Dr. Noeffingway

Everyone is a doctor.

Perhaps fate would have found me a crumpled heap on the floor even without the intervention of India's self-proclaimed GPs, but I can't help but entertain the idea that my body may have been better off had I the strength to ward off the swarm of well-intended advice thrown my way.

Going back two weeks ago, I was temporarily torn away from Rajastan in the name of volunteering and furthering my attempts to transcend space and time. What?  Nevermind. Anyway, I was serving at a course similar to the one that I attended in December in a remote village area 40 kilometres outside of the state capital of Gujerat, Ahmedabad.  Aside from the 20 attendees, beating sun, and a cat living in fear of his shadow, we were in the company of a breed of monkey whose behaviours often times were so uncannily human it was unnerving. The time passed as quickly as the illusion and on the last day I was invited to stay in the home of one of the attendees for a couple of days before I caught my 12 hour train back to Jaipur. This is where the trouble started.

As I leave the course, a wave of nausea overcomes me and the dusty forty minute drive in an auto-rickshaw does nothing to dispel the growing urge to vomit.  This was a fail despite being advised to just stick my fingers down my throat, something that I can safely say will not happen in my lifetime (friends and family can rest assured that bulimia is about as tempting as a Nickelback concert).  A couple burps later and I feel the upset is on its way out.

Wrong. The following day at a dinner party with 5 other women finds me the center of attention, and for once it is not because I am the Western lady.  Now I am the Western lady with a troubled stomach. "You should drink buttermilk" (Oh, God that sounds terrible) "You should have ice cream, it's good for you" (What? I'm pretty sure that's not true, although I would have loved if it was in my younger years).  "Here, chew on this, it's a home remedy" (consisting of Aniseed, Cumin seeds, salt and who knows what else).  A woman pinches pressure points all over my body and doesn't waste her time poking a strong finger into my belly button.  The burp that follows is greeted with cheers of approval.  What just happened?  I feel temporary relief and all are more than happy to pat themselves on the back for their medical efforts.

The next morning I feel terrible, and I later understand why, amidst a night of restless sleep, I kept having a reoccurring dream where I little girl keeps trying to go to the bathroom in front of me.  I thank Jesus, Buddha, and Zeus for the clean, functioning toilet at my disposal.

"You should drink a cup of coffee. Black."  I stop in my tracks. This is where people stop being polite and start getting real.  Improving mastication on a combination of seeds and spices appeared as harmless as it was helpful but now the assistance in the form of "home remedies" reaches destructive territory.  Inasmuch as I adore the smell, taste, and ritual of a morning brew, I've (repeatedly) learnt the hard way that this particular beverage and my sensitive body just won't play nice together and that's on a good day.  I tell her as earnestly as possible that it is not my intention to be a finicky foreigner, but that I simply cannot drink coffee. After having spent the last part of thirty minutes running into the loo my brain is sounding an alarm to the tune of "NATURAL LAXATIVE!"

I breathe a sigh of relief as she departs to run errands and her servant brings me a "special beverage". Here we go again, but it doesn't look like black coffee, nor does the smell betray it's true nature. Oh, but haha, Lizette, the joke is on you because it IS coffee which is made special by extra water, milk and 50% sugar. One gulp has me etching my initials on the bathroom walls for the next hour.

When my hostess returns I resemble Frank Gallagher as I try to lift my head from the ground to explain that I haven't been able to rest because I've had the never-ending desire to see if her toilet still flushes.  She again insists that black coffee is the answer.  Taking in a deep breath I attempt to tactfully explain that coffee is a laxative, that it upsets my stomach which is why I don't drink it, that one shouldn't have caffeine when they have diarrhea, etc.  She simply shakes her head and reiterates that it is good for an upset stomach and brings me a glass.  The fact that she won't entertain my own prior experiences as having relevance slightly astounds me.  At least I googled her suggestion before reaffirming my (*ahem* proven) opinion.  Desperate times call for desperate measures as I am forced to sneak into the bathroom to dump it down the sink.  The obvious issue with this is that my recovery will no doubt be attributed to this sinfully delicious drink. A prayer goes out to all who might encounter the "Bombay blast" in the company of unqualified doctors.

all roads lead to Rajastan

India.

the faces of...

"I'll give you some shanti" mutters one of my companions through gritted teeth on the sleeper train from Varanasi to Khajuro.  This immediately becomes the mantra that captures our daily struggle. India's landscape and it's inhabitants contain layers upon layers of character, depth, and splendour.  However, this is almost always interlaced with strong elements of that which we are naturally averse and that which we have been protected from in our lives (with good reason).  It's likened to falling deeply in love whilst simultaneously being punched in the face.  The second I finish wiping the blood from my nostrils, I return to composing sonnets/mixed tapes what have you.

Varanasi was a name that rolled off the tongues of many especially during the last month of my travels.  I naturally took this as a sign to abandon my return flight to Delhi and instead enter India via bus to ensure a visit to the city described as both dark and captivating.  After a fleeting second of shut-eye at the Korean Monastery in Lumbini (the birthplace of Buddha), I found myself at Sunali, the Indian/Nepali border town.  The stark difference between the two countries divided by what effectively is a line on the ground will never cease to amaze me.  Not 10 seconds within “India” when it becomes apparent that the ground is considerably more littered, begging children are tugging at our clothes, a stationary mustachioed man starts heckling us, and the officer at passport control cannot be bothered to look up from his newspaper to do his job (I have to thrust my passport in his face to receive a responsive grunt and the appropriate forms). Ah India, how I had almost forgotten.

The 10 hour drive from Sunali to Varanasi was marked with varying scenery, new facial features, and who else but The Beatles. I was basking in the glow of homecoming.

varanasi

Upon reaching our destination, we were thrown into a chaotic whirlwind of rickshaw armies (NEVER take out your guide book in public places), death defying traffic, hustlers and street vendors trying to get a leg up on the next guy.  A far cry from chilled out Nepal, but embraced as part of the experience unique only to India.  Varanasi was postcard perfect with it's array of ghats lining the holy but (pardon me) somewhat foul Ganges River.   Parts of the river are apparently septic; however, despite this, it is considered a privilege to be cremated on its shores. The cremation and the preceding ceremony are open for the public to see with no qualms as the men paid to tend to the flames prod at limbs and feet like firewood.  Witnessing the event from start to finish was remarkably intense and required an evening of rest and internal recovery.  Varanasi was much more gentle during the days that followed.  Banana milk, bindis, crashing a conference at Varanasi University (all in the name of free delicious food), and days spent on varying rooftops while watching the city fly kites made up the chapters for rest of the week.

It was my cue to hit the road the moment the shopkeepers and chai boys became familiar faces.  Although not what I had originally planned, the next destination was Khajuro, a quiet town known for its detailed erotic temples.  The temples were indeed a sight to behold but temple hopping and sight seeing isn't how I envisioned passing my time in India.  Having said that, there was one powerhouse of a site whose daylight presence was both commanding and exhilarating....

Arriving at 4 AM the next day in the swarming tourist hole that is Agra we playing the waiting game. Waiting in line for the Taj Mahal felt just like queueing up for a stadium show ("Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we've all been waiting for.....").  Sleep deprived, delirious (pretty sure we saw Michael Jackson), and wildly excited we finally burst through the gates a few hours later.  It was everything I dreamt it would be and although I was suffering with a fever on the train ride over, I was gleefully energetic, bouncing around from shutter clicks to shouts of joy.  The added bonus was the drunk "guide" (he had a badge and everything) who told us where to take the best shots and had us positioned in ways that I haven't seen since the Saved By the Bell era. Think balled fist on chin, Uncle Rico style.  Once the endorphins started to come to a steady halt we reluctantly dragged ourselves around the seedy "must sees" of  Agra (the Red Fort where I got sick and a jewelry shop where the owner was intent on going to hell), killing time before the 7 hour bus ride to Jaipur. No matter how INCREDIBLY exhausted we were, there was no way were we spending a night in a city whose only redeeming feature is the palace we already branded and ate for breakfast.

part of the best birthday surprise

Jaipur, the capital city of the state of Rajastan that provided my first real thrill in India at the end of October. A friendly face, a car ride, and an actual bed that would be mine for the following three days. Bliss squared.  Rajastan was where I ached to return and three months after our first introduction, my wishes were again fulfilled. A new adventure commences yet again.

Nepal (reprise)

sunsest from the peace pagoda

Nepal in it's entirety blindsided me in slow motion.  Finding myself again in Kathmandu I had almost chalked up the last few months as coming full circle, hanging off the same concrete terrace where I originally threw a tantrum (well, an hour long whinge married with severe pouting) about my perceived shackles of constraint following the expiration of my first Indian visa. However, this time around I had the wealth of my Nepalese experience under my belt in addition to the immense pleasure of crossing paths with friends old and new.

An oar in hand, motorbike rides to the ends of the earth, vertical extensions, fresh faces sparkling with the vigour of freedom, and an all too comfortable feeling of ease defined the weeks beyond my 10 days of self imposed silence.  My comparatively lazy days in the town of Pokhara came to a striking end in the warm company of the reluctant sages of Phewa Lake's mountains.  As the flames of their bonfire licked the soles of my well worn shoes I found myself under the wing of a heavily bearded South American cum wild Nepali.  While his European partner boisterously owned an acoustic rendition of "La Javanaise", I found myself receiving instruction and advice of the highest order in a conversation that only required a nod and grateful acceptance of a talisman formed from the heart of Pokhara.  Magic easily accessed in the understated beauty of nature's finest.

Enter Londonites, S&K, the familiar faces from a lifetime shelved half a year ago.  Several times we remarked how surreal it was that we were sharing our time in the company of dal bhat and prayer flags.  We spent our first night together in the anti-climactic setting of the Pokhara street festival and ushered in the new year as well as S's birthday in Kathmandu (there was no countdown, but a count up and the ball dropped at the count of 12. 12???)

My last meeting with S took place the weekend prior to my departure amidst the human traffic of Embankment in the revered gardens of Gordan's Wine Bar.  However, instead of engaging in social commentary over fine wine, I was now squealing over the "free" toilet paper in the bathroom and an opportunity to crash in one of the most luxurious hotel room floors since the start of my travels (think poor man's Holiday Inn).  In the midst of those who vacation, I was struck by how feral I felt in comparison; my daily budget and financial mindset now firmly formed of rupees as opposed to the pound or dollar.  On that note, I even had a friend make the generous offer to spot me an extra £20 a week upon learning that I shared a room with another traveller to save myself an extra 250 rupees (the equivalent of 3 dollars) a day.  Although I will never look a gift horse in the mouth, I had to graciously decline.  It's not that I cannot afford the cost, but those 3 bucks go a long way... although having said that, I don't think I have ever been so ornery about another person's bodily outcries.  Lesson learned.

a session conducted in a derelict school

Following S & K's departure, I happened upon a group of individuals who very quickly welcomed me into their sphere.  Headed by a Lama, this was a group of reiki practioners who were offering a holistic service to the locals living mountainside, an hour outside of Kathmandu.  I was invited to accompany them and observe their practice over a week.  The purpose of this "camp" was to raise money on a donation basis for what they hope to establish as Nepal's first healing hospital.  The costs required to build the hospital are estimated to be approximately $12,000 which in Western terms is a small sum to pay when dealing with real estate.  However, where the rupee is concerned, not a dent will be made if merely counting on the donations of the even the more affluent Nepali residents.  The contributions of foreigners are somewhat advantageous (if not necessary) in this instance, but my experience is that there is always tension when applying a cost to what I view as a service born from altruism.  Whatever ones thoughts are on Reiki, I will only say at this time that the outcomes spoke for themselves.  The satisfaction of the recipients varied in demonstration from a glowing smile to a man breaking out in dance and fist pumping the sky.  Several spoke of their now absent symptoms and pains following their treatment. The time spent here passed swiftly and my final days found me playing the role of the pied piper as the number of children surrounding me multiplied and filled me with a healthy level of exhaustion (I can't remember the last time I played tag).  When parting ways, I was sent off with a slew of embraces and promises to cross paths again at points unknown.  The perfect ending to my first visit to Nepal.

Rosen and Bibek (top left) were the leaders of the pack and brilliant company

on the way up

On the heels of my first visit to India, it took me a little minute to fully appreciate Nepal in it's own right. Initially, Nepal presents many images that mirror those of India.  The corner shop crowded by cheap sweets and single cigarettes, the widespread poverty, roadsides littered with an assortment of rubbish (from candy wrappers to "waste"), and the strong smells of burning plastic.  But at heart, Nepal is nothing like India.  The scenery is breathtaking, the weather generally milder, and interactions with people of sincerity are much more accessible. Nepal doesn't suffer from the same degree of pollution or burdens of over population and there is a sense that life is experienced at a slower and more relaxed pace.  I can understand why people coming from Delhi liken Kathmandu as an oasis.  I do not take for granted how fortunate I have been to have encountered gems of individuals in India who have contributed in forming a more positive experience for me.  Despite taking much delight in this moment, I am excited to return to "mother India", her arms ready with the paradox of beauty and chaos.  My newly issued visa in hand, I start my journey tonight to  Lumbini, the birthplace of Buddha, and will hopefully be crossing the border towards Varanasi in mere days. Triumph.

equanimous equaimous

10 days of being submerged in deafening introspection within the confines of absolute silence.  Where to begin…it is extremely difficult to find a voice to describe an event such as this.  I can only note that there is a distinct impression of change, a crater left by the impact, but with no strong accompanying emotions.

The recently completed Vipassana course was set in the hills of Pokhara with grand mountain views whose command was only disturbed by the territorial disputes of monkeys and some of the worst DJs (Celine Dion, Akon???) this side of the world.  The requirements for the past week and a half included the abstinence in any forms of communication or external stimulation in order to fully reap the benefits of the exploration of mind and body. 

First, there is still no need to use the “safe word” in regards to a possible detachment from the reality I left behind.   There was no dissolution of the body, no blinding lights, no conversations with Jesus, Buddha, or John Lennon.  I did however gain a much deeper insight into my thought processes, my desires and aversions, and what I would like to believe is an overall sense of a deeper mental awareness.  

The first couple days were more strenuous than I ever imagined.  The daily 4 AM start did nothing to alleviate the burdens of consciousness (nor the fact that our last proper meal was at 11 AM).  Sitting uncomfortably for long periods at a time, meditation with the focus on breath and bodily sensation accounted for over 10 hours of the day. Quite the demanding practice for one who has never previously meditated in a serious way (unless you count marinating in the scent of nag champa with the likes of Mr. Ravi Shankar).  The outstanding feature in the early days was the overpowering loudness of the mind especially in the absence of outside distractions.

The strict vow of “noble silence” was upheld with the exception of an outburst of hysterical laughter on Day 7 when the entirety of my thoughts and memories appeared absurdly comical.  I figure if I ever plunge into the depths of insanity it will likely resemble that moment.  Otherwise, it was actually refreshing to keep to myself.  

The course was profoundly intense, but recommended.  The meditation and even the discourse behind it may not be to everyone’s level of comfort or acceptance, but it undeniably holds a mirror up to oneself.  It remains with the individual as to the commitment, fortitude, and honest internal dialogue in regards to the possible benefits of such an undertaking.  Personally, it is an area that will inevitably continue to entice me at least in regards to insight in in the realms of consciousness. However, there is also a deep sense of relief in the much missed belly laugh and the company of James Brown. 

our assistant teacher with the ladies.

Sitamai

“Early to bed and early to rise is Bergen’s idea of exercise.”

Any attempts to maintain notions of passing time were thwarted by a comparable life of leisure on Sitamai’s Ecofarm.  Depending on the host family, one was either becoming adept at working the rice fields or endeavouring to transcend space and time in the bamboo tree house. I was clearly engaging in the latter, but still managed to clock in a couple hours a day sinking my hands into buffalo shite and setting the stage for the makings of future dal bhats (a Nepalese meal of rice and lentils served twice a day…everyday). 

The three weeks spent in this small village in Chitwan added to a more immersive learning experience and our host and founder of the project, Padum, was full of wisdom about organic farming and the surrounding wildlife.  Although several of his fantastic stories were entertained with a pinch of salt (choking a leopard with an umbrella, jumping onto a rhino from a tree), Padum would deliver on his promises to afford the volunteers narratives of their own.  It’s not every day one gets to hug a baby rhino.  Yeah, hug.  

Sitamai was Narayan brought to life with tropical flora splashed against a backdrop of fields and lush forests wrapped in the warmth of fine company.  Banjo strings, sassy Amas, rocks of rhinos, papaya leaves, dirty fingernails, and the baby next door who peed on my leg comprised some of the more unforgettable moments.  Although my desire for alternative cuisine grew exponentially, I did enjoy the sense of a daily routine in such a tranquil yet often spontaneous environment. 

Now in stunning Pokhara and once again using silverware, a 10 day retreat awaits me.  The requirements are simple: no speaking, writing, reading, listening to music, or making eye contact.  I imagine myself climbing up the walls by day three (at best) as my favourite pastimes now fall into a category of vices.  However, it is a challenge and it is free.  Admittedly I am motivated by both spiritual curiosity and financial interest.  A handful of friends have already completed the session with mixed reviews so the hope is that I either achieve Nirvana or get thrown out in the most glorious manner.  We’ll soon see.

Fitter Happier

It's a fantastic struggle to capture the words that give justice to the depth of connection and sensory indulgence that took place in Jaipur and Delhi.  

My first days were spent with my friend Gaury and her family in East Delhi.  Although we were perfect strangers when I landed in this pulsating monstrosity, I departed feeling like a newly adopted puppy.  Gaury's mother insisted that my mouth be occupied by constantly chewing (I lost weight after I left their house) and her father was a humorous man who clearly doted on his family and thus was slightly concerned by my marital status ("after you get married next year, you'll come back?"), but all was presented to me with such warmth that I could only respond with the same.

I had been bracing myself for the product of over population and poverty, and whilst these elements were unavoidably present, it certainly did not detract from the overall experience that is Delhi.  Houses adorned with garishly brilliant strings of lights, the city danced and exploded during the balmy evenings leading up to Diwali.  The doorways were carefully decorated with a combination of marigold petals and oil lamps.  To accompany the brilliance of glamour and color, Gaury and I adorned ourselves in decadent garments before participating in the ritual puja to ask for blessings of fortune and wealth.

Days later I was trying to navigate the chaotic maze of the Delhi bus station.  Instead of signs and helpful employees, I found myself attempting to locate my bus to Jaipur by following the sporadic shouts of the drivers in between the heckling of men selling cakes and other sweets for the journey. This was at least of more assistance than the men who chose to ignore me point blank while I (politely) tried to get my bearings straight.

The 6 hour ride through Rajasthan was breath-taking.  Rich garments, camels, and rolling hills filled the scenery in between busy towns that one could pray have seen better days.  On arrival to Jaipur I had to do my best to wear an expression that looked both disinterested and knowing as a hoard of rickshaw drivers tried to persuade me of their sincerity and their services.  Moments later I find myself fortuitously in genuine company who want nothing but to make my introduction to Jaipur one that I will never forget.  The days were spent riding on  motorbikes through a whirlwind of the city blare and the rich outskirts.  Monkeys took snacks from my fingers and I left on a cloud of bliss that could only be enjoyed in newly acquired serenity.  On my return to India, revisiting Jaipur is on the top of my agenda.















I currently find myself in Kathmandu, Nepal.  The main reason of this new residency is to apply for a new Indian visa which I am able to submit after 30 days.  In the meantime I aim to take on a couple volunteering tasks at an orphanage and then a eco-farm a couple weeks later.  However, like everything about this visit, all is fluid, so I am not closed whatever else decides to crop up during this time.  Unfortunately, with this mornings eggs being the number one suspect, too much has been cropping up for me today.  Hopefully I will be able to further indulge in this city's offerings by sunset.

You've got to follow your balloon

The stars of SECMOL

cheek mountain

My darling Tsomo with a sideshow

The Ladakhi Paul Weller