Sunday, December 2, 2007

Days 7-8: Manali and Dharamsala/McLeod Ganj

“Hardly art, hardly starving...”
-The Thermals, “No Culture Icons”

Locations: Manali, Dharamsala/McLeod Ganj (Himachal Pradesh)

Photos:
Manali: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2046759&l=b4537&id=1101094
McLeod Ganj: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2046761&l=b52e0&id=1101094

Temperature: Manali: 82; McLeod Ganj: 84

Morale: 9

Spinning: Manali: Elliott Smith - Either/Or, Elliott Smith - XO; McLeod Ganj: The Thermals - More Parts Per Million, The Go! Team - Proof of Youth

Reading: Tibetan history section of Lonely Planet

Talking: Mostly to locals in brief conversations. No real travel companions.

What's next (I think): Amritsar

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I left you sleeping in my surprisingly nice (and cheap) guest house in Manali. The Frenchies were sleeping in the room next door, but I didn't hear a peep out of them.

In the morning I got up and walked around Old Manali (where my guest house was located) a bit. Old Manali is about 2km up the hill from Manali proper, and is still low-key and backpacker friendly (New Manali is pretty built up due to all the “adventure tourists” (rafters, paragliders, trekkers, etc.) who make Manali their base). In fact, I ran into more cows than tourists that morning in Old Manali.

I took an auto-rickshaw down the hill to Manali to try to figure out the bus situation to Dharamsala/McLeod. I split (read: I think I paid 90%, which came out to about 50 cents) the auto-rickshaw with a guy who turned out to be from Nepal. He tried to convince me to come to Nepal next, and given my record so far on this trip, I'm surprised I turned him down. But the conversation highlighted another interesting thing about the trip so far—wherever I go, locals try to convince me to stay longer, and people who are from another town or country try to convince my to visit that place next. People have obviously figured out that even if they don't directly benefit from tourists visiting, they will benefit indirectly though the fresh cash that is pumped into the local economy. And they try to get the tourists that do come to stay as long as possible, knowing that they'll bleed cash as they stay, because that's pretty much the only way to eat and sleep. That's why my Lonely Planet said there were no ATMs in McLeod Ganj (as of Sep 2005), and now there are four.

There were two buses I could take to Dharamsala: the one that cost Rs 225 and made you want to end it all, and the “lux bus” that cost Rs 350 and was reasonably comfortable. In general I despise paying more for things like transportation than is absolutely necessary, but given that this was a night bus ride and an extra $3 seemed like a small price to pay for some sleep, I went with the “lux bus.”

The bus didn't leave until 7:30, so I had the whole day to buzz around Manali. I decided first to do some shopping for Kashmiri stuff I didn't get a chance to buy while I was in Srinagar. It turned out to be no big deal that I hadn’t done it in Srinagar, because so few tourists go to Kashmir that most Kashmiri shop owners have stores in places like Leh and Manali so they can actually sell something once in a while. So I had plenty of Kashmiri shops (with legitimate Kashmiri shopkeepers) to choose from in Manali.

But shopping (read: bargaining) is not as easy without Adam along to play good cop/bad cop with me. I can't say I like something and then, scripted, have Adam walk up and say, “Uhhh, what is that piece of s*%&?” And I can't bounce prices off him to figure out when I'm paying too much. In short, shopping in another culture is tough when you don't have someone else along to keep you in line.

So I decided to work around the problem by testing the market for pashmina (really soft mountain goat's hair) scarves, which are pretty much the most popular of the Kashmiri handicrafts. I knew I wanted to buy a nice one (or two), but first I thought I'd try to figure out where the shit ones (part pashmina, part synthetic) traded. So I went into a shop and looked at a few, noted their defects out loud, and said I thought the quality of all of them was pathetic (they really weren't that bad). Then I asked how much they cost. The shopkeeper said they were Rs 3000 ($75). I laughed and started walking toward the door.

As expected, the shopkeeper called out from behind me, “Wait, wait, how much you pay?” Look man, I've been asked to show a bid before and then gotten smacked with something I didn't want—so you're not going to get me on this one. So I said, “I can't pay anywhere close to that. What's the best price for this?” I figured there was a shot that his best offer would be below my throw-away bid, so I thought I'd give the guy a chance to screw himself.

The guy, smarter than expected, said the best price was 10% off, or Rs 2700. Obviously that was still way too high, but I wondered if these things were actually more expensive than I thought. After all, this guy saw that I was about to walk out, and he only dropped the price by 10%—a gutsy move if he had a lot more room to drop the price and still make money. Maybe he didn't have much room to drop it after all.

So I decided to show him a bid. “Well,” I said, “I couldn't possibly pay any more than par for this bond.” Oh, wait. That’s what Andy Carty says to Jeff McCormick. Rather: “Well,” I said, “I couldn't possibly pay more than 1000r ($25) for this.”

The guy made a face and said that was far too low. I said ok and started to walk out, which was sufficient to call his bluff, because he came running after me yelling, “Ok, ok, your price, your price!”

Given that I didn't really want this thing—I just wanted to know where it traded so I could figure out how much to pay for the nicer ones—what did I do? I did what Nimmy taught me to do best: I ran away like a little girl.

“1000 rupees? Hmmmm. Let me look at this again. What's this loose piece of thread hanging down? Is this thing unraveling as we speak? ‘Pull this thread as I walk away?’ You know what, never mind, I don't even want it for 1000 rupees anymore. Sorry!”

The shopkeeper was none too pleased. But I did get some good information.

I ended up buying a few things, and I think I did ok on price. You know you're doing ok when you walk out of the store and they don't follow you, and you're forced to go back in and take the last price. In my case, I went back in and paid Rs 100 over the best price, and earned goodwill from the shopkeeper for the rest of the day (he packed all my items for me so I could fit them in my pack (priceless), even ones I hadn't bought in his shop, and he gave me good internet and restaurant suggestions for the rest of the day. And I earned some points for Americans—god knows we need them).

That brings me to a huge reality of travel in India: it is absolutely worth it to pay a little extra to get a lot more. Even small (Rs 10=25 cents) tips go a long way toward making people be nice to you and help you out. I let the internet guy in Manali keep the Rs 10 change and he showed me to a WC, and when I got back he told the guy who had taken my computer that it was reserved for me. It's really amazing what a seemingly inconsequential amount of money will get you here.

Anyhow, as I walked out of the Kashmiri shop I felt a drop of rain. Within 30 seconds, it was pouring. Luckily an internet café wasn’t far away, and I had a lot of writing to do.

When the rain stopped I headed back to Old Manali, picked up my pack, and ate lunch outside at a Tibetan place that had amazing views of the valley below. I left the Frenchies a note to say goodbye, but I deliberately didn't include my email address.

The bus ride to Dharamsala was uneventful: I’m a great sleeper on bus rides, and this one was no exception.

We arrived in McLeod Ganj at 4am instead of 5:30. Fitting that the first time that anything has been on time (let alone early) since I've been in India was the first time I wished it would be late. There's not much to do when you arrive in a new city at 4am and have no idea where you are.

Luckily there were plenty of touts around to meet the bus and try to convince us to go to their hotels—and usually I would have brushed them off and looked in my guidebook for a place to stay, but I couldn't see my guidebook because it was 4am and there were no street lights and my flashlight bulb was still burnt out. So I went with this one guy to his hotel, which turned out to be pretty central and surprisingly nice. I paid Rs 200 for a decently large room with private bath, hot water, and a balcony with nice views down into the valley.

That brings me to Dharamsala/McLeod topography. Dharamsala, which is purely a transit hub for my purposes, is located at the foot of the hills, and McLeod Ganj, a former British hill station during colonial days, is located 4km above it (by foot, but the hill is so steep that buses and cars have to take a route that is 10km long so they can make it up). The Dalai Lama's residence, and the holiest temples for Tibetan Buddhists outside of Tibet, is located between the two towns, but closer to McLeod. Basically, it's a five minute walk downhill from central McLeod to the Tsuglagkhang (Temple) Complex, and another twenty minutes walk from the complex to Dharamsala.

Due to the fact that the Tibetan government-in-exile resides in McLeod, the town feels like part of Tibet, even more so than Leh did. Buddhist monks are everywhere, almost all shops are Tibetan, and most travelers are there on a spiritual journey to meet the Dalai Lama. Foreigners are out of place here if they don't have long hair, dreadlocks, and hash pipes hanging out of their mouths. Because I failed on the first three criteria, it's good I had my week-old beard to get me back some street cred. But seriously, Jatinder was right—these are not your ordinary travelers. They are post-hippies.

Anyhow, it was probably just as well that my bus arrived early and forced me to get a hotel, because I needed the extra rest. I slept from 4:30 to 9:30—which is the latest into the morning that I have slept since I've been here.

I ate breakfast at a place called The Chocolate Log that was supposed to have amazing chocolate cake. And it was indeed amazing, as were the views from the roof deck. I've always been one for a nutritious breakfast.

After “breakfast” it started to rain, so instead of walking down to Dharamsala as I had planned (to figure out how to get a bus to Amritsar tomorrow), I took the local bus, which cost Rs 7. Seven rupees? Dear lord.

On the way down we passed an Anglican church that was left over from McLeod's days as a British outpost. Such an interesting place—originally Hindu, then overrun by British Anglicans, and now almost exclusively Buddhist. That's a lot of religious history.

We also passed a couple billboards promoting the Indian army with predictable propaganda. One sign said, “Army Man: A Winner for Life.” Hmm, I wonder where India got its bad ideas for military promotion? But they didn't actually copy the US Army all that well, because the photo on the billboard was not some valiant officer doing something heroic—no, it was two guys jumping out of what seems to be a big explosion in which they most likely nearly got their legs blown off. Realistic, yes, but maybe not the best image to attract new recruits.

In Dharamsala I found out that the only bus to Amritsar left the following day at 5am. Yikes—the next morning would be painful. I started walking back up the hill to McLeod, but then the sky opened up. And, oh boy, did it pour.

Luckily an empty auto-rickshaw was driving by right then so I didn't get too wet, but fifteen more seconds without shelter would have doomed my camera. I vowed to keep my poncho handy from now on.

I made some conversation with the rickshaw driver, mostly because I was hoping he'd let me stop off at The Church of Saint John in the Wilderness (the church I mentioned earlier) without paying extra. I asked him if he owned the rickshaw, and he said he did, and so I asked him how he got the money to buy it, and he said he was lent the money by the State Bank of India. Intrigued, I inquired about the terms of the loan—were payments scheduled every month? Were the payments only interest, or did he pay some principal back each month? How long did he have to pay back the principal? If he didn't pay one month, would the bank take his rickshaw (I don't know why, but I'm laughing out loud imagining some dude from a bank carrying off this guy's rickshaw...)?

The answers: payments were monthly; scheduled payments were principal and interest (level pay, like fixed-rate mortgages in the US); the payments were scheduled such that he would pay back all interest and principal in 5 years; and no, he could fail to pay for maybe six months (he wasn't sure exactly how long) before the bank would even threaten to take his rickshaw. All in all, not a bad deal. I didn't bother asking him if he could refinance—I assumed he could not, and I also assumed that he would have no idea what the hell I was talking about if I asked him. I did ask how much a rickshaw cost (if he didn't mind telling me), and he said this one cost him “One lakh and 50,000 rupees.” At the time I had no clue what a lakh was, but I now know that one lakh is Rs 100,000—so the rickshaw cost Rs 150,000, or about $3600.

On the way to McLeod it stopped raining (or, more likely, we drove above the cloud that was producing the rain), so I was able to get out of the rickshaw and visit the church on the way up the road. But by the time we got into town, maybe 5 minutes later, it was pouring again. And it didn't stop pouring for another 4 hours.

After the rain stopped, I went to the Tsuglagkhang Complex to see the various Tibetan Buddhist temples and the Dalai Lama's residence. Immediately upon arrival, I loved the place.

McLeod is a bit loud, especially for a small town, but the temple complex was surprisingly serene. Most of the visitors were Buddhist monks, or other Tibetans that had come on pilgrimage. But there were a few other travelers like me, and the place was very good about putting signs up telling people like me what to do and what not to do. The general rule is that one must do everything, from walking around the complex to spinning the prayer wheels, in a clockwise direction. Apparently counter-clockwise motion is offensive, though I don't know the reason why. Also, when in doubt, take your shoes off. Photography was allowed in most spots, and I got some good pictures. But the most beautiful temple didn't allow photography, which was a shame because there were about 50 monks inside, chanting—an awesome, if not a bit eerie, scene.

With big sights like this one, I usually feel underwhelmed when I finally see them because they've been built up so much in my mind. That was definitely the case with Machu Picchu, and I'm guessing Angkor Wat will be the same way. But this site was different—I felt this incredible peace and an inkling of raw energy as I stood in the temples. I liked the feeling so much that I went back into the temples several times, something I rarely do at any site.

After I got done touring the complex I ate dinner at a café that was inside the complex, just outside one of the temples. Called the Namgyal Cafe, its major function is to teach young Tibetans how to cook, but based on the current quality of the food it seems they've learned quite well. The place was exclusively vegetarian, and I had a glass of papaya juice, a bowl of fresh tomato soup, and a plate of stir fried potatoes and vegetables topped with cheese, all of which were some of the best dishes I've had so far in India. And the entire bill came to Rs 120 ($3). But the best part of the place was that you felt as if you were still inside one of the temples—the place was just so peaceful. As I mentioned before, I don't know much about Tibetan Buddhism, but what I do know really appeals to me. For one thing, you don't see any crazy misguided Buddhists blowing themselves up or starting holy wars. There's something to be said for a religion that is actually peaceful.

I also learned a good bit about the Tibetan cause while in and around the temple complex, and I know I heard the story from only one side, but from what I can tell China should get the hell out of Tibet. Am I missing something?

Though most of the people at the temple complex were Tibetan, there were also some Indian tourists milling about, and there were even more of them in Manali and Leh (but not in Kashmir). Basically, middle-class Indians from Delhi and points south come north to escape the heat of summer, but they don't seem too concerned with soaking up the culture of the place they're visiting. Their travels seem to be purely temperature-driven. They’re also among the most obnoxious tourists I’ve ever seen—they’re loud, they’re rude, and they pay little attention to the sites they’re visiting. Anyhow, in the end I almost enjoyed the fact that the Indian tourists were around being obnoxious, because for the first time on this trip this American felt more likeable than somebody else.

There is also another type of Indian who travels north during the summer: the migrant Bihari. Many Biharis migrate to find work, but some of them resort to begging, and I encountered many such beggars in Leh, Manali, and McLeod Ganj. Yes, they are somewhat annoying, but it also kills you to see the kind of poverty in which they live. In general I try to avoid giving money directly to beggars (I definitely avoided it on the NYC subway), but here it's impossible to see the plight of these people, realize that even a tiny bit of money can be of great help, and not do something. Today as I walked up the street from my hotel in McLeod I was approached by a Bihari (I think) woman with her baby, and she said, “Please, no money, milk for baby,” which was probably the most effective thing she could possibly have said, because from that moment on I was damned determined to find some milk and buy it for her no matter what the cost. It turned out that she wanted a big package of dehydrated milk that cost Rs 180 ($4.50). I bought it for her and she looked like she had won the lottery. That milk cost less that a meal at McDonald's, but it will feed her baby for weeks. Being here has made me realize that it's bullshit to say, “Oh yes, there are so many people who are despicably poor in this world, and I will help them at some point... when I have the time and the money.” Bullshit—I can help them now. Am I going to miss $5? Nope. I'll buy one fewer beer next time I'm in New York. And I sure as hell know that that baby needed that milk a lot more than I need another beer.

Obviously there are limitations to this line of reasoning, but they are hard to determine. One could of course give all his money away immediately, but that probably isn’t the long term effective solution. After I bought the milk for the woman, on the way up to the town square I was approached by a couple more migrants, all asking for money. I told them that I had already given away all the money I could right now, which technically, of course, was not true. But I think one has to think of this as part of a budget—”I can spend $20 today—$5 on food, $5 on lodging, $5 on transportation and sights, and $5 on giving it to people who need it more than I do.” I think that is a reasonable way of contributing without being reckless. The important thing, I think, is to give money that you can afford to give—I've seen people give money they cannot afford to give for one reason or another, and it isn’t pleasant.

Finally, I'll address my subject line quotation; in general, I try to let the quotations I pick speak for themselves, but this one had nothing to do with anything else in the email—it was just something I was thinking about while listening to The Thermals last night—so I'll explain.

I was thinking about these lyrics, which are taken from the song “No Culture Icons” by The Thermals, in relation to my bond trading job. Sure, my job is not in the least bit art, and I'm not saving the world with anything I'm doing, and I'm probably not saving anyone's life, and I'm maybe not even really helping anyone else (hardly art), but it's a good, interesting job that pays the bills (hardly starving), and there's something to be said for that—maybe enough to keep me doing that job for a while, or maybe even enough to keep me doing it indefinitely. I just don't know yet. But one thing I do know is that this topic will most likely come up again in these emails, because it's definitely something that's in the front of my mind. Advice solicited.

I'll leave you with two disturbing local news stories just to keep you a little uncomfortable. The first is from Friday's edition of The Times of India, which I read while I waited for my food in Namgyal Cafe, and the second is from an email I received from my friend Jas—apparently, Jatinder has found it impossible to stay away from his BBC News job while in Leh, and he's run across a lead that he is now researching for a potential print article. Both stories below (the former is copied and pasted from The Times of India website, and the latter from Jas' email):

BMP jawan throws two girls into floodwaters
Two children drowned when a Bihar Military Police jawan at Bihar's Samastipur district allegedly threw them into the floodwaters when they went to collect firewood in his orchard.
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Jai has immersed himself in a story we overheard whilst using the ISD last night. There is a Spanish guy ( http://nextdestination.free.fr/ ) who has traveled from Paris by bicycle to Mumbai, completing 3 Marathons in 3 cities enroute. He took part in the Mumbai marathon, cycled to Leh, and ran the Great Tibetan Marathon and came second. Unfortunately whilst in hospital recuperating, he was subjected to a random Police check, (the police man was visiting a friend in hospital), and discovered his visa expired 2 days into his hospital stay... wait for it... he was arrested, and has been in Leh Prison since the 23rd July!

We have been to the Police and Courts this morning, spoken with the magistrate and have got permission to go and speak with this chap in Leh jail 7km away. Jai needs to get an interview, and write and file the story before we leave for Nubra tomorrow.
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Is the world really this bad a place? Please say no.

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