and it was getting late.

We had decided as a group to head to Rishikes that night, and we headed to the bus station. Using Nate’s advanced Hindi skills, we found out where to wait and took the next bus the hour trip north to Rishikesh, arriving at 10 at night.

After further hassle with auto rickshaws drivers- a common daily adventure of its own- we were dropped off at one of two pedestrian bridges in the city. Locating our position on the guide book map, I led us on the quarter hour walk through a large, quiet and dark complex that was comprised of many ashrams. The one I had chosen for our group was at the opposite end, and when we arrived we read the signs hanging from the perimeter fencing which made the institution of spiritual learning resemble one of correction.

There was no drugs or alcohol- as expected- no music or card playing… ok… and a strict silence must be upheld at all times… that’s a bit weird. It also locks its gates at 10 pm every night.

Uncertain though we were that this was the place for us, it was late and we needed a place to stay. And we had come this far…

Discreetly waking up the man just inside the gate, we inquired about a room for the night. He jumped up and found a man in charge who irritatedly let us in and led us to the office.

I think we were all a little intimidated by the facility’s strict atmosphere and we sat in silence as the man took our passports and filled out the paperwork. The man seemed quite upset we awoke him at this hour and when I was asked why we did not come before the 10 o’clock curfew hour, I just mumbled something about a bus and looked at my shoes in a humbly apologetic manner. We went to our room, concluded there was no hot water here either, and went to bed.

Immediately after waking the next morning we made our escape. Politely nodding our thanks to the man still stationed at the door, we exited and breathed a sigh of relief to be out of the oppressively prison-like environment.

In the crisp morning air, we went searching for breakfast. It was at this point I began noticing for the first time the other westerners also out and about. Almost without exception they matched the same description. Twenty-something or middle-aged, the white faces were framed with a head of dread-locked hair. Each wore thong sandals and cotton pants and kurtas that they had undoubtedly purchased at a store who markets such
”Indian” clothes to westerners. And each was wrapped in a large blanket to stay warm, just like the locals. Yet try as they might to fit in with the local Indian crowd of the heavily touristed city, these westerners fir in only with each other.

Nate first broached the subject when he mentioned how all the westerners wore “Indian” clothes while all the Indians actually were dressed in button-up shirts and slacks. By attempting to look and act Indian, the hippies in the city only succeeded in looking and acting like I would expect a hippie to in India.

For this I cannot fault them, as they are only emulating those who came before them. What I can fault them for is behavior which I would not expect from a hippie in India.

Later in the weekend, still in Rishikesh, Nate and I were obsessed with eating a thali at least once a day. We craved them. A cheap meal, a good thali consists of dhal, vegetables, rice and chapati, and costs around 60 cents. There are many good hole-in-the-wall places to get one in the small city and we never had any complaints about the price or quality. Our only complaint was sometimes the other company in the restaurant.

On several occasions we ate while listening to westerners in typical overt hippie attire impatiently explain special requests to the humble waiter trying desperately to understand. Then when their friends arrived, the visitors, in town to enhance their spiritual selves, would proceed to rudely call out for more food and complain about the service. Hardly the behavior expected of the meditatively spiritually enlightened.

The other interaction with a foreigner was an encounter with a large Israeli man riding an equally large motorcycle who invited us to a party in a remote location the next day that began at noon, and ended at the same time the next day. He said only good people were invited, and I would venture a guess that few if any Indians would be in attendance. Apparently if yoga and meditation is not your thing, the foreigners in Rishikesh are also given the opportunity to forsake all actions of serenity and have an all night rave outside the city with other foreigners. A truly Indian adventure.

But this disillusionment is not the lasting impression of my trip to the holy river. Indeed, despite the fraudulent occurrences I witnessed, I was able to forge an entirely serene experience for myself, and it is this memory that I took from this long weekend.

After our first breakfast in Rishikesh, we were going to take a leisurely 2 km walk up the road to the more touristy and pretty part of the city, away from all the oppressive feelings we got from the ashram. We walked past a path down to the river and with the sun warming us from above, the water looked very peaceful and clean, winding through the forest and lined on both sides by a boulder-strewn beach. We decided to change our path. Heading along the beach, the aura of the river and its surrounding stillness away from any contamination from the city hit us hard, and we fell into a respectful silence.

Meandering between the rocks, I walked to the rivers edge and pooled some water in my hands to splash on my face. It was pleasantly chilled and clear, having just sprouted from the mountains, and I felt immensely refreshed and at ease. I forgot all about the stress of the previous night.

We slowly pressed on, but when we came to a bend in the river that was especially protected from the road above, I stopped. Still silent, the girls disappeared over the boulders that now were as tall as a man, and Nate sat cross-legged on the tallest one, faced the river, and closed his eyes in meditation.

I also observed our tacit silence and perched myself on a boulder’s shoulders. Peering out over the tranquil, slow moving, blue current, I tried to grasp the peace I felt inside myself and stretch it around my whole body like a protective robe. It warmed me inside and out, and then I remembered the cool feeling of the water on my face.
Sufficiently inspired, I resolved to finally bathe myself, body and soul, in the pool of sacred water below me. I scrambled down to the ground, and made sure I was out of site and surrounded by tall boulders on all sides. I slipped off my sweater and shirt, removed my shoes and socks, and stepped out of my pants.

Testing the surface with my toe, the water was crisp and glassy. I waded out to shin depth and the cold water enveloped my feet in its therapeutic grip. I took one last breath to summon up my courage and leapt forward, water up to my neck, arms spread in front of me. It wasn’t as cold as I thought a river in the Himalaya in November would be. But it was chilly.

Nate had heard me in the water, and caught a brief glimpse as I had swam further out and looked up at his smile. I assured him it felt fantastic.

I dunked my head a couple times and then stood up. Rubbing water onto my face and beard, down my chest and stomach and under my armpits, I took my first bath in ages. The sun beat down on my wet body in the water, holding me in its light and warmth. Rejuvenated and purged of my sins, and some grime, I emerged dripping from the river.

I climbed back onto a low but sunny boulder and regained my quiet reflection, although this time my soaked body clad only in boxers shivered in the light breeze. Still, the suns rays and wind quickly dried me off and I was quite satisfied to sit almost naked on the boulder, on the bank of this holy waterway, basking in the warmth and peace of my surroundings.

Nate soon joined the club, going for a dip in the water on the other side of the boulder from me. When he had finished, and I was mostly dry, we got dressed, found the girls and continued our walk upriver. As we passed an office with a phone, I paused to make a call while Nate chatted up the shopkeeper in Hindi and the girls lagged behind, buying up the town.

A very good friend of ours had started a day behind, and was in Haridwar today. Matt had a full head of tiny blond curls set on top of his tall and skinny body. We share a similar (read: Hilarious) sense of humor, get along wonderfully, and it was he who taught English with me both at the school and at the NGO. He had had to complete another day of field work the day we left and so couldn’t come with us. The last we saw him, he was trying to convince our friend, Brian, to come with us since he admitted to me that he hates the stress and seclusion of traveling alone.

When we answered his phone when we had called the day before, he was on the bus to Haldwani, alone. He couldn’t get anyone to come with him and he had decided that coming alone was better than not at all. His heart was set and I knew he had been feeling quite confident and adventurous as the weeks had passed on our program in the mountains. And now he was taking a big step.

I had told him about the shorter than expected bus, our cheap hotel in Haldwani, the monkey temple and river puja and that we’d call him to let him know where we were in Rishikesh if he wanted to skip everything else and meet up with us.

When he answered that day, he was in Haridwar and said he was having a great time. The stress hadn’t gotten to him, he had not trouble negotiating a late night bus, transferring to a hotel and spending the day among the crowds of pilgrims and less than holy people in Haridwar, all alone. I was immensely proud. Traveling alone isn’t easy, and he had specifically told me he was hesitant at taking the trip without someone else to be a buffer. But my close friend had courageously decided overnight that he could easily be self reliant and take great pleasures in solo travel, and new doors full of adventure have opened for him.

He met up with us that night at our guest house in Rishikesh, and the next morning we headed back riverside. Slightly upriver from where we had sat the day before is a sandbar, about 100 meters long and 20 meters wide, beneath a row of small ashrams.

Walking on this sandy part of the beach with Nate and Matt, we decided we had to make a sand castle. Given our surroundings it didn’t take long for us to decide it would be a sand temple instead, modeled after the large one in town near our guest house.

We set to work using rocks as a foundation to make a large block, about a foot high and two feet long. We kept it moist with water dripped from our hands, and Matt decorated it with Hindi symbols (including swastikas!). Finally a tower was put on top by Nate and I although it began to fall apart before our pictures. Our temple had a gate, a circular designated place to pray, which we sat at and took pictures. A lei of orange flowers floated by and Matt plucked it out of the river and adorned our crumbling spire with it to complete the sand structure.

Pleased by our handiwork, we walked downriver to the spot we had occupied the day before. I wrote some in my journal and Matt was the first to decide he was going in. I took pictures of the half naked man as he prepared to him in and as he splashed around in the cold water.

Soon after I again was inspired to wash- maybe I had some residual sin to wash away. I made my a little down from Matt. Following the same steps as before, I took my second and last bath in the holy Ganga river. Perhaps more refreshed the second time, I again crawled on a rock and sat still and silent while the cool mountain breeze dried my pale wet shivering body. The sun was hiding that day, and the temperatures were significantly cooler. I grabbed my sweater and moved onto a rock swung far out over the water and resumed my tranquil state.

For a long time I again pondered my fortune for being able to take the auspicious bath in t freezing yet sacred water and felt a wave of content relief fro having fulfilled this dram and finally crossed off the last name on the list of places to visit before my program was over.

The next morning, we woke very early and left the hotel. We were leaving that day but not before Matt did me the huge favor of filling a liter plastic bottle with part of the Gange for me to take home. And we were not leaving to head back to Sonapani. Instead, we were meeting the rest of our program’s group in Ramnagar, the city outside the famous Jim Corbett National Tiger Reserve. It was here, only a few days later, that I had my next adventurous encounter with nature that week.

The Golden Temple and the Ninja Turtles

Im sorry I took so long to update. I have a lot to tell but it get difficult to me to attempt to do the emotions and experiences Ive had on this trip justice by writing them in words. Ive done my best of a rough rough draft and I hope its possible to appreciate to a tenth of a degree the intensity of my encounters. Much love!

Excerpt from my Travel Journal: December 15 2006- January 4 2007-01-05

Punjab is a state in the northwest of India. It is largely population by Sikhs and has its own language- Punjabi. The food is very good and most of what we think of Indian food in America is actually Punjabi food. Most of the state is covered by wheat fields as it supplies the nation with a large portion of its grains. In the north of the state is its largest city, Amritsar, home to the large Sikh Golden Temple.

And so it was here that Hala and I arrived after an 8 hour train ride from Delhi beginning in the early afternoon. Just a short rickshaw ride from the train station, we reached the golden temple around 10 pm. Covering our heads, we stepped through the outer gates of the complex and immediately met two young Sikh men. The one we talked to most was named Satnam, and we found out that they were pilgrims here, coming from the Uttar Pradesh city of Kanpur. After establishing that they were only interested in being friendly, we opened up and they offered to show us the procedure of entering the complex.

We removed and checked our shoes, washed our hands and faces with water, walked along the marble path and through a shallow trough to wash our feet. As we entered the main complex we were completely unprepared for the site in front of us. Having seen pictures of the temple, I thought it was a small gold box of a building sitting on a riverbank surrounded by the urban sprawl of Amritsar. However, before us was a golden splendor shining brilliantly against the black night sky in the lights shone on it. The water I had seen in the pictures was a large pool that surrounds the temple. A bridge at water level is the only access to this, the holiest of Sikh shrines, and an entire marble complex encases the spectacular setup, complete with kitchen, dining hall (meals are free), dorms, offices, and a clock tower.

Although it was late when we arrived, we sat on the edge of the giant pool and chatted with Satnam and his friend. He works in sales for pharmaceuticals and wants to move to America. His English needs work, but we told him to apply for jobs in America because he could use his Hindi to sell to the large number of Indian doctors. He taught me to say “Hello” in Punjabi: “Sath Sri Akal.”

After our chat we decided to eat, and headed for a late dinner in the dining hall. Here we sat on the floor in long rows after being handed a plate, bowl and spoon as we entered. Men came along with buckets of dhal, baskets of chapati, and watering cans of water and refilled our plates until we were full. The only difficulty for me was sustaining my cross-legged position long enough for me to finish me meal. Although I have now had lots of practice, my long inflexible legs still cannot hold this pose for long.

When we finished eating, we took another walk around the square surrounding the pool and temple. The ornately detailed decorations on the gilded building shone like the sun. It was a beacon of peace in the middle of the hectic Indian city.

Feeling tired, Satnam led us to his dorm where we found dozens of Indian pilgrims sleeping on the floor. Men, women, children, and entire families, young and old, laid out in a large room with sheets covering them and also acting as their only padding from the hard tile floor. So we joined in, after getting a locker and Satnam moving people over for us.

Every morning at 4 am there is an opening ceremony where the hold boo that is housed in the complex is carried, with a lot of late night fanfare, across the bridge and into the temple. It was for this that we awoke early the next morning. Staggering like zombies out of the dorm, covering our heads, checking our shoes, washing our hands, faces and feet, we found ourselves among the hundreds of other early risers eager to witness the ceremony.

After the book passed us, hordes of pilgrims crowded the temple bridge in an Indian-style line to enter the temple. We joined in. We pushed and shoved and eventually some order was restored as we neared the temple. We were shepherded around to one side and in a door, where we saw video cameras broadcasting the images of the three men who sat reading/ singing passages from the enormous book. Funny enough, one man wore sun glasses. I assume this was to shield his eyes from the harsh lights oppressing his vision of the scriptures. After less than a minute inside the temple we were hurried out and I joined in the pilgrims who washed their hands and faces in the hold water of the pool. Then we walked back across the bridge, as we took the marble floor, a man handing out what I found out was holy treats plopped a mound of mush resembling shredded wheat into my curiously outstretched hand. It turns out the flavor of this supposed treat is an acquired taste that Hala and I had yet to develop, and the rest of an hour or so with Satnam was involved with trying to choke down the mush, pass it off to each other or Satnam, or throw it away sacrilegiously in one of the rare garbage cans.

This chance was finally afforded to us when at some signal, all the pilgrims faced the temple and began chanting, bowing, prostrating and praying. This site was overwhelming. The tranquility of the prayers of so many pilgrims so early in the morning in such a peaceful, gorgeous setting was perfect and I felt I had reached the climax of my Golden Temple experience. Of course again I was wrong about this.

After getting back to sleep for a few hours we awoke and said goodbye to Satnam’s friend who was leaving now to see a sick relative in another city. Satnam convinced us to have breakfast with him and we walked outside the temple to find some food. When he asked us what we wanted to eat, we said we didn’t care, that Indian food, an omelet, whatever would be good. Hearing this, Satnam went on a mission for omelets for us, asking shopkeepers and small restaurant workers where we could get omelets. Finally he found a place and we sat down. We asked him if he liked omelets and he just shrugged that he didn’t mind them. He was just trying to make his new friends happy.

Later that morning we said goodbye to Satnam and thanked him for his kindness and friendship. We had decided that today we would go to the border of Pakistan in order to see the ceremony at the closing of the border, having felt our Golden Temple Experience wouldn’t get any better. We took our first cycle rickshaw every and hopped on a bus out to the border, arriving a couple hours before its closure.

Our stop was the last, and at the second to last stop all but six people got off the bus. Moving to the back to join us for the last few minutes of the bus ride were four young Indian men. They sat near us and asked us the usual questions, but didn’t speak any English. Busting out my tiny knowledge of Hindi, I attempted to understand and answer their queries, until we stopped. As we exited the bus, we saw that we were out in the middle of nowhere, the border was not closed yet (meaning we couldn’t cross the gate to go to the location of the ceremony between the border checkpoints) and there were only a few carts selling food and two or three small restaurants in line before the border. We sat at a table outside one of these and the four boys joined us.

One of the young men was much larger than the others. Although their heights varied, none were scrawny like many Indians. The large oen had a very strong jaw, a large square nose but soft and gentle eyes. He was probably at least six feet tall and his broad shoulders and his height set him apart from most of his countrymen. We found out later that he boxes- no surprise there. This man wore a pair of sky blue pants, and this became his identifying feature until later.

Next to him sat the shortest of the four, standing below my shoulder. A moustache covered his upper lip which was often curved upward in a goofy smile. While he seemed to be the playful one, he was still much thicker than most men in India.

The third man had large, caring eyes set in his tall, rectangular head. He carried a bag with him, as did Blue Pants, and he was very quiet and presumably the most shy of the foursome.

The last man was the most unique. A full, short beard covered the lower half of his face, and short wavy black hair covered his head. Between, his smile was warm and very wise for his young age. His eyes were dark and thoughtful so you were never sure how deep his thoughts were, although he looked as if he were always pondering the complexities of the universe. Reading his eyes was made even harder given the fact that he almost always wore rectangular tinted glasses.

But what set him apart more than his appearance was his behavior and attitude. Always seeming content , it was like he always knew what would happen next and fully expected our meeting. He was the wild card of the group. The outcast. The leader of the rebellion. He was Che. But more than that, he had an intellectual side. He was clever, caring and philosophical. He was Lennon. Until the foursome was later renamed, this renegade of a sage was identified by the name Che-Lennon.

The bearded enigma took out a pack of cigarettes, removed one for himself and slid the rest across the table to me. In response to this, I dug into my pocket, and presented the table with a small bundle of Indian beedies- a very cheap and typically Indian cigarette different from others. The men erupted in approval as is usual when I am seen smoking a beedie because of its specificity to India, and four new friendships were forged.

After chai, we removed ourselves to an open area across the street and chatted with the foursome, and other newcomers in our tiny amount of overlapping language. We shared photos from our cameras and their phones, joked and laughed at the expense of other westerners until it was time to cross the border and make our way to the giant bandstands where we would watch the ceremony.

Che-Lennon and I walked the entire way, an entire 15 minutes or so, hand in hand or embracing shoulder to shoulder in a manner very typical of close male friends in India.

Our friends immediately began to look out for us, attempting to find room to sit among the other thousands of mostly Indian tourists who had come to witness the free show.

The ceremony began with first border officials and then volunteers from the crowd running down the long road towards the closed gate at the Pakistani border holding and waving a giant flag of India. Each newcomer was awarded a rousing applause as he began his energetic taunt to the Pakistani crowd- which was less than 20 people, terribly lopsided compared to the thousands packing the Indian side.

A man on a microphone began chanting with the riled up crowd. He would yell “Hindusthan” (land of Hindus- one name of India) to which the immense crowd would respond some other three syllable phrase. This repeated many times at once, and would endure at different times over the next hour until the end. Even though I wasn’t sure what I was saying, I attempted to show my support and love of the giant country by mimicking the chants exploding from the bleachers.

The rest of the excitement involved the Indian and Pakistani border guards performing an impressively macho choreography of supremely fast marching toward and away from the border gate, complete with an even more impressive array of high kicking stomps. The entire event juxtaposed with a brilliant sunset over Pakistan was very fun and entertaining and worth the trip.

After the flags were removed by simultaneous heaving bending of the flagpoles marking the adjacent nations at the gate, the ceremony was over. We took pictures with our friends and walked back to the bus area where we were dropped off in the quickly darkening dusk.

At this point two of the previously mentioned newcomers joined us four in search of a bus back to Amritsar. Again our four friends made sure we were on a bus heading to our destination and that Hala had a spot to sit. Although a man offered his seat to me, presumably because both I am a foreigner and because my height makes it difficult to stand in the buses designed for an average height inches below my head, I refused, opting to stick it out in the entanglement of limbs and bodies that encompasses any ride of public transportation in India. The respect for this, along with the experience of living like a local makes any short term discomfort entirely worth it.

On the bus I began speaking in Hindi and English to the ticket collector. He was a very nice man and used to be a teacher. Seeming to warm to me when I told him in Hindi that I teach English in Uttaranchal, he quizzed my limited Hindi skills, taught me more, and joked with me. After repeated inquiries into my comfort level on the bus- I probably looked if I were bent in half- I told him truthfully that I’d ridden much longer on buses much shorter. Then to add emphasis, I practically yelled to the man only a few twisted bodies away that I thought, “This is a big bus!”

This stirred a roar of excitement and laughter among the crammed bodies as everyone on board strained their heads to look at the tall white guy having a good ol’ time and yelling in the back.

When we reached Amritsar, the eight of us, Hala and I, our four friends, and the two newcomers, descended and began the long walk to the city center. Along the way the foursome asked us where we were staying and after we told them they began leading us towards the temple. It was also at this time that the lanky, long-haired newcomer attempted-in very broken English- to convince Hala and I to come to this house in a city outside Amritsar for the night.

Although we politely refused saying our bags were back at the temple- which was true- he persisted and even tried having his friend explain to us over the phone. We pretended not to understand even though we felt bad for refusing his hospitality, but we wanted to stay at the temple again. Eventually he gave up and he and his short, scrawny friend said goodbye to us and turned down another road, presumably to catch a bus home.

Upon our arrival at the Golden Temple, the floor deliberated a short time and decided to stay here for the night. Although they were not Sikh, they came prepared with bandandas to cover their heads. Acting now as the guides, Hala and I escorted our friends into the complex and through the rituals taught to us by Satnam.

For a long time, we walked around the pond taking pictures. There was some communication across the groups, but mostly we conversed with the others who shared our languages, and just enjoyed the company of the others. While we waited for Hala to return from the bathroom, I asked if the men were married. Only Che-Lennon was. Blue Pants told me in Hindi that Che-Lennon has four children, one dead and three alive. This was a very personal thing, and I felt awful that I lacked the means to communicate my sympathies so I just muttered my condolences in English and fell silent until Hala’s return.

We sat near the bridge out to the temple, beneath the clock tower, and took more pictures, the goofy one sprawling out onto his side, elbow on the ground, cradling his head in his hand in a supermodel pose. At this time another young man our age came to us and began speaking English. He was studying English specifically and wanted to practice. An interesting young man, he was Sikh but didn’t believe in all the traditions. He didn’t grow his hair out or hide it under a turban as is customary and after the hold book was ceremoniously carted by on a fancy chariot during the closing of the temple around 10 o’clock, he mentioned his distaste for this hypocrisy.

Sikhs differ from Hindus in many ways, but one important way, as I understand it, is their denouncement of idolatry which plays an important role in Hinduism. Something that I had noticed the previous early morning, the hold book seems to be idolized in a very similar way to Hindu statues of gods and goddesses. Despite the boy’s difference from orthodox Sikhism, he comes to the temple often, although he lives in another city, and has friends who work there.

After another dinner in the dining hall and some chai served in small dishes, we brought the boys back to the dorm. Again it was very late and the room was silent but from the sounds of dozens of sleeping bodies. The English student had his own room- perks of having friends there- but Che-Lennon couldn’t get the man at the desk to allow him and his friends to stay with us because there wasn’t enough room. We found our at this time that there were dorms specifically for foreigners and this room was only for Indians. But because we had stayed the night before we were allowed to sleep here again and given two sheets.

The four men weren’t too easily persuaded to leave us alone however. Although we assured them we were okay, they kept trying to get us to book a separate room and weren’t convinced sleeping on the floor was comfortable for us. After a seemingly lengthy conversation using English student as a translator, we were finally able to satisfy Blue Pants and Che-Lennon that we had no problem here if the had no problem finding a room, and we agreed to meet early the next morning.

The next day we awoke, washed up, said goodbye to the English student and met the boys for breakfast. While we were eating I noticed one was missing, only to find the quiet one sitting cross-legged on the marble floor outside the dining hall in a small circle of volunteers, peeling shallots for others to slice for later use in the constant effort to feed thousands of pilgrims and visitors. Inspired to help, Hala, Blue Pants, goofy one, and I sat and began peeling tiny cloves of garlic used in the kitchen. We didn’t get to help long, even though the stinging eyes didn’t bother me much. We were encouraged to leave by Blue Pants and Che-Lennon after twenty minutes or so.

Collecting our shoes, we went for a stroll into town. Blue Pants helpfully assisted Hala in buying bananas from a vendor for a fair price, and we were led to a large park- which we had visited the day before with Satnam- named Jallianwala Bagh.

The park is a memorial for about 2000 Indians who were massacred here in 1919 during a peaceful demonstration. Bullet marks give evidence to the tragedy and plaques adorn the entryway which passes a memorial flame for the victims. Interestingly there is also a small Martyr’s Hall with paintings and history of famous Indian martyrs. One, whose image is all over India, including the office of the school were I taught English in Reetha, is most interesting to me.

He is a man who, having witnessed a horrible tragedy- maybe this same massacre- was praised for his bravery and courage for traveling to London, entering the parliament building and shooting dead the man supposedly responsible for the tragedy all the way back in India. This story was written in plain English next to his picture and I had to raise an eyebrow for the classic example of one country’s terrorist is another’s martyr. Just imagine a parallel encounter in Washington D.C…

This contradictory man aside, the park is now a beautiful and peaceful place with lawns, fountains, statues and benches. Sitting down, we were almost immediately surrounded by families curious to who we were. I was happy to impress with my few words of Hindi and I answer the youth’s simple questions in English and posed with them for pictures. During the quarter hour this was happening, the four boys sat quietly aside and we eventually felt bad for excluding them and had had enough of our celebrity.

At some point near now, Hala and I renamed each of our four friends. I’m not sure who first drew parallels between the boys and the deservedly famous Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but this nomenclature seemed incredibly appropriate. More than once our personal heroes, these young men were different from us but despite our lack of commonalities, they had infinite patience, kindness and companionship to offer.

What’s more their personalities were distinct and fitting. Previously clad in blue- although today he wore pants of a light yellow color, Blue Pants had all the strength and leadership qualities of Leonardo. A goofball at heart, the short one was an extremely adequate Michelangelo. The quiet one was harder to place but his unprompted charitable work at the temple earlier that morning led to his renaming as Donatello.

And then there was of course Che-Lennon. A leader in his own right, but at the same time the enigmatic loner, a fan of TMNT would lay witness that he exuded the complexities of Raphael’s behavior and personality. While within the group Leonardo led Michelangelo and Donatello charismatically, Raphael slightly standoffish chose to lead himself.

Although they had once told us their names, and their TMNT names came late in our short encounter, this nomenclature stuck and is how Hala and I have discussed the foursome since.

Moving across the park to escape the crowd of Indians gathered around us, we took more pictures with each other, joked and communicated more despite our lack of a common language. As the family we had chatted with earlier passed us, Leonardo grabbed the old man. The man sat on the bench next to me and Leonardo came down onto one knee to match our heights. As he knelt, he held the old man’s hand, looked at Hala and I square in the eyes and spoke. The man was happy to translate for us.

“He wants you to know that you are his very special friends. He is very happy for you. You make him very happy and you are very good friends.”

Slightly dumbfounded and needless to say very touched, we told the man to tell Leonardo that we felt the same way, we are best of friends and that we are very happy we met. Our translator obliged, Leonardo’s serious face shone with an enormous smile and he grabbed my hand and squeezed lovingly. This was easily the most special encounter while traveling I’d ever had.

The story continues from here to include when we bought the boys ice cream, when Raphael grabbed my hand and led me to a shop selling Sikh silver bracelets for a present which I wear every day and treasure, and stopping on the way to the bus station for sweets which we hated and I deviously crumbled on the ground in secret so as not to appear rude.

However these details only serve to solidify the point I have already made. What may sound anticlimactic or substantial, our encounter with the Ninja Turtles was incredibly special, I believe for all parties. We met on a bus and shared only words and a few tiny phrases of the same language. Yet when we left on another bus less than 24 hours later, our lives had changed.

It’s difficult to explain how it feels to have shared such intimacy with a total stranger, and doing so with minimal speech. We encountered using a higher form of human communication that transcended language or history. I may know nothing about them, but they are no longer strangers. For now on they will always be more. They are the standard for every future encounter while abroad. They are our friends, and our heroes.