Gangotri

September 5 (continued): Shortly before we reach Gangotri, we pass a military base. It is a rambling encampment of buildings on both sides of the road. Soldiers walk alongside the road, or traverse their routes on motor scooters. Delivery vehicles of every sort site along the shoulders. At one point we observe that there is a helicopter. Only an observation.

Gangotri is the last village accessible by road as you travel toward the headwaters of the Ganga. Some say that at one time it sat at the snout of the glacier that becomes the Ganga River. Today it is several miles below the glacier. Arriving, you immediately notice that it differs in some ways from the many other villages that we have experienced. Gangotri greets you with a gate, the town dump, and a parking lot. The gate is old and concrete, straddling the road. It is chipped, the paint faded. The dump, which is smoldering, is evidently also home to some of the town residents.

Our drivers adroitly thread the cars into parking spaces where they are to remain for several days. We are assured that we can leave anything that we won’t need in the cars. I find myself leaving behind much of what I once thought indispensible. It is no longer indispensible, and I trust that it will be there on my return. I am learning what is important. I am learning India.
It is late afternoon. We will not be able to trek today. Instead, we walk up the road in Gangotri to the guesthouse that is expecting our stay to begin in another three nights. They are able to accommodate us. We go into a restaurant, and up a flight of stairs, emerging on a terrace. There is some concern about the rooms that are first shown to us, and we are offered others further up. However, in this case, further up turns out to be a bit treacherous. We walk/climb up along the broken top of a wall that is six inches wide to reach the next level. From there, we go up another level along an inclined sidewalk. Later we will find the stairs that go from the street level. They are outside the restaurant, and offer their own challenges. Some of the steps are eighteen inches or more in height.

Gangotri is an unexpected treat. Tonight we will get to visit the temple at sundown, to shop for woolen hats and gloves (which we will need in the next few days), to eat in a restaurant, to pour warm water over ourselves as we shower, and to sleep in a bed. Each room has a small balcony overlooking Gangotri, the Ganga, and the river valley. I spend time marveling at the beauty, and taking pictures.

Tomorrow we leave for Vojbasa. The next day, we will go on to Topovan. At 14,600 feet, this will truly be the peak experience of the trek.

Patience

Traffic. Flooded roads. Travel delays. I am sure you have experienced them, as have I. However, never have I experienced them in the same was as in India.

September 5 (continued): Shortly after leaving for Gangotri, we find that the road ahead is blocked by a landslide. We turn around, and head back a few minutes to the last village we had passed. There is time for breakfast. As we enter the small eatery (I am not sure that I have ever seen an American equivalent), our guide and drivers have already started assisting the proprietor at the stove. Soon we are being served chai, freshly prepared bread (one of the many forms that bread takes in India, though I don’t remember which), and butter. There is a school located up the hill behind us, and as we eat several boys come in the buy new pens. I am sitting at the front table, closest to the cash register, and observe these transactions. For most, it is a quick exchange, pen for rupees. Then one young boy, perhaps eight or nine years of age, comes in. He must try the pen, then another, and yet another. The clear plastic barrels, the colored caps, the ink are all the same yet he tests each one, comparing the results, before finally settling on one of them. I wonder whether this is a habit that will follow him through life, and how it will serve him.
Breakfast is leisurely. We know that when we get back on the road, it will be open or it will still be blocked. There is no need to rush to find out.

In fact, we discover that the landslide that allowed us breakfast has been cleared. However, not many kilometers ahead there is another. This one is much more substantial. As we drive toward it we pass a huge bulldozer starting to warm up. It will be a few hours before it passes us, parked on the side of the road. When we travel as far as we can, we pull to the side of the road and park. The parking is a bit random, some vehicles on one side of the road, some vehicles on the other. There are buses of pilgrims, taxis, motor scooters, cars, and trucks. Everyone knows that we will be here for hours. I confirm that for myself firsthand when I walk down the road to see the massive rocks blocking our way.

Imagine this. You have a travel itinerary, a destination. The plan is to drive to Gangotri, drop some gear at a guesthouse, and begin the next trek. Instead, you and hundred of others will be waiting for an apparently significant period of time on a mountain road. For us, the experience was very Indian, amazing, and thought provoking.

Some took the opportunity to nap, either in their vehicles or along the rocks on the side of the road. Others read. People walked up and down, stopping to meet others and to talk. We had passed a waterfall shortly before we stopped. The sun was out, so it became a place for people to do their laundry. Some (myself included) set shoes and clothes out in the sun to dry. There was dancing and singing. There were processions of pilgrims. What was missing was the anger, the vitriol, the impatience, the honking of horns, the expressions of rage that such a circumstance would have elicited anywhere I had ever been before.

Eventually, the road was opened. It took a bulldozer, dynamite, and a large road crew. It is 3:10 in the afternoon; we have been here over six hours. People move back to their vehicles and, slowly, our pilgrimages resume. We reach our destination three hours later. Tonight we will spend at a guesthouse in Gangotri. Landslides happen, itineraries change. It is about the journey. Namaste

Leaches, Leavings, and Landslides

September 4: How glorious! A bucket of hot water from which to pour my shower, one ladle at a time over my head. My clothes are washed, hopefully to dry by morning.

Our trek from Dodital to Sangamchatti was fascinating. Shortly after we started out, we found ourselves sharing the trail with water buffalo and a family that was herding them. We followed for quite some time before we were able to pass. We then came into a village that has come to represent, for me, so much of this trek. It was shrouded in smoke, perhaps mixed with clouds. It is not that there aren’t any places with similar living conditions in the States; I know that there are. But they are conditions that those of us who trek India are not used to seeing. And yet, as with so many other places and times, we were greeted with total warmth, acceptance, and joy.

We stopped for tea before proceeding on down the trail. Much of the day was spent walking in and out of clouds. I remember one time thinking that if I were to slip and fall, to roll down the mountainside, what a beautiful place this would be to die. It was so lush, so verdant, so embracing. It was neither a fear nor a wish, just an incredible acceptance of the possibility, the inevitability, and the beauty of where we were.

By the time we stopped for lunch, the sun was out. The donkeys were grazing in a corral below a concrete patio. When we arrived we were surprised to be told that we should remove our shoes and socks. Although we were used to removing our shoes at religious sites, this did not look like a shrine. Nor was it. The reason was much more pragmatic. Shortly before arriving there, we had crossed an area that was known for leaches. Sure enough, they were in our shoes, in our socks, and in many cases already attached to our bodies. Salt and sunshine was enough to rid us of most of the leaches. However, as I discovered when we arrived at the guest house this evening, one must have hidden in the fiber of my sock and spent the entire afternoon enjoying a banquet of my blood.

Another, more significant, surprise awaited many of us this evening. At dinner it was announced that of the twelve who had begun the trek, four were leaving in the morning. A fifth did not hesitate to let it be known that if transportation had been available, he would have left as well. I, too, had formulated my exit strategy over the past three days. When I was not meditating on where to take my next step, I was on occasion justifying why I shouldn’t have to. Yet one does not just “get up and leave” in the middle of a trek. You have to arrive somewhere first. And, when we arrived at Sangamchatti, the joy, the sense of gratitude and achievement erased all other thoughts. I can do this. I have done this. I will continue to do this.


September 5: This morning we are smaller by 1/3 of our original group. We have relinquished one guide of two. We are now comfortably in three cars and are heading to Gangotri. What we are soon to discover is that the road, a national highway, has been blocked by a landslide.

Honoring

There is much more to recount of this journey, but I find myself stepping back and reflecting on an insight that hit home with me at about this time in our trek.

Throughout this trip, others were there to serve us. Our drivers met us at the airport; when we reached the cars they had damp towels and bottled water to refresh us. They drove us eight hours or more some days. When we stopped to eat, they often joined the proprietor in preparing and serving our meals. When we stopped, whether at a guest house or hotel, they helped to bring our luggage in. When we trekked they took care of the luggage that was not with us.

We also had guides, and porters. As we prepared to set out in the mornings, they handed us snack packs. They disassembled the camp, and packed it up. When we couldn’t use donkeys, they carried everything we did not: the tents, the sleeping bags, the stoves, the food, their own gear as well as much of ours. When we filled out water bottles from the streams, they had the iodine. The carried our lunch, and set it out for us. When we arrived at the campsite, it was already being set up: the latrines dug, the mess tent and dining tent up, food being prepared. We didn’t have to set up our tents, our unroll our sleeping bags. We didn’t wash dishes, or boil water for drinking.

Special thanks is due to Aaron. As always, he handled all of the logistics from landing to departure. Even after his leg was broken, he ensured hotel arrangements for us in Rishikesh as he headed to Delhi for surgery.

Throughout, we were served with respect, with joy, with love.

Some see this service by others as their due, an entitlement, owed by virtue of privilege, status, class, or economics. I came to know that it is an honor to be served in this way, and it is humbling. I also know that without this care, this service, I would not have been able to complete the trek.

To all those who served me on this journey, I honor the divine in each of you, and express to all my appreciation for the service you provided. Namaste

Make It Effortless?

September 3: Make it effortless. If you have ever achieved this—in your yoga, your running, your lifting, or whatever training you do—you know the feeling. Your body may be sweating, your muscles will be sore tomorrow, and you are flowing through effortlessly. It can take considerable strength to achieve effortlessness. However, it is strength of focus—not muscle—that brings you to this point.

Last night we camped at Seema, at slightly over 11,000 feet. Today we will be going over the Darwa Pass, and begin our descent, camping overnight at Dodital. It sounds so easy, effortless. It won’t be.

Before we leave, Aaron reminds us to breathe through our noses; taking breath in through the mouth begins to activate the lower chakras; you “move into survival mode.” The climb out of camp is steep, and within minutes I am breathing through my mouth. This is not effortless. Sometimes, the only thought can be, “Where do I plant my pole? Where do I take my next step? Where do I plant my pole for the support that I need, and so it doesn’t become wedged? Where do I plant my foot so there is a place to plant my next foot.” Even these thoughts sometimes just skim the consciousness. I am panting, breathing deeply through my mouth. And I stop.

Finding Aaron, I ask for a refresher on breathing through my mouth. It will be days later that I realize my starts have been fueled by adrenaline; once I learn to control that, I am able to maintain my breath as I should. Now, with intention and attention to my breath I begin to move forward again. We switchback our way up toward the pass. It becomes effortless. My mind opens back up, and I know that this—make it effortless—is the mantra not only for this journey, but for what I am seeking here. I don’t know what that means, or how to do it, in terms of my quest, so record the observation in my journal.

We stop at Darwa Pass where we eat lunch at approximately 13,000 feet. The descent is steep, muddy. We encounter a family herding water buffalo. As I observe them, their smiles, I understand that they have so much less than I do, and so much more. I begin to think about the importance of letting go. Tonight at Dodital I journal on how so much unhappiness is the result of “need” and expectation, both of which are artificial creations of our culture. I begin to record what I have been letting go of: dry shoes, dry feet, dry clothes. Letting go of all the scents we put on our bodies in various guises. Letting go of hot showers, or any showers. Letting go of being in control. It is small, it is temporary, it is experimental. Yet it is important.

I sleep with a smile on my face.

Starting to Trek

On the morning of September 1, the sky comes awake as we drive from Rishikesh to Jankichatti. Shortly after 6:00, as dawn is breaking, the drive becomes steeper. We eat lunch, or perhaps a late breakfast, in Barkot. It is now noon, and we are at approximately 4,000 feet. It is too early for us to appreciate the comfort of this altitude, or the fact that the paved roads on which we have been driving much of our trip will give way shortly to eight days of unpaved roads, washouts, landslides, and trails. In this moment we enjoy the children heading to school, the blue sky, and the clouds that still wrap the mountains.

We get to Jankichatti an hour and a half later than we had expected to arrive. For those of us new to India, we have yet to learn that is not a delay, nor anything to be concerned with. It is the flow of life.

Our first trek is to Yamunotri and back. I pack my knapsack as I intend to pack it for the longer treks; for me, this is a “test flight.” I pick up my poles. I don’t complete the trek, turning around and returning to the guest house after an hour and a half on the trail. Lesson 1: I do not need to (and physically will not be able to) carry my 35mm digital (for color) and my 35mm film (for black and white). Lesson 2: I am okay with the altitude. Lesson 3: It is not a race. Lesson 4: Enjoy the scenery. On the way up my focus was the destination; on the return I see the monkeys, the green birds, the clouds wending their way through the valleys and along the trails. I consider the trek a success; I have learned important things about how to succeed going forward.

September 2 (16:13): We are at camp, at Seema. In Jankichatti we stayed in a guest house. It was my introduction to a bathroom where the toilet is a porcelain basin in the floor (Lesson 5: When using, only bring your pants to your knees). For a shower we order a bucket of hot water, and scoop it over ourselves. Tonight in camp the toilet is a hole in the ground (inside a latrine tent), and there will be no shower for another two days.

Overnight the rain was incessant. Halfway from Jankichatti to our starting point in Hanuman Chatti, the road had been washed out. We left the cars, starting the trek kilometers early. As it turns out, there had also been landslides that blocked portions of the road. All in the life of a pilgrim….

It was quite the trek. I was carrying my 35mm digital. It kept on swinging and bouncing. When I anchored it with my belt, I found myself being pulled forward by its weight. I could not lengthen the strap enough to be comfortable. Tomorrow it will go in my pack. It is too much; I will use my point and shoot and be content.

Today I often found myself thanking Mitchel for the challenge, and the variety, of my training. Those thanks will be amplified in the days to come. I also expressed thanks for quick dry clothing (even though, in the clouds and the rain they remain wet as I write this). And, thank you to the discovery of trekking poles. I am the only one with them; and I find them a tremendous help.

Today was a struggle. I learned a few more lessons. Lesson 5: There is always one more ankle-deep stretch of mud to traverse than there is clear glacial spring to ford. Lesson 6: The mud is never pure. Lesson 7: The best place to set down your next footstep has been marked for you in the recent past by a cow, a donkey, or a water buffalo.

Tomorrow, my mantra will be, Make it effortless.

I Am Back

Yes, I am back from India. It was quite the journey.

Actually, the journey is continuing. As I settle back into my life, I know that there are things yet to be learned, yet to be understood, yet to become a part of my life. I returned seven pounds lighter, 2,000 photos richer, and physically, mentally, and spiritually stronger than when I left. As I seek to sort out my images, my impressions, my journal entries, and my memories, I have yet to find a clear way to articulate it all. Perhaps I never will; perhaps it is not meant to be neatly reported.

What follows is my first “post-India” blog. I will continue making entries each weekend.

August 31: We are on the road from Delhi to Rishikesh by 5:00 AM. Though I don’t know it yet, this departure is a great awakening for my senses, and will serve me well in the weeks to come. As we drive this morning, the sun doesn’t rise, so much as the haze becomes increasingly luminous. Over the next two weeks we will experience many sunrises, from the road and on the trail. There will be those days when we look up to see the sun lighting the tops of the mountains above us, and look down to see the clouds engulf the mountains below. In Seema, sunrise finds us inside the clouds, while at Tapoban the sky is blue, the peaks of Shivling and Bhagirathi glistening white and gold. These experiences still await me this morning.

Today as the haze grows brighter, it is clouded over at times by the dust from the road, or the infrequent patch of fog. The cacophony of noise, even at this hour, is almost overwhelming. Painted on the rear of every truck is Horn Please. We oblige, frequently. Honking, like so much else on the roads of India, carries a different meaning than it does here in the US. It is not about aggression, or dominance, or bravado; nor is it an expression of testosterone. Honking is a means of communication. It is telling the driver in front that you are behind, and that you are preparing to pass. It is telling the driver around the curve that you are coming in the other direction. Each time you honk, you are asking the other driver to be aware of your presence, to let you know if “the road is clear” to pass, to pull further to the left if possible (in India you drive on the left side of the road).

I quickly begin to learn the language of the horns, and to trust our drivers. The first of these lessons is interesting. The second is indispensable. Two lane, two way roads quickly become one way as vehicles pass one another in an intricately choreographed dance. The bicycles, motorbikes and oxcarts dance with the cars, taxis, buses, and trucks. Each moves at a different pace, finds its own space. All forms of conveyance share the roads, whether highway or byway, city or—increasingly—country. Tractors pull carts laden with grass while oxcarts are loaded with brick. Mini-buses (many three-wheeled), bicycles (again, many with three wheels), donkey carts weave a living fabric of noise, sight, sound, and motion. Through all of this wend the cattle, the dogs, and the pedestrians. One lane in each direction becomes two, three, or even four leading a single way. The road doesn’t change width, only flow, until there is no choice but to reclaim its original two-way identity.

We stop along the way for breakfast. This is our introduction to virtually two weeks of vegetarian eating, though we don’t know that at the time When we arrive in Rishikesh, all of our senses are awakened. We will rely on them in ways unanticipated in the coming days.