4th of July in Hardivar

So it’s the Fourth of July here in India and we’ve decided to celebrate by going to a town called Hardivar roughly 80km south of Mussourie (the mountain town where we live currently). Hardivar is a holy town located alongside the Ganges River which hosts a number of festivals, pilgrimages, and temples. The pilgrims dress in a very distinct orange color with layers of fabric draped over their bodies.

Leaving Louis at home to celebrate the Fourth in a more traditional way, a group of my fellow students and I arrived in Hardivar seeking out a certain Ashram (a spiritual house) to sleep in that night. Since we did not have an address or a phone number, we decided to stay at the “Hut Hotel” that was pressed up against the Ganges. The seven of us squeezed into a four person “hut” after some complaints about personal space. Such complaints proved to be of no serious obstacle as we booked our cherished hut and took off for the town. After desperately attempting to order food in a small hole-in-the-wall (where the menu was in Hindi), we were swarmed by beggar children as we took the stairs down to the Ganges.

It was a truly stunning sight. The river was full of people, probably in the thousands, swimming and socializing in the intense summer sun. I was on the far left side of one of the main bridges over the river,waiting for the group to finish taking photos, when a small beggar kid came up and yelled, “HELLO!”, motioning for me to give him a hand shake. I shook his hand and greeted him, which triggered a platoon of young Indian men to stand in a semi-circle around me. They must’ve noticed the five American women that were in my company since they were staring at them in complete captivation. “What did they say?” asks one of the girls. I replied, “Um…well…they haven’t really said anything. They seem to be in awe.” This would happen the entire day we were in Hardivar.

We broke away from our small crowd of young men and walked down to a concrete platform in the middle of the Ganges. Every 2-3 minutes we would be stopped to have pictures taken with peoples children, mothers, uncles, aunts, grandmothers, everyone. Some were so determined they would chase us for three blocks just to get a “snap”. Along the river the concrete platform had steps going into the water where Indian men of all ages were splashing, bathing, wading, and swimming. Well, not exactly swimming. The Ganges is a powerful river, the current strong enough to carry the adventurous Indians and the confused American (me) straight down the river. Foreigners are not terribly common in this area, and even less got this close to the river (at least we didn’t see anyone else). The other boy in the group and I went into the water, and I got swept into the current which was a tad stronger than I had anticipated.

Next thing I know I’m floating down this river with tumbling, giggling Indian boys. They were terribly entertained to see me drifting down the river with them, screaming in Hindi and laughing. All of a sudden they all grabbed chains that were attached to the concrete platform and pulled themselves out of the river. I wasn’t sure why, until I looked down river and saw some kind of gratting that was trapping trash in the river. In a slight panic I flounder like a cat in water for the platform. After much effort and a significant loss of dignity I reached the platform and walked up the steps. Wiping the water off my face, sporting wet jeans and American flag boxers (it was the Fourth of July, a necessity in my book), I walked back towards my friends as I noticed the entire Indian crowd around me staring. Oh, that’s right, I’m white as freshly made paper. I smile, say “Namaste” and returned to the group to a chorus of giggles.

We were riding a wonderful cultural high and decided to retire to the hotel room. Following a great nap, the group rose again to participate in the “Fire Ceremony” in the very spot I had previously been swept into by the river. We stood on a set of stairs directly above the river, and as the sun began to set people from the crowd would emerge with a basket made from a leaf containing flowers and a candle, muttering a prayer, lighting the candle, and letting the vessel sail on down the Ganges. Two of girls decided to partake, rushing down to the river and joining in as they made friends with some Indian ladies. I took video of the ceremony as I made friends with the Indians standing around me. My favorite was a man named Raiput (sorry Indian community for the gross misspelling) who had never talked to a non-Indian before. As we were talking a fire priest came out of nowhere with a platter that was on fire. After he emerged from thin air people flocked to him, thrusting their hands palm out into the fire, then pushing their palms against their foreheads. I asked what religion this was for, Raiput told me: “It is simply worship. The fire is spirituality and your hands connect you to the spirit.”

And there you have it. Not a bad way to spend Fourth of July, I’d say.

Best Hike Ever

So I went on a hike in a mountain town on the outskirts of the Himalayas called Mussourie. The study abroad group from the UC system called “EAP” has taken up shop there for a month to attend the Landor Language School for our planned Hindi instruction. As an intensive language program, there’s about 4 hours of instruction 5 days a week and homework time to match. On top of my assigned tasks from my job that I had back in the US, my days get rather stressful. By Thursday of the first week, it was hard to relax even after all the work was finished for the day.

So in a fit anxious, nervous energy I threw out my half-smoked cigarette, grabbed my iPod and my Adidas (Sambas to be specific, and if Adidas © is reading this blog, I would very much appreciate sponsorship), and ran off like a bat out of hell. After rounding some corners I looked over the edge of the mountain road and noticed a large stone drain running down the side of the mountain. Since the run didn’t seem to be challenging enough, I decided to follow the drain and see if I could find some water near the bottom of the mountain. Why was I looking for water at the bottom of a mountain? Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Turned out to not be the best idea. After no more than a couple minutes I no longer had a nice slope to trot down, running into numerous little cliffs that got increasingly steeper as I went along my way. I had some success repelling from trees, but that practice got impractical when the drop was longer than my body length. What made matters worse was that it had rained a few hours earlier. When I was trekking down the rock lined valleyish area I fully realized my lack of foresight as I was taking the form of a snowboarder, sliding down the river-smoothed over rocks screaming like a banshee. Luckily this fun part of the journey came to an end as a flat patch of dirt appeared, sending me rolling from the suddenly curbed velocity. Sweaty, sore, and quite dirty, it seemed like a good time for a cigarette. As a light up, take a deep breath, and release a large plume of smoke I noticed a swarm of bugs edging towards me. I thought maybe they were nice bugs, ones that fly around not biting people, not sucking their blood, and certainly not giving people diseases like malaria.

I was wrong. Those mosquitos surrounded me like Sherman’s army out for blood. I am now running, smoking my cigarette, trying to hide from the bugs until I run into a cliff, again. I use a large tree to lower myself down the ledge. It was then that I realized that the drop was about twice the distance that I had anticipated. I put my foot on a rock lodged in the side of the cliff and begun to loosen my grip on the tree to grab another hand hold lower down. Right about then the rock decided to come out of the mountain, sending me and the rock tumbling. Luckily a tree broke my continuous fall. Unfortunately, the rock landed on my hip, which hurt a little bit. Ok, it hurt a lot. In addition, I gained some cuts and scrapes as well as a healthy amount of dirt from head to toe. Calling for all sorts of divine damnation, I pulled myself and decided my little adventure was coming to a close and headed back of the mountain.

Reminder: The mountain is rather moist. The dirt I was trying to climb had no commitment to its current spot and thus would send me tumbling several times on the way up. After some time and many wipeouts later, I found a stone wall (man made), did a little dance, and climbed up it. As I pull myself over the ledge, I looked up finding myself in the backyard of a nice Indian family. They were having tea and were quite surprised to see me. I greeted them in Hindi and they responded in kind. I asked them if the street was up from where we stood. The father nodded his head, struck my mild confusion and shock. Apparently I was bleeding from a couple places, which inspired looks of empathy from the women and a look of excitement from the small boy. I thank them and continue on my way, finally reaching my room.

Best

Hike

Ever.

Cookie Nabbing Mountain Monkeys

Ok, so here’s what happened. Louis and I checked into a hostel in McLeod outside of Darmasala to put our bags down until our next bus ride. Like most places in McLeod, there are balconies that overlook the beautiful Himalayas for miles. I had gone to one of the higher balconies of the hostel to look at the view and ran into some British men teaching English around India on some type of government grant. As I was talking to them, Louis came up looking for me, as we had to get our bags ready to go for our next bus ride (story to be told in another post). We start heading down the stairs towards our room, which faces the end of the staircase. Halfway down the stairs Louis whispers, “there’s a monkey in our doorway, and he has your mom’s bomb cookies.” We both froze when the monkey was leaving the doorway and noticed us staring at him, so he stared back.

Pause. So this was no zoo monkey. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a gorilla, but there was nothing tiny about this monkey. Bare butt, standing at least 3.14 feet tall, we had a serious problem.

Resume. I was fortunate enough to scramble to my video camera in time to catch the moment when Louis flips open his knife and screams, “Give the cookies back you stupid monkey!” This is where the situation got hectic, like how protest turns into a riot on the turn of a dime. Louis runs at the monkey wielding his 2 inch blade and a crazed look in his eyes as the monkey clearly thinks “…shit” and bolts away from Louis and jumps off the balcony onto an adjacent rooftop. The monkey had fled, leaving us only semi-victorious. We had routed the monkey but we had also lost our stash of homemade cookies. Furious, observing the mess of cookie crumbs that the monkey had left in stark mockery, we proceeded to curse the monkey, his kin, his monkey children, and all monkeys who may share any relation to our now mortal enemy.

Then the tides turned. As we paced around the balcony, damning the monkey and his devious ways, our nemesis returns. From the adjacent rooftop he locked into a dead stare with Louis. Naturally, Louis called him out, challenging our hairball of a rival. The monkey rudely interrupted Louis with a growl from depths which could only exist in a soulless creature. Louis, frightened like a schoolgirl in a horror film, runs from the monkey and I follow closely behind, locking ourselves in our small hostel room which proved to be the only sanctuary from the monkey.

We had officially lost. Not only had the monkey stolen our treasured cookies, but he had also chased us into our room striking the fear of God and of a rabies infection in our hearts. Now there is something you should understand about Louis. While there have been many times when he has lost a battle, he rarely passes up an opportunity to stick it to his opponent, one last time. The monkey proceeded to eat the crumbs he left the previous theft off of the floor in clear ridicule of our masculinity. Rabies or not, monkeys are not trained in strategic combat. Louis’ eyes suddenly light from his previous state of terror and lunges for the water bottle. Our window faces the balcony full of cookie crumbs, giving us a clear view of the monkey from a fortified position. Louis smiles devilishly, calling out “here monkey monkey….” He catches the monkey off guard with a squirt from the water bottle with sniper-like precision. The monkey turns to the window, pissed off and damp from Louis’ last stand, and jumps up to the window and growls, which again strikes us with fear. After numerous exchanges between Louis and the monkey, the Alamo ended in a stalemate.

Score: Cowboys, 0; Monkeys, 1

We shall have our revenge, dirty Indian mountain monkey. Beware.

Our Journey and Initial Days in India

Louis and I launched out of LAX, dressed very much like what I would imagine a military contractor would. Between our construction boots, Louis’ Iraqi flag baseball hat, and my flannel/leather jacket combo we certainly received stares as we spoke Arabic in the security line. After a long and comfortable flight on Virgin Atlantic (which we highly recommend) we arrived at Heathrow airport in London. As somewhat of a chain smoker, I do not favor flights over three hours. Irritated by my nicotine patch which has given me three blisters by the time we arrive in Heathrow, I am more than anxious to get into the airport and find the smoking section. Europe is full of smokers, I thought. They must have a smoking section.

Wrong. As one could imagine, I was not terribly pleased at the thought of a 6 hour layover in an airport too cheap to add a room for smokers, just to board an 8 hour flight which again, prohibits smoking. I intend to write a very strongly worded letter.

In need of a place to kill time, we make our way to the nearest/cheapest bar to post up for awhile. A few drinks and a chili potato later, our waitress is beginning to notice our squatting habit. Wandering the expansive refugee camp that Heathrow Airport seems to resemble, we attempt to keep ourselves occupied during this unpleasant layover

We board our next flight which will finally deliver us to Delhi. Unlike our previous flight, this flight path took us over some very interesting countries (especially to us) such as Afghanistan and Pakistan. From the air we could not spot a single city, only strings of farming towns sandwiched between overwhelming mountains.

After arriving in Delhi we took care of all the normal visa paperwork and went straight for the Inter-State Bus Terminal (ISBT) in Old Delhi. Our study abroad program at Delhi University didn’t start for 5 days so we decided to try and make it to Kashmir. After some poor planning and a few drinks later we were heading to Darmasala, the famous Tibetan area in North India. Our thought was that Kashmir is north, and so is Darmasala, so how could we possibly go wrong?

Way wrong. Darmasala and consequently McLeod (the town a stone throw north of Darmasala where the Dalai Lama lives) are surrounded by large, uncompromising Himalayan Mountains. After sleeping in quite possibly the shadiest bus depot I have ever been in (where dogs sniff sleeping people to see if they’re dead) and a 12 hour bus right on the “ordinary” line, we arrived tired, hungry, and dirty as can be imagined.

Tangent. I was warned against taking the “ordinary” bus line by some Indians at the ISBT, but I insisted that Louis and myself were hardcore explorers of the road less traveled and bought us two cheap “ordinary” tickets. The bus trip began with the bus leaving before Louis as actually in the bus, when I had to pull him in the door onto the bus as crowded as a commuter during rush hour. This reality never changed…for 12 hours. We had to strap our large bag on the roof of not-so-structurally-sound bus-like automobile. Louis was rather nervous about this until I reminded him of the rope that I always bring. Yea, that’s right, we used the stupid rope. “What are we gonna use rope for?” “You never know, those guys in the movies always have rope and they always end up using it.” If you don’t get the reference, watch Boondock Saints immediately.

So we arrive in Darmasala super early in the morning and realize we can’t get to Kashmir from where we are. It was a beautiful place, aside from their rampant monkey problem (see relevant post), where you can sit on a rooftop, eat lunch, have a beer, and listen to the Tibetan monks chant from an adjacent window. After lots of complaining and another couple drinks we decide to continue chasing our Kashmir aspirations and jumped on yet another 14 hour “ordinary” bus ride to a town called Manali which is the only town that can connect us to the bus line needed to get to Leh, a central town in Kashmir.

Introduction

In my view, there are few things more exciting than the rumble of an airplane during take-off. There is something unstable about it, something that disturbs the serenity and consistency of life. Just as I find myself settled in a life back home it is this very rumble which stirs me from my slumber. I smile a sinister grin as I look over at Louis who has the same expression, silent agreement that Round 2 of our international collegial escapades will be, without a doubt, far more intense than the last.

Louis and I have decided to go abroad for a second time. Our first bout of long-term international travel was to the Middle East, beginning in Cairo, Egypt in the dead of summer. It was through our mutual obsession with and disregard for survival that had bonded us. Now, almost two long years later, we turned our sites to South Asia: India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Nepal, and Sri Lanka, plotting many risky (and possibly moronic) plans along the way.

So why the name Global Cowboys? It’s true, we don’t ride horses often, our belts are normal sizes, we typically stay away from large brim hats, and we rarely wear chaps. One day, a friend of mine termed us as ‘International Cowboys’ due to our demeanor and approach to travel. So I looked up cowboy in the dictionary and I found two semi-relevant definitions: 1. Adventurous hero, 2. A person with a disregard for risk or formalities. So I made a definition of my own.

Global Cowboy: An adventurous third world traveler with no regard for anything beyond novelty, thrill, and basic survival, with an intense desire to seek out the real heroes of our time.

So that’s where the name came from. Enjoy our stories, and buy a ticket while you’re at it. Our favorite is www.kayak.com. See you around.