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.