The Band's adventures!: Zen at an Ashram, boomerang passports, sleeping in the desert and a cow attack

Duncan finding his zen on the GaOm

Like any traveller we have re-read The Alchemist by Paulo Cohelo and are increasingly looking to omens to guide our decisions. Just making an Ashram a few kilometres up the Ganga from Laxman Jhula, in the northern state of Uttarakhand less than 24 hours after narrowly avoiding deportation (see previous blog) was we thought a very sure omen that we were meant to be there.

But when the first person we met at the Ashram greeted us with “Hi I’m Randy” we wondered just what kind of Ashram we’d signed up for – tantric anyone?

“These two came on the overnight bus from Delhi!”, exclaimed Randy when we turned up six hours early for a one week introduction to Ashram life. It seemed we were the first that they could recall to have taken on the local overnight bus through notoriously bad mountain roads. What he didn’t know was that after countless trips on African and Indian buses, we are now experts at blocking out the terror that affects the uninitiated with insane driving.

Pip on gong duty.

Thrown into spiritual routine

With five months flying by the seat of our pants, we were a little concerned about the rigid timetable of the ashram, which kicked off each day at 5:30am and ended at 9pm.

The Phool Chaati Ashram runs weeklong courses specifically designed to introduce westerners to ashram life. That means no talking, total silence except for during two hours free time after lunch and the following group spiritual discussion.

It also means that before breakfast we had:

Being woken up at 5:30am to the sound of a gong for meditation, where we wrapped ourselves in blankets to try and forget it was less than 5 degrees
Followed by netti outside (which after Varanassi we were ahead of the class with pouring salty water from one nostril and out the other)
Prayanara for an hour or so (breathing techniques)
90 minutes of hatha yoga

Warming ourselves silently at breakfast.

Then a welcome breakfast on the roof in the sunshine, where we’d tried to warm up, sipping chai and a delicious breakfast of fruits and porridge, all in silence.

After breakfast we’d all report (silently of course) for Karma yoga, which basically meant cleaning the ashram – alternate days on bathrooms. Then off on a meditative walk, where we explored surrounding waterfalls, bathed or just wandered the banks of the Ganga in silence and carefully being aware, but not distracted by village life, the birds and the rest of the world.

Then lunch before the much awaited talking time, where we could either chat to our fellow yogis or more often than not the two of us would escape to the banks of the Ganga for some precious rays of sun to warm our core temperature and reflect on the day (or very un-yogi of us, gossip about some of the more colourful characters in our group).

Silence on a break during our meditative walks.

Following our two-hours of talking and free time, was the group spiritual discussion about yoga with Randy, who despite the name was a seriously well read, articulate and interesting guy who made the Ashram understandable to it’s Western clientele. The yoga, prayanama, etc, were lead by Lolita G who was amazing, but having a Westerner made gaining a deeper understanding of the spiritual side of yoga more accessible.

Despite what we’d thought, yoga isn’t just the postures (or as we now call them asanas). Rather there are eight limbs of yoga, one of which is the postures. Our spiritual discussions focussed on yama (social restraints) and niyama (personal observances), which are essentially principles to live your life by and can easily fit in with all major religions and most of which seemed to fit in with our own fundamental view. The hourly group discussions were always interesting, particularly given we were discussing some very deep issues with people that for the rest of the week we lived in silence with in very close confines.

The life of a swami

After spiritual discussion the evening sessions were heading towards our least favourite parts of Ashram life:

- We loved the 90 minute Ashtanga yoga, which was more rigorous than the morning hatha session and by the end of the week we were both amazed at the fact we could not only touch our toes, but do some freaky moves

- Then to temple where we watched the ashrams Swami (spiritual leader) conduct pooja (temple ceremony with lots of bells ringing, fire twirled around various gods and some chanting). The Swami seemed to have a pretty relaxed existence, pooja being the only time we saw him do much more than sit in the sun.

The swami at work

- Then Duncan’s absolute favourite – chanting in Sanskrit (ancient Indian language that hardly any Indians even know) around a fire-pit for an hour or so while banging percussion instruments (this is a sarcastic comment for those who don’t know Duncan’s distaste for singing, but of course he could easily live the life of a rock star! – once again quite un-yogi)

- Following the great sing-along, we had dinner in a big hall cross-legged on the freezing floor, which was always delicious as well as being all you can eat. Signalling what you wanted more or less of was tough without speaking, but by the end of the week we had the hand gestures down and appreciated each mouthful, rather than just our usual chow down technique

- Then evening meditation, before wrapping up the days official program, but could read a ‘spiritual book’ if we liked. Which we did.

All in all they were pretty long and cold days, but by day three we were into the swing of the routine and somehow the week flew by, despite Pip being sick with a tummy bug the entire week and Duncan’s aversion to the group sing along.

Nightly chanting

Kumbaya

Duncan’s dislike of sing-along’s was really put to the test on the last night when instead of evening meditation we made a bonfire on the beach and groups from each country were invited to sing a national song. The six Aussies there couldn’t get it together, so thankfully we missed out on a terrible rendition of ‘give me a home amongst the gum trees’ but still had to hold hands around the fire singing Kumbaya, which a retired couple claimed was a national song of Canada. Pip struggled to keep it together watching Duncan sway hand in hand around a bonfire singing “kumbaya my lord, kumbaya”. Who knew it had so many verses!

The gang after 108 chants... zoom for Numero Uno

108 chants to rid ourselves of previous vices

On the final day we were all asked to wear white clothing for a ceremony where we all sat around a fire chanting the same mantra 108 times, between each one throwing wood offerings into the fire. Duncan wore white pants and a grey t-shirt he’d purchased in a rush in Delhi to replace the one t-shirt he hadn’t lost, but was pretty close to being lost to holes and engrained mud. About repetition 92 of the chant, while reflecting on the selfless act we were performing and removing ego from ourselves, Duncan opened his eyes and glanced down to notice that his new t-shirt (which he previously hadn’t bothered reading) had ‘Numero Uno’ emblazoned across it.

Not quite in the ‘spirit’ of the ceremony of removing ego and made getting back into the meditation a bit difficult for old ‘numero uno’.

Cleansing in the freezing Ganga

Ceremonial bathing

On our first meditative walk, Duncan took the option to bathe in the Ganga, which almost a thousand kilometres upstream from the putrid water we’d seen on the same river at Varanasi looked surprisingly inviting. Most people were put off taking a recreational bathe due to the near freezing conditions, but Duncan and an eccentric banker from Hawaii (who wore only traditional northern Indian clothes and was having a traditional Hindi wedding with his Japanese fiancée the next week) both stripped down to their undies and were at one with nature. Bathing was much more of a logistical challenge for girls, having to be moderately dressed, which really means fully clothed.

Two days later when the group descended on another section of the river with flowers in our hands that we’d carefully picked as an offering for the gods most of the group had come prepared with a change of clothes. Standing on the edge we chanted (no doubt to the amusement of a rafting group that was passing us) and released our flowers, before dunking ourselves in the Ganga three times.

FREEZING, but oh so rejuvenating. In fact the next day Pip packed some shampoo and managed to wash her hair, that was becoming disgusting from being in a beanie 24 hours a day. Preferring the option of drying in the sun on the banks of the Ganga to a cold-water bucket bath in the communal bathroom. Shiny locks, but an instant ice cream headache.

A little older, but a little wiser

We must have matured?

During free time each day we had a chuckle at how funny our eagerness was to live the yogi lifestyle for a week and we both agreed that had we gone to the Ashram at the beginning of our six month adventure, we probably would have been in the wrong headspace, but after some reflecting ourselves on what was discussed during the spiritual discussions, our commitment to sticking to the timetable and our newfound flexibility we concluded that we were great students (or at least that was our reading of the situation).

Perhaps though Pip having to leave yoga in a fit of laughter, after Duncan suggested she check out one of the more unusual moves of a Brazilian lady made us conclude that while we were more zen than ever, we were still the same silly kids that had arrived a week ago. We doubt any length of time at an ashram could change that.

From tranquillity to screaming women and children

Unlike most of our Ashram buddies who were hanging around Laxman Jhula and Rishikesh for a few days, we had a 14 hour train booked that afternoon. As with previous tickets we were waitlisted, but karma had been on our side with things lately so we figured when the charts for the trains were drawn up we’d have a berth in the second-class sleeper carriage.

Vikram's family showing us true Indian hospitality

Perhaps it was Duncan’s Numero Uno t-shirt going against the grain of the ashram, but karma wasn’t on our side. Conscious we were running out of time to see a huge country, we went against the advice of everyone we met and what the guidebooks suggest and purchased two general tickets. A 20^th of the price of our second-class tickets that were refunded, which gave us a good indication of the quality we were in for.

Getting on the train was pure chaos with people crammed everywhere and it was survival of the fittest. Loud speaker announced platform four, whilst the board stated five. Once we located our train, Pip thankfully spotted a spare section of seat and we both jammed our bags under the bench seat and squashed on with five what we would have had to ourselves had we been in second-class.

Typical Rajasthan street scene

General class means every square inch is occupied!

As always the Indians were keen to talk and Vikram, who was the only member of his family to speak English, quickly introduced us to his family who took up the remainder of the compartment. Sadly the family were returning from scattering their father’s ashes in the Ganga who’d passed away two days ago. We were of course sad for Vikram and his family, but in typical Indian style they were making the most of the situation and having a few jokes (mostly at our expense) and demonstrating true Indian hospitality.

While they were exhausted they insisted on looking after us, making sure no one else tried to cram into our section and advising on what food we should buy from vendors and what we shouldn’t. They even insisted we stayed on the train at the Delhi stop while they got off and bought dinner for not only themselves but us, absolutely insisting that we couldn’t pay them back (we plan to send them photos to try and repay the hospitality - as with so many people they have few family photos).

We were SO grateful to have sat with Vikram and his family. Soon our carriage was beyond belief. People were sleeping with four on luggage racks, that weren’t big enough for one. People were standing, sitting and where possible lying in the isle. When Pip desperately needed the toilet, she had to use the hand rails to climb like a monkey along the length of the carriage, only to discover that four people were sitting in the disgusting squatter toilet and due to the crowding outside it couldn’t be vacated for her to use.

Somehow we did manage to get some sleep with our heads on our small backpacks, being woken by people trying to cram onto any inch of seat they saw. Duncan even woke up to find someone trying to sit on his lap.

“The worst experience of my life”

What happened next Duncan still describes as the ‘worst experience of my life’. We got ourselves to the door of our carriage with the usual push and shove, but for some reason the guy in front of us couldn’t open the door so walked through the next cabin. With our heavy packs in our hands (no room to swing them onto our backs) and women and children sleeping on the floor it looked an impossible situation. Duncan managed to lift Pip’s pack onto her back and instructed her to go. Pushing like her life depended on it, but trying to avoid crushing anyone, Pip soon made it onto the platform, to hear a scream come from half-way along the carriage “I’m not going to make it!”.

Pip prepared to jump back on, but thankfully Duncan managed to get off just as the train pulled away, but was pale and unable to speak for a while.

It was surreal that in less than 24 hours we’d gone from a state of bliss at an Ashram in the hills of India to women and children screaming at Duncan as he tried as best he could to lift his 20kg big pack and 10kg small pack at 4am while negotiating sleeping bodies in the aisle. Unsure of whether he trod on anyone, Duncan was mortified and is still recovering from the experience.

Udapuir lake

A Rajasthani Ramble

For the first time in our lives, we decided to more or less follow one of the itineraries in the Lonely Planet and embarked on the ‘Rajasthani Ramble’. India is of course a huge country and with limited time and a desire to also see southern India we wanted to scoot around the main-tourist trail of Rajasthan, before getting down south to finish off our journey with some R&R on the beach.

During our two-week ramble we took in:

Jaipur - the pink city

Jaipur, the Pink city
Ajmer, a Muslim pilgrimage town
Pushkar, a Hindu pilgrimage town (but mostly western tourists from what we could tell)
Udapuir (supposedly India’s most romantic city with the other claim to fame being James Bond Octopussy was filmed there)
Jaisalmer (the desert city near the border of Pakistan)
Jodphur (a magnificent fort and yes the inventers of the horse riding pants).

It was a hectic two weeks where we were on the hop every two days generally on overnight buses, or when we could on trains. India’s train system is fantastic, but it’s near impossible to book sleeper berths less than two months in advance, which isn’t practical if you don’t have a set plan. A sleeper bus in India actually has double or single beds and if you can block out being airborne most of the trip (sleeping pills worked for us) you can get a good nights sleep.

Jaisalmer fort rising from the desert

Attention span for Forts and Temples questionable

Rajasthan is amazing. Mughal history, amazing forts and palaces and so much history that for any Aussie instantly makes your head spin, thinking of giant palaces being built in the 1400’s and the feuding empires. But a fort is a fort and a temple a temple after a while, with a few notable exceptions. In particular we loved Jaisalmer Fort and the city palace and water palaces on the lakes of Udapuir.

The cows were angry that day my friend

Pre-strike

Every Indian asks many questions, mainly “where you from” which depending on whether we are up for a chat we answer truthfully and talk about Ricky Ponting for an hour or say something abstract, like Iceland which is just met with a blank stare giving you a vital second to move on.

“What job you do?”, is generally followed by ‘ how much you earn?’. Both questions Pip avoids like the plague. Where ‘sacred cows’ are more important than a human life, there are no friends to be made by stating you work for the meat industry. While Pip’s job is to promote and defend the beef industry, you really have to know when you are fighting a loosing battle. Slaughtering the holiest of creatures is one such battle, so Pip simply works for Agriculture, unless we are in a Muslim area.

Despite the drama, injury minimal

Someone must have spoken to one group of cows though, because while posing for a photo with a few cows, Pip was suddenly gauged in the hip. Thankfully the cows horn hit the padded backpack strap, but the word is out and now Pip is terrified of the cows that roam every street and beach, where no doubt that while asking each other if they’ve found anything better to eat than rubbish, they also state “that pale girl kills us where she is from”.

“I’m Western boy”

What we love about rural India is that women wear saris and many men wear traditional dress. But in areas that are touristy there are trendy auto-rickshaw drivers that are obsessed by Western culture. Mohamaed, who’d picked us up from our hellish general class train at 4am in Jaipur was one such guy, full of cheesy one liners ‘no money no honey’ he ended up convincing us to take a tour of the sights the next day, where all we heard non-stop was how many western girls he was sleeping with and that “I am Western boy, I dress Western, I talk Western, I screw Western’. Delightful!

Mohamad "If your not hummad the day is" - one
of his many great sayings - alright vegimite.

Go with the flow

“Man go with the flow” seems to have become Duncan’s catch phrase and whenever he is having a moment of tension, Pip pikes up with the same slogan. So we go with the flow. This has meant more than one tailored suit for Duncan, neither of which looked as desired, but has also wielded more magical moments.

After a day of fairly average sightseeing around Jaipur, due to nothing being open (despite Mohamads insistence it would be when we agreed to tour with him the previous day) we were both drained, but decided to head back to the main drag and try and access a roof somewhere for sunset.

In typical Indian style we met one guy at a temple who pointed us to the next building and said just climb up. What greeted us at the top was magnificent. Thousands and thousands of kites flying across the ‘pink city’ from roof tops. In India you are never truly alone, someone is always watching you and soon we had a friend who explained that the kite festival was only a few weeks away so everyone was practicing. The aim being to battle another kite and cut their string. The scene was pure magic and when he suggested we go to his silver shop we ‘took the omen’ and went along.

Pip, a terrible shopper, at first dismissed what was in the store, but after some chai with the owner and an hour or so of looking at various items we purchased some beautiful bangles and earrings with the guarantee they were 99 percent silver. For the price they had better be, but either way a typical day of India pissing you off, only to do a 180 and make you marvel at the hospitality and lovely nature of the people. Yes many try and scam you, but once you catch them out they give up give you the famous head wobble, generally they just want to be your friend. Despite the problems of systemic corruption and in areas caste and religious tensions, the developed world could learn a lot from the Indian open heart and community spirit.

Into the dunes we go....

One hump in the sand dunes

Only one hump, but a camel none the less. We met our two camel safari buddies, Ben and Papoo, the night before departure and despite them being ten years our junior we knew we were onto a winner and the four of us had a blast roaming the desert, sleeping under the stars and philosophising after too much rum at sunset.

Camels are crazy creatures, whose movement getting up and down is so unnatural, but fun to be on top of. Despite visions of riding through sand dunes for days, we generally travelled across seri-arid landscapes and then ended at a dune where we camped each night with our guide and his twelve-year-old brother in law. Our 26-year-old guide hadn’t yet met his future wife, but was excited that next year she would be 16 and they’d be married. His wife had been ‘reserved’ for him since she was 14 and her brother appeared to be part of the deal.

Building the fire for our nights camp

“Excuse me Sir someone is on the phone for you”

Despite our best plans to be on the coast on the 30^th to get into the groove for a relaxed New Years on the coast, Air India and the infamous Delhi fog had other ideas. Turning up for the first of our three over overpriced flights to criss-cross our way down to the southern state of Kerala was quickly dashed when the man at check in wobbled his head asking ‘you didn’t get text message? All flights to Delhi cancelled’.

Debating cricket, rather than remembering our passports

“Go with the flow”, so we managed to book on a flight from Delhi the next day that would get us to Kerala at 2am on the 1^st of January. But we had to now find a bus to get us to Delhi for the next evening. Of course this proved a challenge, but after several failed attempts we had a bus booked and just five hours to fill in.

With all our bags and the bus company refusing to look after them, we settled in to a restaurant and enjoyed a few beers (turns out they were 9%!) before deciding to go and look at the antique shops on the outskirts of town, where we lost track of time.

Perhaps dressing up in traditional dress
helped our karma 'boomerang passports'?

Running into the restaurant, we grabbed our bags and raced to the bus station and climbed into the security of our little sleeper cocoon and were chatting away when there was a knock at our door. “Excuse me sir someone is on the phone for you”. Bizarre that anyone could contact us via a bus driver, but what Pip soon learnt was that Duncan had given our passports to the restaurant so they could mind our bags.

Karma again on our side, the bus driver simply did a lap around the city and we picked up our passports. “No payment sir, but Ganesh might like some money”. No problem, for our passports to have boomeranged back to us without us even knowing they were gone, we were more than happy to make a small donation to one of our favourite Hindi gods!

Christmas and New Years