Despite the fact that school was about to wrap up for a seven-week “summer vacation,” we couldn’t very well hold classes on Immaculate Conception Day, could we? So that gave us a four-day weekend in early December!
Tony’s birthday was the first day of the long weekend (see my previous post). The next day, I ditched him and took off for the beach with some friends. Craig’s cousin, Leah, was visiting from the States, so he had planned a trip to Concón. Brie and I tagged along. Tony stayed home to catsit.
Less than two hours from Santiago, Valparaiso rises up from the Pacific Ocean and undulates along the coast. Estimates vary, but most travel sites claim the city covers about 45 hills. In the mid-1800s, “Valpo” was a key seaport for international trade. A major earthquake in 1906, followed by the opening of the Panama Canal in 1914, struck a devastating blow to the city’s economy.
A UNESCO World Heritage Site, the “Historic Quarter of the Seaport City of Valparaiso” is noteworthy for three reasons, according to the UNESCO website.
The outstanding nature of the historic quarter of Valparaíso results from a combination of three factors, all associated with its role as a port: its particular geographical and topographical environment; its urban forms, layout, infrastructure and architecture; and its attraction to and influence by people from around the world. The character of Valparaíso was strongly marked by the geography of its location: the bay, the narrow coastal plains (largely artificial) and the steep hills scored by multiple ravines together created the city’s amphitheatre-like layout. Adaptation of the built environment to these difficult geographical conditions produced an innovative and creative urban ensemble that stressed the particularities of each architectural object, grounded in the technological and entrepreneurial mindset typical of the era. Consistent with its pre-eminence, the city was populated and influenced by people from around the world. The urban fabric and cultural identity of Valparaíso are thus distinguished by a diversity that sets it apart from other Latin American cities. From an urban perspective, the result of this challenging geography, modernizing impulse and intercultural dialogue is a fully original American city with the stamp of the late 19th century upon it.
Next time I visit, I will make a more conscious effort to explore more of the historic neighborhoods. This time, however, I was eager to see one of the homes of the eccentric Nobel Prize-winning poet, Pablo Neruda. Brie drove up the steep, winding road of Cerro Bellavista, and we walked in a light drizzle to La Sebastiana, Neruda’s five-story home named for the architect, Sebastián Collado. An excellent audio tour brought the house to life. As we strolled through each room, pausing to appreciate the harbor views, it was easy to imagine Neruda mixing drinks behind the bar, waxing philosophical at the dinner table, reading the newspaper in bed, and hunkering down in the leather armchair he nicknamed El Nube (The Cloud) to scratch out his powerful words in green ink.
Photography in the house was permitted only to shoot out the windows.
I didn’t know much about Pablo Neruda before this visit, but now I’m intrigued … possibly a bit obsessed. I just started a novel called The Neruda Case by Roberto Ampuero, and I’m reading everything I can find about Chile’s beloved poet. I saw the movie “Neruda” in Spanish (accidentally), so I look forward to watching it again when it’s released with subtitles. I worry that words have lost some of their power in today’s information-overload society, so I am particularly fascinated by a man whose art generated such an uproar around the world. I’m sure I’ll have more to say about Neruda as I get to know him better.
Cool steps near our lunch restaurant.
After lunch, Brie and I drove about 30 minutes to another waterside town, Concón. We checked in to the Radisson Concón, where our room included a balcony that jutted out over the water. Later, salty sea breezes and the sound of waves crashing on the boulders would lull us to sleep.
This was our view!
I was entranced by the huge pelicans.
We walked along the shoreline and found a depot where fishermen were bringing in the day’s catch. Cats, seagulls, and pelicans kept close watch for any unattended treats.
Fishermen dropped bits of fish to these pelicans. Check out that one guy’s huge open bill!
We met up with Craig and Leah for dinner at Tierra de Fuego, a beachside restaurant. I ate conger eel, a typical Chilean dish, and was surprised at how not slimy and slug-y it was. It tasted like a mild whitefish, and in typical Chilean fashion, it was pretty bland. Still, you couldn’t beat the setting of this place.
The next morning, Craig drove us all back to Valparaiso – with a quick stop to clamber around the rocks at a Concón observation area.
In Valpo, Craig led us on a route he had learned from a friend, up and over a few hills. Famous for colorful homes, brilliant murals, and ubiquitous graffiti, Valpo’s hills are best explored on foot.
At one time, 26 funicular railways transported residents up and down the hillsides. Only a handful operate today. After traipsing around for awhile, we boarded the Ascensor El Peral funicular – built in 1902 – for the 52-meter descent at a 48-degree gradient.
That evening, we hung out at the hotel’s waterfront bar for a stunning sunset.
As a tag-along on this trip, I had done no research and was unfortunately uninformed about where we were going or what we were seeing. I have a feeling this is a place I’ll re-visit many times while living in Chile and I look forward to bringing visitors here, so I vow to be better prepared in the future!
Less than three hour’s drive from Santiago, the world transforms from concrete and glass into mountains and vineyards. The Colchagua Valley dissects central Chile, from the Pacific Ocean in the east to the Andes Mountains in the west, and boasts a perfect climate for growing grapes – particularly red wine varieties.
As it happens, I love red wine. And mountains. And four-day weekends.
Friday after school, fellow newbie Stella and I ditched our families and road-tripped to Santa Cruz in the Colchagua Valley. We encountered heavy congestion on the Pan-American Highway, but I absentmindedly followed the car in front of me, which crossed the median into a lane closed to oncoming traffic and opened to those of us heading south. We whipped past miles of standstill traffic and finally merged back onto the correct side of the highway, breathing a sigh of relief that we hadn’t missed our exit. At a big toll plaza, we waited in line while scores of vendors in fluorescent orange vests hawked drinks, bread, and empanadas.
Finally, we arrived at Vino Bello, a small bed-and-breakfast owned by a former Nido de Aguilas teacher and her husband. Surrounded by vineyards, the 1930s manor house was renovated in 2003 and featured simple but comfortable accommodations. We met the owner, Janine, at the nearby Vino Bello restaurant and enjoyed chatting with her about common acquaintances and her transition from educator to business owner.
It didn’t take long for my usual food-induced joy to surface, and after a pisco sour, a glass of wine, delicious beetroot ravioli stuffed with butternut squash, and an apple crumble de frutas, I was blissfully sleepy.
The next morning, Stella and I lingered over breakfast and then lingered some more outside with our books.
The hotel clerk helped us make arrangements for the day, and we eventually headed out to the wineries.
First stop: Viña Estampa, where Fillipe entertained us and poured samples for tasting. He told us that Estampa specializes in blends. According to the Estampa website:
The technique of blending consists of carefully combining two or more varieties to craft a single wine. Each variety contributes its finest characteristics to the blend to create a beautifully balanced wine with unique personality.
Fillipe tried to explain the origin of the winery’s name, but I didn’t understand until I read the story online. The family-owned winery traces its agribusiness roots to a flour mill called “La Estampa Mill” in what is now the Indepencia neighborhood of Santiago. The mill was named in honor of a legendary estampa – or pocket-sized prayer card – with a picture of Nuestra Señora del Carmen (Our Lady of Mount Carmel). More than 200 years ago, the picture allegedly circled overhead for about 15 minutes before flying across the Mapocho River and landing next to a woman teaching catechism to her children. A Catholic grotto, and later a chapel, was erected at the site.
We tasted three Estampa blends:
2014 Estampa Reserve Carménère-Malbec,
2014 Estampa Fina-Reserva Carménère-Syrah-Cabernet Sauvignon,
and 2013 Gold Estampa Carménère-Cabernet Sauvignon-Cabernet Franc-Petit Verdot.
They were all delicious, but we chose the middle-range wine to take home.
After a tranquil, tasty lunch overlooking the vineyards and hillsides, we met up with a couple from Puerto Rico and a family from Brazil for the winery tour.
Our guide, Maria Angel, explained that Montes doesn’t irrigate its vines in this valley. Dry farming yields smaller bunches but higher quality grapes, she said. She took us to the roof, where ladies sort the grapes, and equipment separates the stems before dumping grapes down a hose into fermentation tanks below. She also showed us some examples of feng shui principles incorporated into the building’s design.
For our tasting, we sampled:
2015 Outer Limits Sauvignon Blanc,
2013 Montes Alpha Cabernet Sauvignon,
2014 Montes Alpha Carménère,
and 2015 Outer Limits CGM (Carignan, Grenache, Mourvèdre).
Note the pathetic level of pours… not cool, Montes.
I picked up a bottle of the Carménère and another blend we didn’t sample but I know I like – Montes Twins (Malbec-Cabernet Sauvignon).
Hanging out with one of the winery’s founders, Aurelio Montes. He’s so crazy.
The cellar holds 800 French oak barrels, arranged in a semicircle. Gregorian chants echoed off the walls, creating a spiritual setting.
Panorama from the Montes patio.
Our little B&B was booked for the night, so we had to pack up and move across the road to Hotel Terraviña.
We read and snacked outside until dinnertime, when we walked through the vineyard to Casa Colchagua restaurant. My dinner of pork ribs with quinoa risotto was rich and hearty. I only wished we hadn’t pigged out on the hotel’s cheese platter beforehand.
The next morning, a cold fog had descended on the grape vines.
After breakfast, we decided to head home a little sooner than planned with one more stop on the way out of town.
We drove to Viña Laura Hartwig, a family-owned boutique winery. According to the website:
In 1966, Laura Bisquertt receives the Santa Laura estate from her father, who had purchased it in 1928. The land, as was customary in the area, was devoted to seasonal crops and livestock. Between 1966 and 1971, Laura’s husband, Alejandro Hartwig Carte, a civil engineer, manages the estate by farming traditional crops and running a diary farm. In 1971, he decides to look for new job opportunities abroad, thus joining the management team of German pharmaceutical Boehringer Ingelheim, in Montreal, Canada. The family lives in Canada for 10 years. During that time and due to multiple trips to United States and Europe, Alejandro becomes a great wine enthusiast and connoisseur. He recognizes North America’s growing demand for classic French wine varieties. He decides to take advantage of the excellent weather conditions of the Colchagua Valley and the increasing appetite for wines from the New World (wines from Australia and California had started to become popular around this time), and develops what he calls his “Retirement Project.”
Stella and I had planned to pick up a bottle or two and hit the road, but it turned out the winery offered horse-drawn carriage rides. How could we not do that? With Geronimo in the driver’s seat, we rolled through the gorgeous vineyard. The fog had burned off, revealing a bright blue sky and a perfect backdrop of verdant hills.
With the long drive ahead, I couldn’t partake in a wine sampling. The shopkeeper informed us that Laura Hartwig was known for producing 100% Petit Verdot, a variety that was usually used in blends, so Stella sat down with a glass while I poked around and took some photos.
We both bought a bottle and then we took off for home with slim hopes of finding a restaurant for lunch.
In general, Chile shuts down on Sunday. As we drove through towns and slowed down by highway exits, it seemed nobody was out and nothing was open. Then we encountered Juan y Medio. I almost drove right past, despite Stella’s GPS directions. There was no exit, just the driveway into the restaurant straight off the highway lane (speed limit: 75 mph). The parking lot was already packed. We were fortunate to get a table, and we enjoyed tasty Chilean sandwiches. When we returned to the parking lot, we found all the cars’ windshields had been covered with cardboard to keep the interiors relatively cool in the pounding sun. Crazy.
Back in Santiago, Stella and I were both psyched to remember that we still had two days off work. Santa Cruz was the perfect weekend get-away. Great food and wine, plenty of downtime to read and relax, beautiful scenery, fresh air and sunshine, fun company … did I mention the wine? I have a feeling this wasn’t my last visit to Colchagua Valley.
When we were lounging lakeside back in June, we bemoaned our brief summer break. Accustomed to about eight weeks of downtime in Michigan, we resented having to go back to work in just one month. Our school in India wrapped up June 1, but we had to report to our new jobs in Chile on July 3.
“No fair!” we cried. “We’ll just come back in September when we have a week off!”
Well, that was a stupid plan. I made it even stupider by screwing up the flight reservations. I must have been using last year’s school calendar when I booked the tickets for Sept. 24-30. In fact, the break was a week earlier. When I realized my mistake, I phoned the airline, cried and pleaded, and got the fee waived. However, I still had to pay the difference in the fare, which was about $700 total … and we had to wait till Saturday night to leave Santiago … and our flight back to Chile had two stops. Awesome.
That meant we had a total of four full days in Michigan at the rate of about $700 per day, counting airfare and car rental. Kind of ridiculous.
Anyway, it turned out September was a wonderful time to be there. Trees were just starting the transformation from green to scarlet. The lake was still warm enough for a swim, and the weather was perfect. With school in session, our neighborhood was practically deserted. Sitting on the deck with my coffee in the morning, I watched the ducks frolicking in the lake and listened to the chattering of birds in the willow tree. Maybe it was worth the money?
We didn’t have internet or phone service at the lake, so we spent a little time each day using the free wifi at McDonald’s. That was the only way to contact my sister Kate to make plans for the day.
Tony enjoyed pottering around the house, but I spent most of my time hanging out with Kate and 3-year-old Jack. His big brothers were in school, so he got a lot of attention.
We had a little fashion shoot with Chilean vests, hats and flags.
It might not have been the most fiscally responsible choice to fly home for less than a week, but it was lovely nonetheless.
I barely had time to unpack my suitcase, do laundry and repack, and I was off again.
Spring Break!
Before I knew I would chaperone the high school mini-course, I was craving a traffic-free get-away to nature. I got that, unexpectedly, with our trip to Krishna Ranch last week, but I had already booked a trip with my friend Alli for the following week. We took the train to Rishikesh and stayed at Atali Ganga, a peaceful little eco-resort on the shores of the Ganges River (Ganga in Hindi).
Atali Ganga stretches up the hillside on the east side of the river. From the main road, a short steep driveway takes you to the reception area, which includes a pool and climbing wall. Stone steps and pathways lead to the Green Deck, a grassy lounging area on the second level; Café White Water, where we ate all our meals, on the third level; and then to individual cottages on five subsequent levels. Alli and I were neighbors on the fifth level, 85 knee-jarring stairs from the lobby.
My cottage.
View from the restaurant deck.
Trees, shrubs and potted plants lined the paths and surrounded the buildings. Small tables and chairs, shade umbrellas and loungers were tucked here and there, providing ample spots for reading, napping, writing, or chatting. My cottage far exceeded expectations with its stone tile floor, comfortable bed, hot shower, and screened windows to let in the fresh breeze. I didn’t even notice all the special touches until I needed them, like when I realized the bamboo ladder just outside my front door was meant for drying my wet clothes, or when I spotted the yoga mats provided in the room just as my weary muscles needed a stretch.
I also appreciated the eco-friendly efforts: Signs offered gentle reminders to preserve water and power; linens were laundered only every three days; soap and shampoo came from wall-mounted dispensers instead of disposable containers; and housekeepers refilled glass bottles with fresh water each day.
On our first afternoon, we joined Sonita, one of the activity directors, for an introduction to the Ganges in an inflatable kayak. Alli and I took turns as Sonita piloted us upriver a bit and then floated back down. We both hopped out of the boat and into the icy water at the end. It was exhilarating! Afterwards, we plopped down in the riverbank’s powdery sand to enjoy the view and a cup of chai.
That evening, the hotel served snacks by a fire pit and set up a telescope for us to look at the moon and Jupiter before dinner.
The next morning, we joined a group for whitewater rafting. This was my virgin voyage, and I have to say the “safety talk” kind of freaked me out. I was feeling pretty nervous by the time we set off on our 24-kilometer ride. Our boat mates included a nice Indian family with two sweet children.
“Well, it can’t be too dangerous if they’re letting the kids do it,” I said, thus jinxing our journey.
After 4 kilometers, we rowed to the shore. “What are we doing?” I asked.
“Dropping off the kids,” answered our guide. “We’ll pick them up again after the big rapids.”
Oh crap.
We rowed and floated down the jade-colored river, which was calm enough at times for us to pause and check out the tree-covered hillsides, mysterious little caves, sandy beaches and paths winding through the forest. But the calm was quickly broken by 14 Class-2 and Class-3 rapids that doused us and got our hearts pounding. The rapids had funny names, such as Three Blind Mice, Golf Course, Rollercoaster, Black Money, and Return to Sender.
During one stretch, our guide encouraged us to ride along on the outside of the boat. Alli and I both hopped in the chilly water, held on to the raft’s safety line, and let the current tow us along till our limbs went numb.
Shortly before the end of our trip, we met the two children, who had been trucked downstream, and brought them back on board.
Big sigh of relief.
So I survived my first whitewater rafting experience, and it was fantastic!
Because this stretch of the holy Ganges River looks nothing like the brown, toxic sludge that creeps into the holy city of Varanasi, I falsely assumed that riverside cremations were prohibited up here. However, we actually saw two on this day. One had just finished, and the family members were brushing ashes in to river. The other was just getting started with a pile of wood and a body on a pallet nearby. That was a little disconcerting.
Back at the fire pit that evening, under a full moon, we chatted with Manoj Biswas, the owner of Atali Ganga. He explained that this section of the river was the most holy for North Indians, and riverside cremations were not only allowed, they were sacred. If you can’t cremate your loved ones in nearby Haridwar, then you at least find a way to bring their ashes here to put in the river, Manoj said.
He also helped us understand which mountains surrounded us. There are three Himalayas, all with profound Sanskrit names, he said: The upper Himalayas (Himadri, which means “respect the snow”), the middle Himalayas (Himachal, which means “shrouded in snow”), and the lower Himalayas (Shivaliks, which means “locks of Shiva’s hair”). Atali Ganga sits in the shadow of the Shivaliks. He also said the pronunciation is Him-AL-ya, which translates to “abode of snow.” When we say Him-uh-LAY-uh, it has a different and unrelated meaning.
Why are the lower Himalayas called “locks of Shiva’s hair”? According to Hindu legend, the gods wanted to send the goddess Ganga down to earth to provide water for people. However, they feared her impact when she fell from the heavens would cause total destruction, so Shiva offered to catch her in his hair and then squeeze the water out onto the earth. Sure enough, pure water pours down the Shivaliks to join the mighty Ganga River rushing through the valley.
A sunrise hike got our next day off to a peaceful start. Alli and I climbed to the top of the Atali Ganga property to meet Robbie, one of the resort’s activity guides, who led us on a 2.5-kilometer walk on a boulder-strewn path. We saw barking deer (and one barking dog), peacocks, wild chickens, trees full of langur monkeys, a little flock of red-cheeked parakeets, and a few other birds, although most stayed hidden in the foliage. Robbie noted that winter, with its naked trees, is the best time for birding. Still, we could hear their chatter. Here’s a recording of peacocks.
We crunched along a carpet of dry leaves, past several termite towers, through a narrow gully that fills with water during monsoon season, near a small village (with only four houses and a field of wheat) and down to the road, where a van hauled us back to the hotel.
Robbie showed us these hard little seeds that were used as a unit of measurement for weight before the British showed up with their drachms, ounces, pounds and stones.
We had planned to play on the resort’s high ropes course, but we opted instead for a lazy day of lingering over coffee and reading in the shade. After a quick dip in the pool and more lounging around, we decided to pop down to the river. We waded in the water and sat in the sand, watching other guests kayak and swim.
Day four started as a repeat of day three and turned into a whole lot of trekking for me. I joined Robbie for another early morning hike, climbing up and down the rocky paths. We didn’t spot any animals, but we heard lots of rustling in the bushes. Wild chickens, Robbie said. I asked whether people eat them. “They are very fast walking,” he said. “If people can catch, they eat.”
After crossing a nala, a dry gully that fills with monsoon rains, we fell in line behind a village woman. She trekked up the precarious hill in worn flip-flops, holding her long purple skirt with one hand and balancing a large brass pot of water on her head with the other. She said “namaskar” to me and chatted in Hindi with Robbie as she climbed. Later, Robbie told me the woman was surprised to see us hiking so early in the day. She and other women out collecting wood yesterday had seen a bear at that nala, so she warned us to be careful.
Robbie led me through a small farming village. Cows and water buffalo looked up from their breakfast to check us out.
After a bit of reading and lounging, Alli and I headed to the river for a while. It was blazing hot with no shade, so we didn’t last long. I decided to join a group going on a 4-kilometer afternoon hike.
Led by Sonita, we crossed the river on the Malakunti suspension bridge and trekked along the mountainside. (Mala means necklace, and kunti means pendant. The village of Mala sits up the hill, so the bridge is like its pendant hanging below.)
Along the way, we spotted pink and green stains on the dirt path, signs of local celebrations. It was Holi, a holiday that welcomes the arrival spring, when revelers toss colored powder or water on each other. The path rose and fell, sometimes ominously narrow with a sheer drop to the rocky beach. We often scrambled over piles of pale flat rocks, and looking up, we could see where they had broken free from the hillside.
I kept taking my phone out to snap a photo and then slipping it back into my pocket. I didn’t realize every time I did that, I butt dialed someone in the States. So sorry about that!
Eventually, we reached Sonita’s village, Sirasu. There, we saw ladies working in the fields, and Sonita showed us the different crops: wheat, chickpeas, onions and garlic. She also pointed to the big group of men and boys playing cricket in the distance. Women generally run the farm, care for the livestock and manage the home, while men have jobs outside the village, she said. We stopped at her mother’s house for chai. Children from the village hid behind a wall to spy on us, and a calf tied to a metal ring snorted at us and nibbled at the grass. An old woman walked by, doubled over by the load of hay on her back. I put my hands together and said, “namaste,” and she stood up, gently set down her load, and returned my greeting with a wide grin.
Sonita leading us through the wheat fields.
Animals next to her mother’s house.
Cricket game.
After finishing our tea, we set off again. Just past the village, bamboo scaffolding encased a huge ashram and temple under construction. Rishikesh is a magnet for spiritual pilgrims and yoga enthusiasts. This National Geographic Traveler story takes place at an ashram next to Sonita’s village and does a nice job describing the vibe of the area.
It was getting dark by the time we saw the second bridge. A precipitous path cobbled together with pale purple stones zig-zagged down the mountain. I asked Sonita if the color was natural, and she pointed across the river to where purple-tinted rock rose out of the water and blended into the hills. We walked across the bridge and up another steep hill to the road, where our bus waited to drive us back to Atali Ganga.
Our final day in Rishikesh, we had to check out early, so we spent most of the day in the open-air reception area, reading and writing. I felt my usual melancholy settle in, knowing I had to leave behind beauty and fresh air and face the reality of Delhi’s smog and traffic. What a perfect week, though. And, seriously, what an amazing month – so many Incredible India experiences!
That’s it for a while, though. My next big journey will be a life-changer as Tony and I wave farewell to India in just two months, travel to Michigan for a quick visit, and then move to new jobs and a new home in Santiago, Chile.
Since moving to India, Tony has accompanied high school students on a mini-course called Marwari Safari at a horse ranch in Rajasthan once a year. Although all AES high school students and teachers embark on mini-courses around the country each spring, he always claimed his mini-course was the best. Students got away from the big cities, didn’t have to travel from place to place, learned how to ride horses, enjoyed a little down time every day, and ate delicious food, mostly straight from the garden. For the last four years, I wished I could go, too. This year, I did!
On Thursday, I received a call from the high school assistant principal, saying Tony’s co-chaperone was too sick to travel. Would I be willing to sub? I had a little panic attack. It meant missing a week of school and parent conferences, and this is my busiest time of year as Elementary School EAL coordinator. “Maybe this is just what you need,” she said. Turns out, that was true.
We left just three days later (March 13) on the overnight train: Inder Jit, our tour organizer and riding instructor; his assistant, Bijay; 14 high school students; Tony and me.
After 12.5 hours on the train, we arrived in Udaipur and went straight to a boutique hotel for breakfast in the garden. Afterwards, we toured the City Palace and the Sahelion Ki Bari gardens. I had visited the palace in 2014, but our local guide on this visit had a great sense of humor and pointed out details I hadn’t seen the first time. Many of the students were surprisingly attentive and curious, despite sleep deprivation.
At the palace.
At the gardens.
Following our tour, the bus carried us another 20 minutes to Krishna Ranch, our home for four days. We were greeted by ranch owners Dinesh Jain and his wife, Francine, passionate promoters of the Marwari horses and lovely people overall.
Marwari Horses
For a short time, I took riding lessons in Delhi with mostly sluggish horses that slowly and methodically walked the perimeter of the ring. At Krishna Ranch, we rode Marwari horses, which required a whole different approach to riding. Frisky and keenly alert, they were bred for speed and endurance in warfare.
The Marwari horses originated when native Indian ponies were crossed with Arabian horses. The traditional rulers of the Marwar region (in northwestern India) first started breeding Marwari horses in the 12th century. The horses come in a full range of colors and patterns, but their distinctive ears set them apart from other breeds. The ears stand up and curve inward, creating a whimsical and endearing appearance.
The head conveys the indefinable oriental presence of the horse and should be expressive with a high forehead, large sparkling prominent eyes, straight or slightly Roman long face giving a clean chiseled profile and well rounded defined jaws, the nostrils are large and gently flared set over firm fine lips and an even bite. The ears should be of medium length and shapely, curving and curling inwards at their points in a scimitar or lyre shape typical to the breed. They will be somewhat longer in the mare.
Narani, the cook at Krishna Ranch, shares everyone’s passion for these beautiful horses.
At Krishna Ranch, some light-colored horses had decorative henna socks painted on their lower legs and their Hindi names henna-ed on their flanks.
This is Komal. Well, this is Komal’s backside.
Dinesh and Francine own 14 Marwari horses, and they borrowed a few more for our group. They also breed and sell horses, cautiously entertaining offers from India’s growing upper class. However, Dinesh has been known to buy back a mistreated horse or refuse to make the sale if he feels the prospective owner can’t provide appropriate care. His genuine love and concern for the horses makes this place even more special.
One morning, he saw me peeking over a stall door to check out the youngest resident of Krishna Ranch, so he opened the gate and introduced me to Gori, a 3-week-old black filly with a white blaze. Gori’s father was last year’s champion Marwari stallion, said Dinesh, who petted and cuddled the sweet baby as we chatted. Usually, the young horses are afraid of people, he said, but the workers who groom the mama, Rupali, couldn’t resist brushing little Gori, too. She nuzzled my hand and let me pet her velvety nose.
The adjoining stall housed three yearlings, also heartbreakingly adorable.
Riding Lessons
Each morning and afternoon, we all crowded under the wide umbrella of a magnolia tree for lessons from Inder Jit. Dinesh and several grooms helped facilitate the lessons, sprinting alongside high-spirited horses and calling out instructions to the riders. They generally kept three horses going at a time, giving the students 5 to 10 minutes of practice each.
Early in our relationship, I took Tony horseback riding. He walked his horse to the middle of the field, dropped the reins and let his horse eat grass while I cantered around him for an hour. You can imagine my surprise when he confidently leapt up on his Marwari horse at Krishna Ranch and took off around the arena. After four years of chaperoning this trip, he has acquired a pretty substantial set of horsemanship skills. That’s my cowboy.
During the first lesson, my horse clearly wanted to exit the arena and get back to her friends at the stable. Dinesh told me to make the turn sooner, rather than riding the whole length of the ring. “Then she will know what you want,” he said. When my turn finished, we chatted more about that. He mentioned that he’s been working with Bollywood directors who need horses for their films. The director often just wants to start shooting as soon as the horse shows up, but Dinesh asks, “What will you want this horse to do?” Then he puts a trained rider on the horse to practice the scene several times before any filming starts. When it’s time for the actor to do it, the horse knows what to do.
Side note: John C. Reilly recently spent some time here with Dinesh, getting riding lessons and then shooting scenes for “The Cowboys,” a French film that came out earlier this year. “Some of our guys had to dress in Pakistani clothes with guns and everything,” Dinesh said.
One afternoon, we all struggled with the horses during our lesson. They were refusing directions, bucking, spooking at the fence line, bolting, and even rearing a bit. The kids got pretty nervous and started gasping and worrying when they watched their friends take turns. (A scary cow was hanging around on the other side of the arena’s wall.) As the last rider, I was ready to opt out. By then, the horses were full-on wacko. But Dinesh convinced me to climb aboard a skittish bay mare named Rani. He helped me convince Rani to turn left when she really wanted to turn right, which we practiced several times. After she realized she wouldn’t get her way, she completely relaxed and let me take control. Once again, I recognized Dinesh’s gentle genius.
Hack Rides
Between lessons, we went on a “hack,” or trail ride, each day. Day 1: We rode single file with a groom walking alongside each horse to the nearby village of Bada Havala. I was assigned to Noori, a stubborn pinto, and told to take up the rear. We were supposed to keep a horse length between us, but Noori really wanted to get to the front of the line. I managed to keep her under control, just barely, but I bloodied a knuckle in the battle, and I worried that I was hurting her mouth by holding the reins so tightly. When we stopped to walk around another village, Chorta Havala, I whined to Dinesh. He told me to trade horses with Bijay, one of our tour assistants (and expert horseman/polo star). I swallowed my pride and rode Suresh, a gray gelding, for the rest of the hack (and the subsequent hacks). Calm and gentle, Suresh allowed me to relax and enjoy the scenery.
As we clomped through the villages and countryside, young children bounded out of their homes to wave and shout, “Hello! Bye bye! Dada!” (One of our students told me “dada” is like “ta ta” in English.) We passed homes of newlyweds where the outside walls were painted with a traditional wedding procession – camel symbolizing love, elephant symbolizing good luck, and horse symbolizing virility One house also had the groom on a horse and the bride being carried in a palanquin. “They can’t afford the real procession like a maharaja, so they paint it instead,” Dinesh explained.
On our ride and walk, we noticed many animals with painted horns, most notably some bullocks with very long pointed horns painted bright orange, red and blue. Dinesh said the paint was a remnant of Diwali, the most sacred Hindu holiday. Farmers celebrate by decorating their hard-working animals in a show of gratitude. That includes expensive paint on the horns, henna decorations on their legs, beaded necklaces and other adornments. Another fun farmer tradition at Diwali: They set up a puja, or shrine, in front of the home, using animal dung to form idols of the gods and adding a little incense and other props. Then they open the gate and let their animals parade out of the courtyard to trample the puja and track dung down the path, leaving a temporary reminder to neighbors of their animal-owning status.
Day 2: Our group filed out the Krishna Ranch gate and on to the trail on the same horses we had yesterday. We rode to “Shilpgram – The Rural Arts and Crafts Complex,” a sprawling representation of villages in Western India. The place was mostly deserted, and the students were mostly apathetic. Still it was interesting to see how many villages cluster homes around a courtyard with a few key industries. According to the Shilpgram website, “Traditional village life was said to have been, to a considerable extent, self-contained and self-sufficient with a potter, a carpenter, a blacksmith, often a weaver, living alongside one another.”
Our silly students posing at the sculpture garden.
Back at the ranch, grooms unsaddled the horses and let them take turns rolling in a pile of sand to cool off. The horses looked ecstatic as they shimmied their sweaty backs down into the sand, kicking their legs in the air, but when they stood up again they were caked with grit.
After lunch, we returned to our horses for a brushing session. The grooms showed us the technique: vigorous curry combing for about 40 minutes on each side, followed by a softer brush. Suresh stood patiently while I groomed him and actually fell asleep while I gently stroked his chin. Sweet boy.
Day 3: This was my favorite trail ride. Astride our hyper steeds, we traipsed through the countryside and up into the hills to Badi Lake, a man-made reservoir that provides irrigation water to farmers in the valley. We passed the most fascinating people and scenery along the way.
Stone walls enclosed small fields of wheat, which were just beginning the transformation from green to golden. Bougainvillea draped over fences and climbed up walls, adding a splash of fuchsia, coral, baby pink and white to the dry, dusty landscape. At one point, it created a canopy overhead, dropping neon leaves on the path like a natural red carpet. Herds of little goats scrambled up the hillsides or mewed at us from their tethers. Water buffalo with curlicue horns lounged in the shade of their enclosures. Always a little cranky looking, they raised their noses in the air, rolled their eyes, and flapped their ears when alerted to our presence. We passed a camel that was nearly obscured by the towering cargo of hay on its cart. One enclosed field was cleared and brown but featured one towering tree, planted in a concrete ring, with branches bare of leaves but fiery with saffron blooms that rained down on the parched earth. The scene looked like a sepia snapshot with a Photoshopped splash of orange.
Village ladies always catch my eye as they labor in the fields or around their homes dressed in colors that offset the drudgery. Several times, a woman would hear our hoofbeats, pop up from the wheatfield, pull her dupatta up over her head and wave with a big smile. Others crouched by the irrigation channels to wash blankets, which they draped over the bushes to dry. Heads piled high with freshly harvested greens, a few ladies emerged from the fields and paused to watch us pass. Many stood roadside with their children. All wore saris in shocking hues of mainly red, orange and yellow.
We took a short break to check out the reservoir. Tony noted that the water level changes dramatically, depending on rainfall during the monsoon season. He pointed to a small temple near the shoreline, almost completely submerged with only a bit of its spire poking out of the water. “I’ve been here when the water is below that temple,” he said. “And I’ve been here when the water was up to the edge of this path.”
Down Time
Between lessons and rides, we sat on our porch or strolled around the property. Our building’s exterior was painted with traditional Rajasthani designs, including glued-on little round mirrors, and the jhali screen above the door featured an image of Ganesh. Sparrows had stuffed sticks and other debris inside the jhali (a mesh screen on the inside kept it all from falling on the bedroom floor), and they flitted in and out of the nest. It was like having pet birds that could come and go as they pleased.
Sitting in rattan chairs on our porch, we overlooked a large garden, where the cook, Narani, might be digging up onions or picking chilis. Next to the garden, workers collected water from a pump to wash big pots or to give the horses a drink. On the far side of the garden stood a long row of stalls, where horses lay in the straw or stood with their heads hanging out the windows, calling to their friends. To the right of our porch, just under our bedroom window, a farrier trimmed the horses’ hooves and tacked on new shoes. Cookie, the puppy that wandered on to the property one day and never left, curled under a tree to gnaw on the discarded trimmings. (Dinesh said the puppy enjoys riding in the saddlebag on multi-day horse safaris.)
Climbing to the roof of another building, we watched huge langur monkeys leaping from tree to tree and then pausing to snack. We gasped as a tiny baby monkey held on for dear life when its mother soared through the air, grabbed for a branch and swung to a perch. From our vantage point, we watched the soft green wheat sway in the breeze while peacocks wandered through the fields.
Behind our building, additional horses were tied up, along with a baby camel and a menagerie of chickens, goats and dogs. Watching the baby goats was better than TV.
On the rooftop of our building, we ate meals, lingered over chai and played Uno in the evening as the sun set behind the Aravelli hills.
Sunrise.
On our final night at the ranch, Dinesh built a campfire for us. The kids roasted marshmallows, sang songs, pointed out constellations, and told stories.
Honey, I bought a camel.
Wandering slowly back to our room one evening, we encountered Dinesh and Francine. At the same time, the young camel came ambling down the path, led by one of the grooms.
“What do you do with that camel?” Tony asked.
“Even we don’t know what to do with it!” said Francine. “We’ll get rid of it, I think. They can be quite dangerous. Look!” The camel was tugging on the lead, trying to run.
We all followed the camel down to a small paddock. The groom let the camel loose inside, where it bucked and popped in the air, gangly legs kicking out at unpredictable angles. The puppy Cookie tentatively trotted into the paddock, ears perked at this curiosity, but then bolted under the fence when the camel’s wild thrashing came too close.
Although we all had a good giggle at the goofy camel, Francine repeated her protest about camel ownership. Tony and I joked about how most husbands get in trouble for buying a tech gadget or other expensive toy without asking their wives.
“How did you break the news when you brought home a camel?” we asked Dinesh.
He said the camel was a surprise even to him. He had been looking for one of his grooms, and someone announced, “He went to get the camel.” Sure enough, the groom showed up later with the baby camel that charmed its way into permanent residence at Krishna Ranch.
“He really was so cute and little,” said Francine.
Although the little camel is still too young to be useful, Dinesh plans to use him for hauling cargo on multi-day horse safaris in the future. “That is a good idea,” Francine conceded.
Farewell
On the afternoon of our departure, some of the handlers demonstrated a few tricks. Dinesh said the horses often perform at weddings – dancing, bowing, rearing up high, and walking on their back legs. Then we gathered all the workers and our group together to express our gratitude. Our only Hindi-speaking student shared our appreciation and understanding that their long hours and hard work led to such a meaningful visit for us. We all shook hands, enjoyed a last glass of chai, hugged our horses good-bye, and trudged down the dusty path to meet our bus.
A short flight later, we were back in Delhi, saddle sore but filled with bliss.
Many visitors to India – especially those with limited time to explore the country – embark on a “Golden Triangle Tour.” The triangle comprises three key cities:
* Delhi, India’s capital, with ruins of seven cities dating back almost a thousand years.
* Agra, home of India’s most visited attraction, the Taj Mahal.
* Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan, known as the “Pink City.”
As for Delhi, I feel confident that I have sucked the marrow out of this city (although it would be impossible to see it all) after living here for almost five years. And we knocked out Agra just weeks after moving to India in 2011.
However, I never got to that last vertex on the triangle: Jaipur. In our last few months here, I am trying to cram as much India as possible into my calendar. It was beginning to look like Jaipur wouldn’t make the cut. Then I received an email from my art curator friend Himanshu, who was planning an off-the-beaten-path tour to Jaipur called Ctrl+Alt+Jaipur the weekend before my birthday. Sign me up!
Turns out my friend, Sarah, and I got an almost private tour. The only other participant was a hip young woman, Monalisa, who joined us from Mumbai. On Feb. 20, Himanshu, Sarah and I drove from Delhi, arriving in Jaipur in time for a late breakfast at our hotel. We met Mona and headed out to explore the artsy side of Jaipur.
First, we popped in to Anokhi, a popular shop that sells block-printed clothes and textiles. When I say popular, I mean it is not uncommon for teachers at our school to wear an Anokhi dress to school only to find several other teachers wearing the same fabric in a skirt or blouse. It’s gorgeous stuff, but I haven’t been inspired to join the club (except to buy the softest comfiest pajamas on earth). Himanshu brought us here to spotlight Jaipur’s rich history of blockprinting. I had always thought that involved carving a block of wood, dipping it in paint and stamping it on the fabric. Interesting … but I didn’t really get the hype.
Our next stop on Day One was AnanTaya, a “design studio committed to the development of innovative ideas through understanding the importance of preserving ancient crafts.” I could have stayed there all day. Little signs next to the products explained the significance of the crafts and their role in Indian life. We met one of the founders, Ayush, who shared his passion for supporting local artists. He doesn’t mind when they sell their products outside his shop, noting they use his designs but they have the skills to do the work. His love for Jaipur art was contagious. “We grew up with beauty,” said, recalling family conversations centered on art.
I bought these incredible brass lassi cups, handcrafted by master craftsman Mohammad Dilshad in three traditional designs. Ella approves.
Lunch was an experience in itself. We went to a traditional Rajasthani restaurant called Laxmi Mishthan Bhandar, where I was reminded again of how my grasp of local culture remains frustratingly superficial, and my quest for deeper understanding only leads to more confusion.
The menu read, “Food which is half-cooked or halfripe, insiped, putrid, stale and polluted and which is impure too, is dear to men of a Tamasic disposition. Thus, Lord Krishna condemns unwholesome food. Instead, he recommends foods which promote longevity, intelligence, sweet, bland, substantial and naturally agreeable. LMB’s commitment to this ideal of food is a manual of faith. The food prepared in pure desi ghee suited to everyone’s palate bears out our credo.”
This is why it takes me ages to blog about my experiences in India. I get intrigued about something, spend hours researching it, discover something else I don’t understand, spend hours researching that, and finally get back to my original story. So, I got a little off task thinking about that blurb on the menu. According to wikipedia, “In the Samkhya school of philosophy, tamas (Sanskrit: तमस् tamas “darkness”) is one of the three gunas (or qualities), the other two being rajas (passion and activity) and sattva (purity, goodness). Tamas is the template for inertia or resistance to action.” Therefore, men of “Tamasic disposition” apparently eat food that makes them lazy. Who would want that? Bring on the LMB food that promotes longevity and intelligence!
OK, back to lunch … We ordered the Rajasthan thali. A thali is simply a meal comprising several small servings of various dishes. I really wanted to understand what I was eating to get the full experience, and the waiter eagerly played along. A couple times, he actually took my spoon out of my hand to demonstrate how to break off a little bit of that, add a little scoop of this combined with a dab of that, and then he would hand it back to me victoriously.
If the only word on that tray you recognized was “rice,” then here’s your guide to the thali. Papad: a cracker made from seasoned lentil flour Missi Roti: flat bread Boondi Raita: sweet yogurt with little balls made from chickpea flour Bati: fried flour balls to eat with dal and churma Churma: made from sugar and wheat flour or chickpea flour Dal: lentil conconction Mishri Mawa: ethnic Jaipur dessert made from fresh reduced milk and sugar Kair Sangri: a traditional vegetable dish combining a desert shrub berry and the bean from a flowering tree called Khejari Aloo Gobi: a dry, spicy mix of potatoes and cauliflower Danamethi Kishmish: sweet and sour fennel seeds with raisins Bela Rajashasti: spicy and steamed thick chickpea-flour dumplings with whole spices cooked in yogurt gravy Kadi Chokanwali: fried soft balls of chickpea flour with thick curry of Rajasthani herbs and yogurt
Himanshu and Sarah enjoying their thalis.
After lunch, we headed to the City Palace Museum, where Himanshu pulled some strings to get us a private tour with his friend Giles Tillotson, noted historian, author and art curator who handpicked pieces for a new museum exhibit, “Painting and Photography at the Jaipur Court.”
To be honest, I was a little starstruck in Tillotson’s presence and couldn’t focus well enough to retain much of what he shared with us. Still, his stories from behind the scenes left me enthralled.
I tried to do some research when I got home. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find much more than the basic promotional materials.
I took this photo before Tillotson gently asked me not to shoot pictures in the gallery.
The exhibit’s brochure explains:
The display begins with paintings from the 18th century, from the period of the founder Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II, up to that of Maharaja Sawai Pratap Singh, under whose reign painting in particular flourished. It then captures the excitement of the late 19th century when the camera competed with, but also complemented, the artist’s brush under Maharaja Sawai Ram Singh II. In the end, images leading to Indian Independence and its aftermath overseen by Maharaja Sawai Madho Singh II and Maharaja Sawai Man Singh II, bring us up to the mid-20th century.
According to an article in the Rajasthan Post from the exhibit’s September inauguration, “The photographic collections of the Maharaja Sawai Man Singh II Museum have now been catalogued and archived. They include a collection of nearly 2,000 glass plate negatives dating from the 1860s to the 1880s, from the archive of Maharaja Sawai Ram Singh II. Many of these pictures were taken by the Maharaja himself, the most famous of India’s royal photographers.”
Cameras at Court by Mrinalini Venkateswaran, projects head for Eka Archiving Services and co-curator of the exhibit, offers a wonderful glimpse into the historical context of the exhibit and breathes life into the static images in the photos.
Here’s a video from a local news channel (with really poor production quality).
Hanging around at the City Palace.
We spent the late afternoon and early evening strolling through Jaipur’s back alleys and markets. The buildings of the “Pink City” are actually more of a terracotta color, although the setting sun did create a pinkish reflection.
This guy was dying a blouse to match a sari. The shop owner asked me to mail him a copy of the photo. Done.
A small flower market.
Chai break.
I love the chai break photo bomber.
Marble sculptors. White dust filled the air and coated everything in sight. I would have liked to linger, but it was hard to breathe.
According to Discovered India, marble played a key role in Mughal art and architecture, and artists continue to ply their craft in Jaipur today.
The development of a marble structure is very delicate task and it takes a high degree of expertise and skill to carve a beautiful marble sculpture. The process starts with the selection of the right stone for carving. A carver may use his imagination to carve a figure or he might use a reference model to copy it on the stone. Mostly the artists prefer to begin with making a model of clay or wood and then try to copy it in stone.
When he is ready to carve, the artist starts with peeling off the large unwanted chunks of the stone. A long pointed and hefty chisel is used for this purpose along with a mallet. This is the roughing out stage of the stone. The strokes should be chosen very carefully as a little miscalculation can ruin the quality of the stone hence hamper the beauty of final sculpture.
Once the general shape of the structure is obtained then other tools like toothed chisel and claw chisel are used to refine the work. These tools are generally used for adding texture to the figure. Gradually the sculptor has attained the rough general shape of the final figure. Now the sculptor uses tools like rasps and riffles to enhance the shape of the figure and giving it its final form. A riffle is a steel tools used from removing excess of stone from the figure in the form of small chips and dust. The riffle is a smaller version of rasp which used for the detailing of the structure. Finally the sandpaper is used for polishing the sculpture giving it a beautiful smooth and elegant look.
The art of Jaipur marble sculpture is century’s old and transferred from one generation to another. The use of traditional tools and techniques to carve a marble stone in to a beautiful structure has preserved the heritage of this ancient art. There is a high demand for handmade Jaipur marble articles all around the world.
Himanshu took us to the shop of Avaz Mohammed, a renowned lac artist, whose family has suppled lac bangles to the City Palace for generations. Lac is a resinous secretion of insects that is harvested from tree branches and used as a plastic. Artists start with blobs of lac and soften it over a fire to mold, flatten, twist and otherwise shape it into bangles or other decorative items.
We sat on a bench smushed up to the bangle display as cargo-laden motorcycles honked and wedged pedestrians out of the way. Sarah nearly lost a leg to a slow-moving but oblivious motorbike driver. Himanshu eagerly showed us the family’s unique creation – the gulaal gota – an egg-sized bubble of lac filled with colored powder. The thin lac shell breaks on contact, showering the victim with bright powder. The artist’s family provided them to the palace for the former royal family’s Holi celebration, and now gulaal gotas are available to anyone who wants to shake up the festival of colors.
In his excitement to demonstrate this cool Holi accessory, Himanshu pitched a gulaal gota at Mona, who was wearing a gorgeous floral crepé kurta (a calf-length top, worn with leggings). The fuchsia powder coated her hair, skin and lovely outfit. I turned to Himanshu, who was poised to grab another ball, and said, “Don’t even think about it!” In retrospect, it would have been way smarter of him to pelt me in my T-shirt and jeans rather than Mona in her stylish ensemble. Mona was a good sport. I think I would have cried.
Poor unsuspecting Mona.
After a quick pause for coal-fired chai, we were getting tired and decided to abandon some of the destinations on our itinerary.
Our last stop for the day was Govind Dev Temple. Steep learning curve. Are you ready? I’m summarizing a very enlightening article called Vrindavan Deities in Jaipur.
Here goes:
Vrindavan is the childhood home of Lord Krishna and thus a sacred site for Hindus. In 1669, temple priests at Vrindavan got the horrifying news that Emperor Aurangzeb was planning to invade the temples and destroy the sacred murtis (idols) of Krisha. The priests fled with the murtis, traveling at night and taking refuge in caves during the day. Five murtis ultimately found safety in Jaipur, although one was later moved to another city. Those four Jaipur murtis each have their own temple now, and we visited all of them.
There’s so much more, but this blog post is already insanely long, and we’re only at the end of Day 1. I just have to say that article was reassuring in that it was written by a South Indian Hindu, who expressed confusion over this complicated North Indian story. “The problem with a polytheistic religion like Hinduism is that it is hard to keep track of its regional, and rather glorious, variations,” he wrote. Yeah. Imagine how a third-culture kid brought up in a military household with a Protestant value system might struggle to understand this stuff.
The Govind Dev Temple was constructed on the City Palace grounds in 1735, offering the maharaja a clear view of the Krishna worshippers. When we arrived, it was mostly deserted, but soon crowds filled the space, sitting on the mats or standing around the perimeter. A metal fence surrounded a sort of stage with a heavy curtain and locked gate hiding the Krishna murti. Eventually, the temple priest unlocked the gate and pulled back the curtain to reveal the murti. We all crowded to the front. A long bout of bell ringing and chanting ensued, including the catchy “Hare Krishna” chant. Priests then walked along the inside of the fenced area, sprinkling water out on the crowd. People were grinning and raising their hands in the air, exultantly. Finally, we joined the rest of the crowd to walk clockwise around the temple before reclaiming our shoes and heading out. Surprisingly awesome.
The next day, we visited the other three Krishna temples with murtis from Vrindavan.
Gopinath Temple
Unfortunately, the gate to the murti was locked, and we would have had to wait too long to see it opened. However, the temple was interesting in itself with ornate paintings and tiles throughout and a bonus Hanuman temple adjoining the courtyard.
Radha-Damodar Temple
Less ornate, this temple was busy with worshippers circumambulating (walking the perimeter clockwise repeatedly) and pausing to bow to the murti.
Vinodilal Temple
In this austere temple, the priest was busy with ceremonial duties. He asked us not to photograph the murti.
And that was just the beginning of our temple trek.
Surya Mandir
Dedicated to the sun god, Surya Mandir reaches up to the sky from its perch on a rocky hill, 200 meters above the city. From there, we could see the grid pattern of city streets, the result of 17th-century city planning. Energized by the sun (or maybe the sun god?), we played in the courtyard a bit, posing and enjoying the views. It was easy to imagine the city’s founder, Maharaja Jai Singh II, coming up here to soak up some rays and find a little peace.
Approaching the temple. Cows, monkeys, and pigs. Oh, my!
Hindus ring a bell or ghanta when they enter a temple. I’ve read a few different reasons: The “om” sound invites the deity to be worshipped. The reverberation clears your mind to receive enlightenment. The sound scares away evil spirits.
You don’t have to twist my arm to worship Surya. Sunny days and blue skies fill my soul.
Temple detail.
I have to be honest. By now, I was pretty templed out. When Himanshu said we had one more to see before we headed to our next destination – and especially when he said it was called “the monkey temple” – I was like, “Let’s skip it.” But thank goodness we didn’t!
Galta Temple
Yes, there were hordes of monkeys, but they were surprisingly respectful (which is not a typical monkey trait, fyi). We walked down a steep rocky path from the Surya Mandir and then climbed a few steps into the top structure of an expansive temple complex that stretched down the hillside.
A group crowded in front of the shrine, while others lingered around the pool of water a few feet below. As we walked down, we saw three spring-fed pools: one for monkeys, one for men, and one for women. My mind almost couldn’t process the view. Buildings designed in the style of a palace or haveli were cradled in a mountain pass of the Aravelli Hills and crawling with smiling pilgrims in their eye-popping colorful saris and suits. This site has been a Hindu retreat since the early 16th century, but the Galta Temple complex was built about 200 years later.
This couple asked me to take their photo and text it to them. Why not?
Brilliant frescoes once greeted temple visitors, but time, weather, and vandals have taken a toll.
This woman asked for 10 rupees (15 cents) to snap her photo. Savvy lady, posing in an irresistible archway in that pink sari.
These ladies were laughing and singing and happily posed for me, free of charge.
My girl, Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge and education, tucked away in a little nook.
On to Amer…
From Jaipur, we drove to the village of Amer, which sits in the shadow of the imposing Amber Fort high on the hillside. Here’s the scoop on Amer, also known as Amber, from the Rajasthan Department of Tourism.
Amber, lying 11 kilometres north of Jaipur, is a remarkable conglomeration of royal palaces, robust forts, princely havelis, residences, gardens, temples, lakes and other ancient buildings. The history of the city dates back to the 10th century, when it was founded by Mina tribesmen. The Kachchwaha Rajputs conquered this region, known as Dhoondhar in ancient times, in the early 11th century, owing to its great strategic value. Dulha Rai, the first Kachchwaha king of Dhoondhar, made Dausa, a small town near Amber, his first capital. The territory kept growing through military expeditions or political alliances. The Kachchwahas laid the foundation of the fortified walls of Amber, established the Kakilgarh fort and built Ambikeshwar Mahadev Temple. Amber became the third capital of the Kachchwaha, and remained so for almost seven centuries. The rulers kept expanding the city by building palaces and temples of Vishnu and Shiva. The period from late 16th to early 18th century under the reign of Man Singh and Raja Jai Singh I and Jai Singh II is considered the golden period of Amber. A significant contribution to the art, architecture, science and financial wealth of the city was made under their rule. After independence, Dhoondhar kingdom was merged with the state of Rajasthan and Amber became a part of Jaipur district.
Here, we visited the Anokhi Museum to learn more about block printing. Remember my apathetic attitude toward Anokhi’s block printed clothing? Well, that has changed now that I have learned more about the process. Watching an artist carve a wooden block blew my mind, and the skill required to print evenly and efficiently is ridiculous. Plus, it’s not just dip-and-stamp, dip-and-stamp. Holy cow, it’s way more complicated and fascinating.
This is a short and informative video by geobeats that captures what we saw at the museum.
This display explained a 14-step process from plain cloth to printed fabric.
I could have watched this guy for hours. It was mesmerizing. I knew the fabric was printed by hand, but the blocks are also carved by hand using primitive tools.
He had to carve four blocks to make one pattern.
I never really thought about how hard it would be to line up the patterns or to place the blocks just right to deposit color exactly the same way across yards of fabric.
Well, I’m a convert to the cult of Anokhi, and I feel grateful for this new knowledge and appreciation for the art of block printing.
Next, Vineet Sharma, banker turned tour guide, met us at for a stroll through the village of Amer.
Just a few steps from the museum was our first stop: the Panna Meena ka Kund, a 16th-century stepwell or baoli. Stepwells provided water to the community, but also served as a marketplace, entertainment venue, and hangout spot.
Just across the alley sits the Ambikeshwar Mahadev Temple.
According to Vineet, monsoon rains sometimes overflow the stepwell, and the water fills the temple, which makes sense as it sits about 10 feet below street level. Legend says about 5,000 years ago a king had a cow that would only give milk in one specific place in the forest. Digging up the dirt in that spot, the king found a shivling – an idol of Lord Shiva, and decided to build this temple on the spot.
The shivling is inside the hole.
Crazy ceiling.
Cool door.
The Sri Jagat Siromani Temple was another highlight in Amer. It was commissioned by Queen Shringar Devi Kanakawat in memory of her son, Jagat Singh, and built between 1599 and 1608. Vineet found the caretaker, who opened the shrine for us.
While Sarah and I poked around the temple, Mona and Himanshu chatted with the caretaker. Apparently, he told them a story about the legendary 16th-century Krishna devotee and poet, Meera Bai, who considered Krishna her spiritual husband despite being married to a king. I found a summary on a website called Amerjaipur.in.
There is an interesting story about this temple. It is said that the statue of Lord Krishna in this temple is same statue that Meera Bai used to worship in the state of Mewar, 600 years ago. This statue was saved from destruction by rulers of Amer during the Mughal war with Mewar state and brought safely to Amer. And statue was set in a temple. Even statue of Meera Bai has been set along with Lord Krishna.
Vineet took us to the abandoned palace of the Kachchawa rulers, commonly known as the Narsinghji Temple, which was home to the royal family before they built the Amber Fort. The caretakers were hanging out, seemingly oblivious to the building’s historical importance.
Finally, we checked out one last temple, inside a peaceful courtyard. I have tried to find details about it online to no avail. If I stumble on any information, I’ll update this post.
From the temple’s rooftop, we could see the wall that runs along the top of the Aravelli Hills, reminding me of our treks on the Great Wall of China.
After bidding farewell to Vineet and Mona (who caught a flight back to Mumbai), Himanshu, Sarah and I returned to the car for our trip back to Delhi. However, the driver informed us that protestors in the neighboring state were blocking the border crossing. It’s a complicated situation, which gets more confusing with every article I read. You can read more here if you want, but I assure you, it raises more questions than answers.
So, suffice it to say, we weren’t sure we could get home. Well, the next day was my birthday and I was going to be cranky if I had to spend it in some roadside motel because the road back to Delhi was blocked. I quickly grabbed my phone to search for flights, but they were all booked. Train stations had also been ransacked by the protestors, so that eliminated another mode of transportation. Finally, we decided to drive for awhile and see whether we could get new information. The internet yielded nothing. No news. Himanshu got on the phone with him mother, who called everyone she knew who might have information. We stopped for chai, and Himanshu proposed an alternate plan. We could leave the highway and take country roads until we passed the blocked area. However, google maps was unreliable; it was pitch black outside; and we couldn’t be guaranteed that this new route was free of protestors. Feeling uneasy but eager to get home, we decided to risk it. Eventually, we got reassuring news from Himanshu’s brother that the road was clear. He had also been driving back to Delhi from another city and got there before we did.
I was able to spend my birthday back in Delhi after all. I took the day off work, sorted my Jaipur photos and relaxed. After that whirlwind weekend, I needed a break!
And, with that, I have officially wrapped up my Golden Triangle tour, five years after it started.
I highly recommend tours with Himanshu. In fact, he’s taking a group of us around Delhi next weekend to check out the street art. Check out his website, 1100 Walks. For a walking tour in Amer with Vineet, email him at jaipurwalks@yahoo.com.
The older we get, the more jet lag kicks our butts. With that in mind, I figured we should return to India after Christmas break a bit early to recuperate. However, the winter air quality in Delhi keeps us indoors, so we opted to spend a few days in Dubai instead, tempted by sunshine, fresh air and quite a few friends who used to work with us in Shanghai and now teach at the American School of Dubai.
We crashed at the home of the Toas, friends from Shanghai days. Unfortunately they had to work, but they left us a key and information on getting around town.
Dubai was everything we expected it to be. Biggest this. Tallest that. Fanciest everything. Sunny, bright, clean.
We spent one day walking around in the Dubai Mall (biggest mall in the world, of course). There, we gawked at the Dubai Aquarium fish tank (only the second biggest in the world, sigh…, although it does have the world’s largest acrylic panel). The tank holds 10 million liters of water and houses more than 140 species of aquatic animals, including … ahem, the largest collection of sand tiger sharks in the world. We walked through the aquarium’s acrylic tube, which offered surreal views of the sea life with a background of mall shops. The rest of the aquarium was much like aquariums everywhere. I loved the bilingual signage, though.
Although the outside temperature was a bit chilly, we braved the cold to enjoy delicious Lebanese food on the terrace of Al Hallab restaurant, overlooking the Burj Khalifa’s fountain show. As we were eating, Tony suddenly realized the building next door was The Address Hotel, which had caught fire on New Year’s Eve.
I couldn’t get the top of the building in the frame!
Our second day in Dubai, we got a bird’s eye view of the city from the Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world. An elevator flew about 33 feet per second to the 124th floor. We snapped a few photos and looked through the time-traveling binoculars that showed both real-time and historical images of the area below.
Then we climbed up the stairs to level 125 and stared out to where the city met the the desert on three sides and the sea on the other.
Back on earth, we hopped on the City Sightseeing Dubai hop-on hop-off bus. Without thinking it through, I insisted we take the “historic” route. I guess I thought we might see some evidence of the city’s former life as a fishing village and hub for the pearl industry, as illustrated in this old Daily Mail article, “Dubai Before the Boom.” We did not. However, we hopped off to visit the gold and spice souks, and then walked along Dubai Creek for a bit, which was interesting. When we were ready to continue the bus tour, we realized the company’s map was woefully uninformative and we couldn’t find the next bus stop. After awhile, we encountered a few others with open maps and perplexed expressions. Eventually, we all sat in the shade to rest, and lucky for us, the bus pulled right up! (For future reference, I’d suggest the Big Bus Dubai company instead, if for no other reason than we saw their marked bus stops all over the place. We never did see a marked stop for City Sightseeing Dubai.)
How’s a girl to choose?
That evening, we hung out with Shanghai friends, Kara and Dave. At their place, we played with their cats, chatted passionately about books with their daughters, gossiped about former colleagues and laughed until almost midnight. Not a good plan when you’re trying to get over jet lag! But super fun nonetheless.
The Coles, the Dents, and Sarah (We didn’t get a photo with Jake! Doh!)
The next day, we blew off Dubai and read by the pool for the entire day (with just a couple breaks to visit nearby cafés). We met up with yet another fabulous family we knew in Shanghai, Robyn and Jeff. It was great to see how happy they are living in Dubai. “You just work, work, work all week, like you always do, and then if you can find time to relax at the weekend, it’s like a holiday resort,” Robyn said.
For our final day in Dubai, Tony and I took Jake’s advice and checked out Dubai Marina, which naturally bills itself as “the most luxurious man-made marina in the world.” It was pretty swanky. Carved from the desert, the 3-kilometer long canal was flooded with water from the Persian Gulf. We walked along the promenade, flanked by everything rich people need: shops, restaurants, apartments and yachts.
It was just a short jaunt to the beach, which was surprisingly clean and user-friendly with showers, toilets and heaps of family-focused diversions. You could go tubing, ride a camel, bounce around on floating inflated “icebergs,” skydive, rent wetsuits for swimming in the chilly water or a lounger for sunbathing, dine at a beachfront restaurant and/or stroll in the surf, collecting little shells. We had a mouth-watering lunch at the Shake Shack (I know, this is something I would mock if someone else said it, but it truly made us so happy!), and then kicked off our shoes to dig our toes into the hot sand. Scrumptious.
In front of the restaurant.
Behind us, you can see construction under way of the future Bluewaters Island, a $1.6 billion (with a B) project that will include retail, residential and entertainment zones, all built on reclaimed land.
That’s the Atlantis Resort on the man-made island, Palm Jumeirah, in the background.
We left Dubai early the next morning, and arrived back in Delhi to find an elephant in our neighborhood, entertaining kids at a birthday party. Never a dull moment!
This is our 15th year living overseas and only the second time we’ve returned to the States for Christmas. Winter break is our longest vacation from school, so we usually want to take that time to check out exotic destinations, explore unfamiliar sites, engage with interesting locals and immerse ourselves in an unfamiliar culture. Well, no need to travel internationally to meet those requirements. We hit the jackpot this year at The Villages, a retirement community that bills itself as “Florida’s Friendliest Hometown.”
My parents recently joined the snowbird set, wintering at The Villages and gushing about their new lifestyle. I wondered, what is all the fuss about?
Well, now I know: fun. The fuss is about lots and lots of fun. First of all, there’s golf galore. You can play at 12 championship courses in The Villages (including ones built by Arnold Palmer and Nancy Lopez) or tee off at countless courses nearby. Not my cup of tea, but it sure keeps a smile on my dad’s face. More up my alley, every golf course has a fantastic club with a restaurant, bar and pool. Just a short golfcart ride up the hill, my parent’s neighborhood club features a fabulous pool with a big waterfall. Ah, resort living! Can’t cope with all that relaxing? There’s literally a group or a class for every imaginable interest you may have. Wood working? Archery? Languages? Check, check, check. The Villages Lifelong Learning College offers fascinating courses and lectures on every topic you can imagine. (I’m truly disappointed to miss the lecture, “Gone With the Wind: Fact versus Fiction in Historical Memory,” which is happening Jan. 14.)
Maybe you just want to meet up with some like-minded people: from your state, college alumni, sports fans, military veterans, former expats, etc. Trust me, they are here. Maybe you’d rather just hang out with your friends and listen to live music. Well, you can do that every single night in any number of venues, including the Spanish Springs village square outside our hotel. We couldn’t believe the crowds that gathered each night to drink, dance and mingle.
One of the most attractive aspects of The Villages to me was the fact that everyone is a transplant. As someone with high “belonging needs” but with no roots anywhere, I appreciate the idea that almost everyone living here came from somewhere else. Nobody is an outsider. The weather’s not too shabby, either.
Mom at one of the village squares: Sumter Landing.
Nico and Paul splash in my parents’ country club pool.
Sunset view from my parents’ backyard.
Golf carting with some cute cargo.
So, I get it. I can totally understand why my parents gush about life down here. It’s a little weird and a little surreal, but I get it.
Tony and I stayed at the Marriott Hotel, just a short golfcart ride from my parents’ neighborhood. (They played host to my sister Kate, her husband and three boys, so it was a full house.) Jetlagged, we crashed early and rose early, so it was nice to return to the quiet hotel and enjoy sunrise walks in the fresh air.
My mom whipped up a delicious Christmas Eve dinner, although Tony and I were so exhausted we could barely stay awake for it. Christmas morning, Nico and Paul excitedly opened their presents, but little Jack flat-out refused. He threw a tantrum when Kate tried to help him rip off the paper. What a goofball!
A pretty Christmas Eve table.
Happy nephews!
Jack doesn’t want to open presents … but Tony does!
A highlight of the morning was opening the presents that Nico and Paul picked out and bought with their own money. They watched with big smiles and wide eyes, waiting for our reactions. I gushed to Nico about my fantastic charm bracelet with blinking Christmas lights, and I promised Paul I would keep my earrings in the little bedazzled orange box he gave me. It’s pretty special to see kids learn the joy of giving.
Our traditional Christmas War was a bust. (See 2012’s blog post for details on how it SHOULD play out.) Only my dad had prepared. The rest of us were sitting ducks. In our defense, Tony and I went to Target to get weapons, but the only Nerf guns they had were $25 each! Arriving in the States just a few days before Christmas, we simply didn’t have time to plan a proper strategy. I don’t know what Kate’s excuse was…
Dad’s sneak attack.
Kate had ammo but no guns. What?!
For New Year’s Eve, we partied octogenarian style! Katie Belle’s, a favorite Villages venue had undergone a facelift, and this was the unveiling – sort of a “soft opening.” The place had apparently been a raucous dance club with a nice perimeter restaurant upstairs overlooking the dance floor. Rumor has it the owners were trying to cash in on the upscale clientele attending shows at the ritzy theater across the square and wanted to create a more refined dining experience, so they remodeled. It really was lovely, and the food was great (lobster and salmon for me, thank you!).
Waiting to get in…
Me, my mom and Bev
However, we had to laugh at the timing. My parents, their friend Beverly, Tony and I joined the crowd outside Katie Belle’s for the 3:30 p.m. seating. The musical act (a sort of karaoke lounge singer, who deftly impersonated singers such as Neil Diamond, Frank Sinatra and Johnny Mathis) kicked off around 5:30. At 6:19 p.m., waiters circulated to fill our champagne glasses, and the singer started a countdown. We all shouted “Happy new year!” and kissed each other as though it were midnight. That was odd enough, but then a huge group joined hands in a circle on the dance floor to sing several patriotic songs, including “God Bless America” and “Proud to be an American.” It was like some strange cult. I told my mom, “I’m afraid they’re going to sacrifice a virgin!” and she said, “Good luck finding a virgin here!” So that was different. By 7 p.m., the lights were blaring and we were ushered out the door. Perfect for a couple of jetlagged only-barely-too-young-to-live-in-the-Villages party animals like Tony and me!
Happy New Year (6 hours early)!
It’s going to be a great year! (The newspaper article referred to The Sharon, a popular venue for theatrical and musical shows, but it was a pretty good headline to kick off 2016!)
Kate’s husband, John, is a saint. He drove with his family from Michigan to Florida, stayed for just a few days, flew back to Michigan to put in a week of work, and then flew back to Florida to drive them all home! The day they left, the Dickinsons and the Dents embarked on a Country Club Crawl. I had joked earlier in the week about having a cocktail at every club in The Villages before leaving Florida. Instead, my dad planned out an abbreviated route that took us to five country clubs. We popped in to each one, had a quick drink on the veranda, and sped off to the next one. My dad, Tony and I split beers or otherwise cheated to stay relatively sober, but my mom discovered the Malibu Bay Breeze and got one at every stop. She may have been a bit sloshed by the time we met their friends Jim and Nancy for dinner (and our last club cocktail).
Stop 1: Evans Prairie
Stop 2: Palmer Legends
Stop 3: Glenview
Stop 4: Hacienda Hills
Stop 5: Nancy Lopez
(We couldn’t remember if this was stop 4 or 5…)
During our two weeks at The Villages, we spent a lot of time eating and chatting, two of my favorite things, but we managed to fit it a few outings.
Mount Dora is a funky small town with oak-lined streets, antique shops and sidewalk cafes with intriguing names such as The Goblin Market and Pisces Rising. After a little rest at the historic Lakeside Inn, we walked to the edge of Lake Dora to board a pontoon boat for a 2-hour eco-tour with Premier Boat Tours.
Mom posing with some residents of the Lakeside Inn lobby.
Dad waiting to board the boat.
We zipped across the lake while listening to a recording about the area’s history and then slowed down for a cruise through the twisting passages of Dora Canal. Parts of the canal were residential; lucky homeowners sit on their back porches to enjoy the wildlife and tranquility among the towering cypress trees draped with Spanish moss (which we learned is neither Spanish nor moss, but rather a relative of the pineapple – crazy!).
However, backyards can be dangerous places. This alligator was sunning herself among some Christmas yard art, while her babies hung out at the nest across the canal.
Our captains shrewdly spotted and identified gators, turtles and all sorts of birds, including my favorite, the anhinga, a ubiquitous canal dweller frequently seen with its wings outstretched on the banks or in a tree. The captains explained that the anhinga dives into the water and swims to catch fish, but it doesn’t have oily feathers like ducks. If it stays underwater too long, it will get waterlogged and drown. After awhile, it has to find a safe spot to stretch out and fan its wings in the breeze until dry enough to resume hunting.
Here’s one drying out on someone’s boat.
On another day, we checked out the Ellie Schiller Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park. From the visitor center, we took a boat ride through cypress-lined canals to the park. There, we encountered all sorts of indigenous species, from birds to foxes.
Ellie Schiller Homosassa Springs Wildlife State park has been a tourist attraction since the early 1900s, when trains stopped to let passengers off to walk the short trail to the first-magnitude spring. The tracks ran alongside what is now Fishbowl Drive. While passengers enjoyed a view of Homosassa Spring and its myriad of fresh and saltwater fish, the train’s crew were busy loading their freight of fish, crabs, cedar and spring water aboard the Mullet Train.
The 50-acre site and surrounding 100 acres was purchased in the 1940s and was operated as a small attraction. In 1964, the Norris Development Company bought the property and expanded it as Homosassa Springs “Nature’s Own Attraction,” with an emphasis on entertainment and with a variety of exotic animals and some native species. Ivan Tors Animal Actors housed their trained animals at Homosassa Springs Attraction for several years. These animals were trained for television shows and movies. When they were not performing they were kept at Homosassa Springs. One of the most popular of these animals was Buck who was stand-in for Gentle Ben in the famous television series. Lu, a hippopotamus, was one of the Ivan Tors animals and still resides at the park after being declared an honorary citizen of the State of Florida by then Governor Lawton Chiles. Norris owned the attraction until 1978.
From 1978 until 1984, the land went through several changes in ownership. The Citrus County Commission purchased the attraction to protect it as an environmentally sensitive area until the State of Florida could purchase the property as a Florida State Park. Modern thinking about captive wildlife has influenced how the park is now managed. Both visitor safety and animal welfare are of utmost importance at Ellie Schiller Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park.
Lu, the hippo referenced above, lives in a tank at the entrance to the park and twice put on a nasty show of projectile pooping, which attracted even nastier vultures looking for a snack. Fortunately, the park warns you to stand clear.
Speaking of poop … we encountered quite a bit during another outing to Uncle Donald’s Farm, a somewhat ghetto petting zoo/working farm not far from my parent’s neighborhood. The boys fed chickens, petted a sheep and rabbits, cuddled (and got scratched by) some farm cats, milked a goat, took a hayride (complete with sloppy cow kisses), ran through a hay maze, and climbed on old farm equipment. It was pricey and not the most polished operation, but the kids had a blast.
Oh, and of course, we went to Star Wars 3-D!
Every family gathering has its share of drama, and we were no different. Still, I felt grateful for every minute with this nutty crew. I only wish the rest of the gang could have been there.
Leaving Delhi Wednesday morning, November 11, the smog was so thick one of the kids in our group asked, “Can the plane really take off in this?” Just an hour later, though, we looked out the plane windows at the snowcapped Himalayas and a sapphire sky.
At Ladakh Sarai, our home for the next few days, we sucked in big breaths of fresh cold air and looked out at the horizon, where mountains rose up to the clouds. “What you see there is called ‘the distance,’” I explained. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been able to see into the distance!”
Tony and I were among 26 people – teachers and their kids – who traveled to Leh for the Diwali long weekend. Leh is the high-desert capital of the Ladakh district in the northern Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir.
The Ryder-Walker Alpine Adventures website explains:
Situated on the western end of the Himalayas, Ladakh has four major mountain ranges – the great Himalayan, Zanskar, Ladakh, and the Karakoram all passing through it. A maze of enormously high snow capped peaks and the largest glaciers outside the polar region dominate the terrain where valley heights range from 800 to 15000 feet with passes up to 20,000 feet and peaks reaching 25, 000 feet can be seen all around. Ladakh is also home to the world’s largest glacier outside the polar region, the Siachen.
Known as “Little Tibet,” Leh definitely reminded me of my trip to Tibet in 2009 (see my Farewell China Tour posts). In fact, I kept forgetting I was in India. The Tibetan influence was evident in the architecture, temples, prayer flags strung from nearly every tall structure, language, and the smiley gentle nature of the people.
Most of us had taken Diamox, a drug for preventing altitude sickness, in the days leading up to our trip. Although my symptoms included a racing heart, tingly fingers and long stretches of lethargy, I didn’t feel the horrifying sensation that my eyeballs were about to explode, as I did in Tibet.
Tony and I were assigned a yurt at the edge of Ladakh Sarai’s property. Inside, pink and green woven cloth draped the bedroom walls, and beige fabric with turquoise polka dots billowed down from the ceiling and attached to the walls about 5 feet from the floor. The double bed was comfortable with a thick, heavy duvet for the chilly nights. A cabinet painted with colorful dragons and traditional designs held another blanket, just in case. A wood-burning stove sat in the middle of the room with a pipe carrying the smoke out a hole in the ceiling.
Entering the Ladakh Sarai camp.
The path to our yurt.
Honey, I’m home!
Looking up.
The “foyer” and entrance to the bathroom.
Home, sweet home.
The first night, we discovered the stove was not at all easy to regulate. It got the room cozy warm, then swelteringly hot, to the point where I had to get up in the middle of the night, strip off my pajamas and go into the adjoining icy cold bathroom for a few minutes. When the fire burned out in the early morning, the room turned frigid. Tony and I had watched the workers light our stove several times, and we thought we were doing exactly the same thing, but our fire simply wouldn’t stay lit. It flared up and then petered out after about 10 minutes. We used about a liter of kerosene and 73 matches, but we finally generated a big enough blaze to warm up the yurt for a couple more hours.
Our yurt overlooked a neighboring farm with terraced fields strewn with straw and a lone black yak. Tibetan prayer flags fluttered from the farmhouse rooftop. The land sloped gently down to a treeline, beyond which the town of Leh nestled in the valley. From our bed, we could watch the morning sun glitter on the snowy mountaintops, turn the barren rocky hillsides a warm gold, and then slowly creep toward us, brightening the valley, then the farm and finally creeping up and over the mud-brick wall to our yurt.
On our first day in Leh, Sarah and I took a quick walk around the camp’s perimeter. Sarah was hoping to pet the yak, but alas, the farmers had constructed a serious blockade.
I loved the contrast of these orange berries against the brown-ness of everything else.
We found a small “mani wall” with prayer stones.
Looking back on our camp, where Kevin and Beth were hanging out in front of the duplexes.
Later, Sarah, Emma, Tony and I started off in search of “the village.” Following the advice of a Ladakh Sarai worker, we exited the gate and turned right to walk uphill. We crossed a metal bridge over a riverbed with only a rivulet of water rushing through. We saw signs of high water and past flooding, though, as well as efforts to contain the banks with blankets of chicken wire and intentional rerouting of the water through a smaller channel down the center of the rocky floor.
We had only walked about 10 minutes when we reached a fork in the road. To the left, a large group of villagers were doing some kind of work with shovels and mounds of soil. We hesitated to walk through them, so we considered taking the road to the right. Sarah asked a man, “Which way is the village?” He pointed toward the workers. “Saboo Village.” Sarah pointed to the other road and asked, “Is there another village?” He laughed and pointed in all directions. “Nothing village,” he said. So we ventured into the crowd.
The workers smiled at us as they shoveled soil into piles on the right side of the road next to a tall wall. At the uphill end of the wall was a small stupa made of mud bricks, topped with a pole and a prayer flag. The workers had clearly just built a reinforcing wall out of mud bricks, about 4 feet high, at the base of the taller wall. Upon closer inspection, we saw the top half of the wall comprised large smooth rocks inscribed with the mantra “om mani padme hum.” The website Dharma-Haven has a nice explanation of that complicated mantra.
We paused to watch them work for a moment, and soon a lady called out to me, “Tea?” At first I declined, but then the whole group stopped working for a tea break, and we decided to join them. They kindly served us cups of chai and crackers for dipping. As soon as everyone finished their tea, they got right back to work. It seemed only fair to pitch in. The ladies grabbed empty rice sacks from a bin, threw them down on the ground and waited for the men to shovel some soil on top. A woman would then pick up either end of the bag and carry it to the far end of the wall to heave the soil onto a big pile. Sarah and I each found a partner and hauled a few bags of soil. “Very good!” one lady said to me after we dumped our load. Everyone sang as they worked, a tune simple enough that we could somewhat follow along, although we didn’t know what we were singing.
As we mingled, Emma took some photos with Sarah’s phone, and Tony chatted with a young man whose foundation had organized this volunteer effort. Sonam Wangchock, founder of the Himalayan Cultural Heritage Foundation, told us village elders say the wall is more than 300 years old. Heavy rains had eroded much of the base, threatening to topple the whole thing. He explained that Buddhists come to pray, making the traditional circumambulation on the path circling the wall. The extra soil was moved off the road to protect it from passing vehicles, he noted. It will be used to make plaster in the spring, when volunteers return to plaster over the mud bricks and finish the work they started on the historical wall.
Back at Ladakh Sarai, everyone was hanging out in the communal building, made up of several connected round rooms – two for dining and two for lounging, as well as a few other small work spaces. The dining rooms had trapezoidal tables painted with lovely Tibetan designs and lined up so everyone could sit on the perimeter benches and face each other. The two lounging areas featured wood-burning stoves in the middle, surrounded by cushions or sofas. Such a comfy spot to play cards or chat while sipping a hot ginger-lemon drink.
Breakfast and lunch were served buffet style from a low stove in the center of the communal yurt. Dinner, on the other hand, was an elegant affair with candles, pleated napkins and metal trays in lieu of plates. The waiters brought course after course of delicious Western and Indian food.
One night, we all sat around a fire outside, roasting marshmallows and playing games.
Day two in Leh, we all piled into vans to visit the Tibetan market in town and Leh Palace. After 15 years in Asia, there’s not much that Tony and I haven’t bought at one time or another. Still, it was fun to poke through the piles of toasty yak wool blankets, cases of silver jewelry, Tibetan handicrafts, and knock-off name-brand bags and clothing. We filed up several flights of stairs for a lunch of soup and momos (dumplings), and then headed to the palace.
According to the book Ladakh – The Complete Guide by Nicholas Eakins, Leh Palace was constructed “using traditional Ladakhi methods, with dried mud-bricks constituting the upper levels, and the lower levels constructed on a natural plinth of stone using rammed earth, stone and timber,” and the walls slope inwards for additional strength. A sign outside the 9-story palace said construction started in 1553 by Tswang Namgyal, founder of the Namgyal Dynasty, to be a miniature version of Potala Palace in Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. At the very top, we could see faded painting, which made me wonder whether the whole place was once brightly painted. Today, it’s mud colored and very cold, dark and dusty. If I were queen back then, I think Tswang would have heard a lot of complaining.
Nyla photobombed our palace pic.
On the morning of day three in Leh, we drove about 45 minutes to a trailhead near the village of Stok. The trail ran alongside a streambed with mountains on either side. Several of us hiked up to the top of a big hill, about four hours round-trip. If we had continued on the path, we could have reached the snowy peak of Stok Kangri, 6123 meters high. That wasn’t going to happen.
Evan and Bernie climbed up a bit further to re-string some fallen prayer flags.
Gorgeous colors on the way back to the vans.
Day four in Leh took us to a couple monasteries, known as gompas.
We drove a long way Hemis Monastery, the largest monastic institution in Ladakh. To get there, we crossed the Indus River on a metal bridge draped with Tibetan prayer flags. Our vans crawled up a switchback road through dormant barley fields and grazing yaks until finally, we turned a corner and found the monastery hidden behind towering sand-colored hills.
Inside, we took off our shoes to enter a temple, where monks were chanting prayers. One monk kept time on a painted vertical drum, and occasionally the others would chime in with a bell, cymbals or a horn. Upstairs, we visited the Kali Devi temple, full of ominous images of the vengeful goddess. We climbed up the roof and enjoyed the vista for a while. Tony and I turned the prayer wheels and then wandered by a small room, where two monks were lighting lamps of ghee. The older monk invited us in and handed Tony a candle to light the lamps. He showed us one huge lamp that apparently burns for a whole month. Later, that same monk did a little laughter therapy/clapping game with others in our group. Outside the monastery building, young monks were busy with chores – fetching water, washing robes, mixing concrete, sweeping, and we realized the “village” clinging to the hillside was really living quarters for the monks.
Photo by Scott.
Photo by Scott.
Photo by Scott.
Leaving the monastery, we paused for a quick splash in the icy Indus River.
From there, we headed to the 15th-century Thiksay Monastery, perched on a hilltop overlooking the river valley. Only two rooms were accessible. The Maitreya Temple featured a 2-story gilded statue, inaugurated in 1980 by the Dalai Lama, and murals depicting scenes from Maitreya’s life. The other open room included many glass boxes with small dolls representing various Buddhist entities. It’s not unusual for temple visitors to leave money or other auspicious gifts, but this room had an unusual collection of bangles and hairclips left as offerings. If you know why, please do tell!
Driving back to camp, we passed through the former Ladakhi capital of Shey, where hundreds of white-washed chortens (stupas) dot the countryside. According to The Rough Guide to India:
Among the more visible expressions of Buddhism in Ladakh are the chess-pawn-shaped chortens at the entrance to villages and monasteries – large hemispherical burial mounds-cum-devotional objects, prominent in Buddhist ritual since the third century BC. Made of mud and stone (now also concrete), they are imbued with mystical powers and symbolic significance: the tall tapering spire, normally divided into 13 sections, represents the soul’s progression towards nirvana, while the sun cradled by the crescent moon at the top stands for the unity of opposites, and the oneness of existence and the universe.
While my heart sank at the thought of leaving Leh, I vowed to return home with a smile. It’s been a week, and that Leh-induced joy lingers. When can we go back?
As we kick off our fifth year in India, I knew it was time to stop avoiding Varanasi.
A key destination for any serious tourist to the subcontinent, this North Indian city dedicated to the god Shiva is also a place of holy pilgrimage for Hindus. They believe a bath in the sacred Ganges River will purify them, and moksha – a kind of salvation or liberation from the cycle of life – comes to those who die here. In fact, the elderly move to state-subsidized ashrams in Varanasi to wait out the last months or years of their lives, walking down the steep steps to the Ganges each day for a sin-absolving dip. The dead burn on funeral pyres along the shore, their ashes swept into the river.
It all sounded a little overwhelming, and frankly, when holidays roll around in New Delhi, I feel the need to escape the chaos. However, we don’t know how much longer we’ll live in India, and there are significant locations I don’t want to miss. Invited to join a group traveling to Varanasi last weekend, I knew it was time to check out one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world.
After a short flight and about an hour in a van, our group of eight teachers reached the Ganges River in Varanasi Saturday afternoon.
We piled into a wooden motor boat and put-putted upstream to our hotel, Suryauday Haveli.
I tried to find some historical information about this beautiful riverfront structure, but every website parrots the blurb on the hotel’s home page (Benaras is another name for Varanasi):
Suryauday Haveli on Shivala Ghats is a reflection of the spirit of the holy city of Benaras. The Haveli traces its history back to the early 20th century. It was built by the Royal Family of Nepal as a retreat for the aged. It’s now been painstakingly put together again to provide the best ghat experience in Benaras.
Ghat refers to the series of steps that lead from the building to the water. Suryauday Haveli is located at Shivala Ghat, which fortunately (and unlike many other ghats), didn’t have too many stairs. It did, however, feature a little herd of waterbuffalo cooling off ears-deep in the holy water. The hotel staff welcomed us with a shower of rose petals from the balcony.
Our rooms all faced the river and opened to a courtyard shaded by trees and decorated with marigold blossoms.
Here’s Sarah, my roomie for the weekend.
After awhile, we met up with former AES teacher, Jill, who started Lotus Foundation here to provide education, health care and job training to children and young adults from the Varanasi slums. On the way to see her school and hostel, we stopped to meet some of the children who benefit. As soon as we climbed out of the auto rickshaws at the banks of the Ganges, children and their mothers approached to meet the strangers and chat with Jill. The little ones immediately engaged us in jumping and clapping, despite the language barrier. We snapped photos and showed them the images, which triggered hysterical giggling. We also visited Jill’s humble school, where up to 20 students receive a free education, and her small hostel, where a few young girls can sleep safely. Her foundation is presently busy with renovations as they prepare to open a guesthouse and restaurant, offering job training to people living in poverty.
Marina plays a clapping game with Radha.
Jill shares a laugh with little Veer.
Showing my photos to the kids was hilarious.
Posing in front of Jill’s school.
The playroom. Kids do most of their learning in another room, sitting on mats.
Badal wrote in Hindi, “I am a doctor.”
At sunset, our hotel offered a complimentary boat ride to see the ceremony at the Dashashwamedh Ghat, the main and most lively ghat on the river. The shore was already crowded with boats when we arrived, so we pulled up alongside them and waited for the ceremony. The nightly aarti – which honors the river goddess – features blowing of a conch shell, incense burning, waving lamps of fire, bell ringing, clapping and chanting. Although we really couldn’t see the action, I always love the energy of people at a religious pilgrimage site, and I often found myself facing the crowd to see their reaction to the aarti. Eventually, our guide, Sanjay, told us to light our offering and drop it into the water. I had hoped to see hundreds of candles floating on the Ganges, but the current quickly swept them away.
The next morning, a few of us met Sanjay again at 5 a.m. for a sunrise cruise. We slowly motored along the quiet shoreline to the Manikarnika Ghat. Although a body lay in wait on the ghat steps, the workers were mainly cleaning up from the previous day, sweeping, stacking wood, sorting through ashes.
According to Lonely Planet,
Manikarnika Ghat, the main burning ghat, is the most auspicious place for a Hindu to be cremated. Dead bodies are handled by outcasts known as doms, and are carried through the alleyways of the old city to the holy Ganges on a bamboo stretcher swathed in cloth. The corpse is doused in the Ganges prior to cremation. Huge piles of firewood are stacked along the top of the ghat; every log is carefully weighed on giant scales so that the price of cremation can be calculated. Each type of wood has its own price, sandalwood being the most expensive. There is an art to using just enough wood to completely incinerate a corpse. You can watch cremations but always show reverence by behaving respectfully.
The early birds were already starting to show up at the bathing ghats.
Stacks of wood fill the building and line the steps at Manikarnika Ghat.
Workers unload wood from a boat.
Boating back to our hotel, we watched the riverbanks come to life. Bathers soaped up their bodies, young men gleefully flipped into the water, and elderly couples stood chin deep while chanting. Ladies in colorful saris ladled water over their babies. Dhobis beat their river-washed laundry on the ghat steps and then put it out to dry in the relentless sun, spread on the steep stone hillsides or hung from railings. Small fires burned at the Harishchandra Ghat, a secondary cremation center near our hotel.
18-year-old Sanjay pilots the boat and shares stories about Varanasi.
Pants drying in the sun.
White sheets spread out on the brick walls were “hospital laundry,” Sanjay said.
It’s no small feat to keep the monkeys off your clean sheets!
Maureen soaks it all up.
After an extended breakfast (with delicious coffee, courtesy of Maureen’s Miracle Coffee Maker), our group headed out for a walk along the river.
More laundry. I just loved it.
A little slice of life at Dashashwamedh Ghat. I was sweating my face off, but those ladies look remarkably cool in their saris.
Sarah and I broke off from the group to check out the Kedareswara Temple, a squat red-and-white striped structure at the top of a long flight of alternating red- and white-painted stairs. I read conflicting and confusing stories about this temple’s history, but here’s one version from the webindia123 website, with a few edits:
Kedareshvara alias Kedareshwar temple, dedicated to Lord Shiva is a river temple situated right on the banks of the Ganga at the top of Kedar Ghat. The stone Shiva lingam is said to have appeared spontaneously and a visit to this temple is believed to give one the fruits of a visit to the great Kedareshvara Temple at Himalayas. Legends has it that a pure hearted devotee of Lord Shiva prayed for a chance to visit the famous Kedareshvara temple in the Himalayas. Pleased by the devotion, instead of bringing him to the mountain, the Lord brought his lingam which is emerged out of a plate of rice and lentils, to the devotee. It is this lingam that can be seen on the rough surface of the natural stone.
The remains of temple offerings. This was the only photo I snapped before I was scolded, “No camera!”
By the time we met up again with the rest of our group at the Man Mahal Palace, we were all soaked in sweat and completely exhausted, depleted by temperatures hovering around 100F and relative humidity at 87 percent.
The palace was built around 1600 by Raja Man Singh, the king of Amber. More than 100 years later, Sawai Jai Singh II added on to the palace’s masonry observatory. According to The Archaeological Survey of India, Sawai Jai Singh II, a great astronomer and founder of the city of Jaipur, installed “instruments for calculating time, preparing lunar and solar calendars and studying the movements, distances, and angles of inclination of the stars, planets and other heavenly bodies.”
We lingered in the palace’s cross breezes, checking out photography exhibits and information about the astronomical observatory. Mark actually lay down on the cool stone floor to watch a looping TV video about the Ganges River.
This sign was part of a Ganges River exhibit in the palace. During our walks and boat rides, we witnessed many of these “prohibited actions.” As Jill said, there’s little hope for the river as long as the city continues to pump it full of sewage, so these unenforced rules hardly matter. Read more in this bleak article from Down to Earth.
Finally, we prepared to leave, and Craig asked a worker how to find the Thatheri Market.
“Up,” the guy answered, gesturing toward some steps.
“We just go up the street?” we probed.
“No, upstairs,” he said. “Observatory.”
Oh, yeah! The whole reason we had paid the Rps 100 ($1.50) admission fee! Clearly, we were dehydrated and not thinking straight.
We climbed the steps to the observatory and checked out the hulking instruments and the fantastic views. (The sun dial’s time was just one minute off from Craig’s phone. Amazing.) This site is one of five masonry observatories constructed by Sawai Jai Singh II, including one in Delhi. They are known as Jantar Mantar, which ASI says is “a corrupt form of Yantra-Mantra, meaning the calculation with the help of instruments.”
Posing with the sun dial and the samrat yantra – aka “the supreme instrument” or, as we dubbed it, “stairs to nowhere.” The samrat yantra was an instrument for telling time and the coordinates of celestial objects.
We climbed around the observatory for awhile and then checked out the nearby market area. After watching this cow steal a potato from a vendor and after searching in vain for a Varanasi magnet for Craig, we took bicycle rickshaws back to our hotel and ordered both Dominos pizza and room service for a huge lunch banquet in Maureen’s room.
Jill met us again later for another aarti. This time, we visited Assi Ghat and watched the ceremony from the shore, sitting on the stone steps close to the action.
Overall, I found the hype about Varanasi to be mostly unfounded.
True, the river was distressingly polluted. But the pilgrims who stepped or leapt into its murky water believed at that moment that it was pure and powerful. We couldn’t help but feel their visceral joy.
True, the weather was oppressive. But we returned each day to a historic hotel with air conditioning, water pressure and dry clothes. Just another reminder of how fortunate we were.
True, there was no avoiding the reality of death (both human and bovine, it turned out). But those who watched their loved ones burn at the river’s edge didn’t cry. In their eyes, this event was a gift: death had brought salvation through the glory of the holy Ganges. That’s a pretty powerful experience to witness. (I don’t know if the same rules applied for the dead water buffalo.)
With so many more adventures to be had in India, I am unlikely to re-visit Varanasi. However, I can honestly say it is a special place, not to be missed.
