Asian Tour to 2000

India: Panjim, Goa, Delhi, Shimla, Dharamsala, Corbett National Park, Kama Sutra Temples
Thailand: Bangkok
Malaysia: Penang
Indonesia: Sumatra, Nais Island, Yogyakarta, Bali, Java
Laos: Luang Prabang, Vang Vieng, 4,000 Islands

26 March 1999
Panjim, India

I'm sitting on a bed, in the top floor room of a funky, friendly guest house, windows wide open, staring at the sea and fishing boats of Goa. The sun is hot, the wind is blowing, and life is good.

We arrived two days ago after the longest busride from Bombay. We were supposed to have a sleeper bus but, as usual, nothing goes according to plan in this country. As Gary would say, "something always is wrong." (Remember that phrase, I'll be using it a lot in the next few months, I'm certain!) So, we waited and waited on the broiling sidewalk of downtown Bombay for a bus that never came and were finally ushered into a broken-down regular bus and told we'd only be taking it to catch up to the sleeper bus. We drove across town, crammed into the front seat with all our belongings, and once safely away from any other bus possibility, the drivers told us this, in fact, was the bus we'd be taking the entire 15-hour ride to Goa. Perfect. We paid for a sleeper bus but getting a refund here is not just improbable, it is more like impossible, so, we resigned ourselves to the situation and settled in for the long, bumpy ride. OK, we could deal with the shock absorber-starved bus but we didn't count on the British guys across from us having intestinal problems-serious intestinal problems. If they weren't begging the driver to pull over for a brief stop, they were filling the air with more than pleasant conversation. And they weren't just blowing hot air or letting off steam either--it was bad, girls, bad! Gary and I kept the window open the whole way, our heads nearly hanging out of it, and never slept. Ah, India. So good to be back!

To backtrack a little, getting to Bombay was at the opposite extreme. We flew first class, thanks to our friend, Philippe, who works as a flight attendant for Air France. We drank champagne, ate gourmet food, and watched movies on our own private screens--ooh la la! It was wonderful but, actually, probably not the best way to prepare yourself for India, and especially Bombay. To make maters worse, we hung out with Philippe at his hotel-the Oberoi Towers, where the Air France crew stays. It is a beautiful, five star hotel with marble floors and a sweeping view of the Arabian Sea. Sitting atop the roof garden, next to the pool, overlooking the city and sea, Bombay seems so chic, cosmopolitan, even cool. But step into the streets and it's a whole different scene; the sites, the sounds, the smells, the feelings change--and change dramatically.

Like most Asian cities, Bombay is chaos. It is terribly polluted, noisy, overcrowded, and uncharming (is that a word?). The worst of India can be found here: The streets are filled with the homeless and filthy, the office buildings with the unfeeling and corrupt. Nestled here and there you can find patches of splendor--remnants from the past that still shine, such as Victoria Station, which is an architectural dream--but now all around it and the other elegant, aging buildings are shanty towns, vendor stalls, makeshift outdoor restaurants, and cots for the homeless. Trash, stray kids, and stray dogs inhabit the same spaces. Piles upon piles of ill-constructed, assorted crap--plastic belts, cheap watches, fake designer clothes, carved statuettes, bongo drums--are stacked on blankets and folding tables that line the sidewalks and barricade the buildings. Traversing a city block is walking the gauntlet, where you are hit from all sides with "good price" and "best quality" from vendors as they thrust peeling metal bangles in your face and tell you it?s silver with the typical twist of the head (a nod that simultaneously looks like "yes" and "no," which should tell you something about what they're selling!). Others grab your arms, attempting to steer you toward their cab, and those with shops beckon with a wave and nod. A tiny tap or tug on your leg is that of a tinier girl in tattered dress, dirty face, motioning hand to mouth that she wants to eat. Dogs don't even try to enter the fray-they lay by the gutters, dead from the heat, and lick their wounds.

Vegetable and fruit stands are scattered here and there, incense burning amidst the raw food to keep the flies away. Vendors fry fish and samosas in woks full of dirty oil literally situated on the street. Juice shops appear at nearly every corner--some of which offer the best fresh juice and milkshakes you can imagine--and cheap! Fifteen rupees for watermelon juice (that's about 35 cents) and 35 rupees for a fresh strawberry milkshake. This is the paradox of cities like Bombay--the best and worst live together side by side and it is up to the individual to figure out which is which, what is an unexpected delicacy and what is a trip to the emergency room. As Gary says, Bombay is a city of fierce contrasts. While one is living in the palatial setting of the Oberoi, rubbing elbows with the movie stars of "Bollywood" (Bombay's nickname because it is the center of India's film industry), another is outside, huddled in a blanket on the dusty sidewalk, mingling with rats and jungle crow.

We spent two days in Bombay with Philippe, walking the streets and snapping photos. We met some interesting characters and saw plenty to feast the eyes: great billboards of turbaned, shifty-eyed men running for local election (Gary and Philippe are pictured right--add a couple of turbans and I think they could run too, don't you?); an old gardener busily pruning the trees and bushes of an extraordinary garden situated on an island in the middle of a busy intersection who stopped to give me a flower as we passed; three men selling newspapers and magazines on the sidewalk on our way to Victoria Station--men who've been sitting in this same spot, selling these same publications, and having the same conversations for dozens of years; a man getting a shave on the sidewalk, in the middle of the city, under a tree; and, a "dobi ghat" (an Indian laundry)--a massive enterprise that services the 15 million-person population of Bombay--located about five train stops from downtown, which we walked through. Everything at the dobi ghat is done the old fashioned way, manually, with muscle and might--no Maytags here! The sheer volume of clothes is overwhelming and how they keep track of what belongs to who, I can't imagine. Clothes drying on the rooftops like flags and in the streets, vats of brightly colored dies, heavy, coal-filled irons pressed by equally sturdy men from the old school, young boys pushing wheel barrels full of wet garments through the narrow, slippery aisles while others spin them dry in a foot-pedaled spin cylinder while yet others bang them methodically on the concrete, cleaning the dirt--it's an amazing city within the city.

We met many children, too. These little girls inhabited the street where we waited for our bus to Goa. Already working very hard, the oldest couldn't have been more than six. They were so curious about me and because we couldn't communicate very well, I tried my best to imagine what they were thinking. I tried, too, to imagine what was in store for them, hoping something better could happen in their lives. But I know nothing better will happen. For girls of the lower castes in India there is no out. You are born on the street and you die on the street with only hard work and peril in between. There is no way out other than prostitution. You can't go get a job (there aren't any--especially for poor, uneducated girls), can't go to school, and can't marry up (I suppose there is a remote chance that you could, but it is so unlikely that I say it's impossible). Yet, these girls do find some joy in their life. They laugh and play with some newborn puppies. They eat candy we offer and giggle. They flick marbles in the dirt, just like any other kid in any other place. But then it's back to work. Not much time to be a kid here. Oh, how I'd love to send some American brats here for a week and see how much they are whining about how there's so much injustice in the U.S. by the end of their stay. I say they'd be singing "God Bless America" and waving the flag all the way home, vowing to never take their education and abundant opportunities for granted again. For, in America you really can be anything you want to be and in countries like India, for people like these girls, that concept, which we all take for granted, is something out of a fairy tale.

After Bombay and the bizarre busride, we landed in Panjim--an old Portuguese fishing village that remains utterly charming and quaint. It's an entirely different vibe here from Bombay and, frankly, this is why we come to India and the Third World. The old Mediterranean architecture with its brightly painted walls and red tiled roofs is refreshing and so picturesque against the backdrop of the Mandovi River, filled with ferries and fishing boats. The river leads out to the Indian Ocean and in toward the darling town of Old Goa, where the first Portuguese explorers set up camp about 500 years ago. Today the area is home to roughly 90, 500 people, who are primarily Catholic--a leftover influence of the European colonizers. [In my opinion, the Catholic religion has had a very positive effect for women here, as you see more of them in business than in any other region and they seem to be much freer in society. The education for both boys and girls is also very good--this goes for all of Goa and Southern India in general.] There is a lovely cathedral at one end of Panjim, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, built in 1541. It looks like a typical Spanish Catholic church, white-washed and pristine, and if you didn't know any better, landing here in front of it you would probably think you were in Mexico.

The town of Panjim is full of color and vibrance. The sun and the sea make such a huge difference to peoples' perspectives on life--it's amazing! The markets--outdoor and bustling--are filled with resplendent mounds of spice and dye, fragrant flowers strung in gorgeous patterns for adorning the hair and Hindu shrines, shining eggplants and tomatoes, overflowing baskets of leafy cilantro and green grapes, mangoes, papaya, pineapple--and watermelon stacked to the ceiling--fresh fish, whole and filleted, prawns, calamari, beef, and live chickens. Everything for a feast can be found here and for next to nothing. A kilo of shrimp is 50 rupees (about $1.10) and three tuna steaks are 20 rupees (50 cents). It's all fresh from the sea and local farms and is genuinely delicious.

After checking in at our favorite guest house, The Republica (where we rent the largest, river-view room for 300 rupees or $7/night), we headed straight for the market. Once there, we snapped lots of photos and talked with the merchants, who are friendly and smiling--especially when they see their picture on my digital camera! I ask to photograph some women who are stringing some beautiful flower bands, they agree, and then place a lovely flower wreath in my hair--with white tuberose and peach bogenvillia, touched off by the green stems--the colors of the Indian flag. It's very cute and smells simply divine!

We meander throughout the various vendors and stalls and finally work our way back through town to our room. We wash up and return outside to eat, finding an awesome restaurant called Casa Moderna where we literally inhale mushrooms chilly (sautéed with spices, peppers, and onions--just to die for!), chicken tikka (boneless chicken breast cooked in a tandoori oven), prawns masala (spicy sautéed tiger prawns), biryani rice, and naan. It's food fit for a king. We order more mushrooms, a beer, and two glasses of port and leave like happy seals, full and barking--arhh, arhh! And our wallets are still full too--the entire meal, drinks and all, cost a whopping five bucks. This is also, frankly, why we come to India and the Third World.

Tonite will be our last in Panjim. Tomorrow we head to the beaches of Vagator and Anjuna, about 45 minutes northwest. Our boogie boards and bathing suits are ready and waiting. Can't wait to feel that glorious Indian Ocean again...

d

9 April 1999
Vagator Beach
North Goa
South India

Eurotrash: half-naked, pierced and dyed--posing, smoking, showing how "indie" they are, how freaky, howfuckingcool--flock here. They ride Enfields through coconut jungles, linger over pulpy-sweet mango juice in outdoor, bamboo-constructed cafes, smoke hand-rolled cigarettes (legal and il-), discuss their "hardcore" travel adventures, and mock their working stiff friends back at home. They come to scope the babes, they come to scope Mother Earth. They come for the first time or the fortieth, each grasping at no-holds-barred, attainable and instant freedom according to a fading rumor that this is the place, man, to find it.

And just where is this place? For all the posing and dreaming, it could be Hollywood, Miami, or Newport Beach, for that matter. But the here I'm speaking of is Goa, the beach state of Southern India. And to be fair to the Eurotrash, it is damn cool.

Goa is the original debarkation point for hippies and anarchists of the 60s and 70s who came en masse to drop out, tune in, and turn on. Back then, India was THE Mecca of hipdom. The Beatles came here for some existential self-realization and transcendental meditation, to hang out with swamis and jam with Ravi Shankar. Sensing a trend and smelling good herb, the Stones and love children soon followed and the mass pilgrimage began. A thriving community of ex-patriots and social drop-outs formed in Anjuna, where the living was free and pot and LSD abounded (and, apparently, still do). From there the word and wanderers spread, north to Vagator and south to Benaulim, sprouting organic food restaurants and tie dye shops along the way. And, it's no big mystery why the anti-establishment set settled here: Goa is the ideal locale for flower people and punks.

Simply put, Goa is gorgeous--and cheap. It's unrestrictive and unrestricting. It's a tropical wonderland, set in a palm and mango tree-lined coast that butts against the sprawling white sand beaches and warm buoyant waters of the Indian Ocean. Remnants of the Portuguese occupation of the1500s peek out here and there from jungle thickets-ancient battlements, crumbling castles, white-washed crosses erected on rocks in the sea to protect sailors and fishermen--adding a Renaissance dimension to the otherwise Indian tradition-steeped townships. Palm thatching and red tiled adobe huts prevail near the seaside while large, expansive-porch-endowed homes (the kind you picture on the sweeping prairies of Middle America) fill the outskirts. They are slightly decrepit now, in need of paint and half-consumed by the jungle, but that is precisely their allure: half-savage, like the hippie- types who rent them. Brilliant bougainvillea, plumeria, hibiscus, and succulent viney flowers of all varieties twist and wind in and around the homes and cafes, mingling with banyan trees, whose roots and branches extend aggressively, swallowing every acre of unoccupied earth possible. Palms tower high overhead, forming a giant green umbrella slitted slightly to let light stream through to the villages below in diagonal, dancing shafts. Lazy cats and dozing dogs lounge on fences and gates, up and away from bugs and menacing strangers--like us camera-toting, meandering fools! Cows meander too--along the roads and beaches--while their their counterparts, the water buffalo, submerge all day in swamps and streams and serve as living islands to their cohorts in crime, the white egrets, who perch on their crescent-horned heads.

In all the beach towns of Goa the cafes, general stores, and guest houses meld with the environment. Most are half-open, some are completely outdoor and part of the jungle or beach, and all are ridiculously affordable. Places like the Moondance Cafe in Vagator--completely outdoor with bamboo awning--feature excellent Thai and Indian food, fresh fish and tandoori for about $2 a meal. And like good food, rooms can be found everywhere for pennies. In the bigger homes, singles rent for about 50 rupees or roughly $1 per day. Those who come to Goa for the entire season (six months, October to April) usually rent houses because they have kitchens and ample living space, even though they are a mile or two from the beach. (But that is no real problem, as you can rent Enfield motorcycles or scooters for less than $5 per day and drive anywhere.) At the beach, guest houses rent small rooms with attached bathroom for about 200 rupees or $5 per day. If you rent monthly, however, you can negotiate a cheaper rate. (Our double room, within spitting distance of the sea, was 200 rupees.) Of course, if you want to spend the big bucks, there are five star resorts from Cavelossim to Vagator, including the Taj Holiday Resort in Fort Aguada, the Four Seasons in Cavelossim, and the Sterling Holiday Homes in Vagator. You can typically rent a/c cottages in these resorts for 3,000 rupees or $90 per day--still a bargain for five star digs. But, if I were you, I'd take the $5 room at the beach and stay an extra 20 days for each you could spend at the resort. Your bed may be harder and you may share space with a gecko or two but, after all, you're there for the sand, the sun, and the scenery anyway. Besides, you can tell your friends back home what a "hardcore traveler" you are (gag).

We stayed in Vagator, properly known as Vagator and Chapora, as it's really two beaches, or a beach and a fishing village to be completely anal about the details. Vagator is a windblown and palmy broad beach, accentuated by black lava rock stepping stones that lead into the sea and a 500-year-old Portuguese fort that overlooks it. In between are white sands, coconut groves, red clay soil, guest houses, people, and cows. The rocks form separate little beaches that come and go with the tide, which allow a little privacy away from the other tourists and vendors. But you can never elude the cows, as they roam everywhere and lackadaisically make their daily rounds from the grass and ripe fruit on one end of the beach to the grass and ripe fruit on the other. It's rather startling at first to encounter a cow when you're sunbathing. You're half-dreaming, eyes closed, baking in the balmy heat when a large shadow suddenly obscures your sun. Peeved, you look up to tell the umpteenth vendor selling bongo drums that you don't want any and to please go away, but instead of a half-smiling, canvas-beating Indian, you are confronted with a pair of big browns with an even bigger pair of horns. "So sorry, am I in your way?" you scramble, as the cow clearly owns the place--not you.

But, in time, the cows become welcome beach pals and it's kinda fun to have two or three just come and plop down next to you, the most natural thing in the world, and have a rest alongside. They calmly gaze around and at you in your bikini while chewing their cud and thinking cow thoughts. I'm sure they're wondering what we're doing on their beach and congratulating themselves for being so tolerant. They're probably also pondering their good fortune at being cows in India--arguably, they have the best life of anyone born here.

Just north of Vagator is the town of Chapora. It is a fishing village in a bay, on the other side of the hill that features the old Portuguese Fort, aptly called: Fort Chapora. The town is accessible either by hiking the rocks at the far end of Vagator or, much more easily, by road through the jungle. We rode our rented moto over several times because after our initial visit, we were smitten.There's just something about fishing villages in general that, to me, is extremely romantic and picturesque. Fishing is such an ancient and noble tradition, one that usually defines and binds families for centuries upon centuries. There aren't many trades like that. There's also something incredibly free about fishermen. Though they are working and working very hard, they are not in an office or noosed by a tie. They are outdoors, in the glorious ocean, battling the elements, and the luckier they are and harder they work, the greater their reward. It's a nice arrangement, I think: honest, independent, and real.

Chapora has all the elements of a classic fishing village: plenty of salty fishermen in and out of the water telling tales and colorful women by the roadside haggling and hocking fish; brightly-painted fishing boats coming and going, docked at the pier or beached for repairs; flags and crosses everywhere conveying loyalty and pride, prayers and thanks for bounty and protection; seafoam green fishing nets unfurled on lawns and beaches and draped over clothes lines; small bait and tackle shops where you can meet breathing tide charts; kids playing among the dry-docked boats, frolicking in the water and watching for their dads to come back from the sea with dinner and stories. And perhaps Chapora has even more than your average fishing town because it also has the jungle. It's downright dark in the heart of this small village, for all the trees, not to mention enchanting and green. The handful of cafes and shops, as well as homes and guest houses are snuggled in and tucked under the foliage--a jungle gnome kind of setting, if you can imagine that. Just as the fishermen co-exist with nature at sea, they co-exist with nature on land, simply trading salt water for tropical forest, blue for green.

Like Vagator, there are many guest homes in Chapora and very inexpensive. There is also a tiny but good used bookstore that sells daily newspapers, which you can't get in Vagator or Anjuna. There?s an excellent fresh juice bar and a large Hindu temple. Houses are situated along the bay, which horseshoes around south to Vagator and north to the town of Siolim and boasts breathtaking sunsets all the way. Cows inhabit Chapora too, as do lots and lots of happy kids. We met one such kid named Vic. He's ten and his father is a fisherman. That's what he will be, too, when he grows up, he told me proudly. He showed us all around the beach and his favorite swimming hole and even let us take his picture--just a doll, let me tell you! And what a cool life for a kid. I told you before, India is the land of contrasts and nothing could be a bolder one than the comparison of the life of a kid in Chapora to the life of a kid in the city. In fact, Chapora kids have a pretty great life for any country. By monetary standards they may be poor but if you showed them a video of the life of an average kid in any major city in Europe or the States, surrounded by concrete and steel, eating at McDonald's, while they're swimming in the ocean every day, running free on the beaches and in the jungle, eating fresh seafood, I'm pretty sure they'd think it was the city dweller who was impoverished. Me, too.

So, as you can tell, we loved Vagator and Chapora. And I guess I've even begun to think higher of the hippies and Eurotrash--they did find a cool spot to hang out. But, as somebody once said, all good things must come to an end. We packed up and shuffled along on the 4th, catching a sleeper bus to Bombay (15 hours). We then boarded a train about seven hours after arriving in Bombay, taking the slow "Punjabi Mail" to New Delhi for another 27 hours. Now, that's hardcore traveling, babes!

We're currently in New Delhi, staying in the Main Bazaar and having an amazingly good time so far. In A few days we start the Himalayan trek to places unknown (to us, that is); to see beasts and bodies and glorious mountains, dirty rivers that are sacred and clean ones that are not; to visit the holiest sites of the Buddhists (Dharmasala and Bodhgaya) and the Hindu (Varanasi) and tiger worshippers (Corbett National Park), like us!

As I travel here again I am overwhelmed by how much there is to see and do in this world and by how different our lives are by the random fact of where we are born and when. Clearly it is arbitrary yet profound and something utterly out of our control. The main point--if there is one--it occurs to me, is to see and learn as much as you can and realize that we're all in this life together with no one being of greater or lesser value than anyone else. There's so much we can teach each other and so much joy tobe had, if only we each get over our particular grinds and obstacles, reach out, and open our fists and eyes.

Peace.

d

14 April 1999
New Delhi, Old India

Train in Vain... Took the train to Delhi, enduring a 27 hour ride in second class in 100 degree heat, managed our way late at night to find a guest house, weaving and winding our way between street vendors, street fires, sleeping babies and bovines, screeching, honking rickshaws and screeching, honking rickshaw drivers. We safely landed in a clean room with a working fan and, more importantly, a cold shower, and felt vanquished--we'd made it! After a 15 hour bus ride, an afternoon in Bombay, and a full day and part of the next on a train--all with virtually no sleep--we thought we'd endured the worst India had to throw our way and won. "Is that the best you can do?" we scoffed, polishing our knuckles on our swelling chests. We felt so good about ourselves we decided to take in a museum. A little culture, a little Indian history, we were thinking. How sweet, how refined, how utterly calm for such seasoned travelers such as ourselves... A mere 40 minutes later we were running frantically across railroad tracks to a local medical clinic and 10 minutes after that, were in an ambulance en route to a bigger government hospital. Okay, India, we give--you win!

What happened was this: We were having a pleasant time strolling through the Rail Transport Museum, which details India's rich locomotive history and houses retired steam engines from the glory days of railroad engineering here. We had just toured the inner museum where they give the history of the British-built railway system and display model trains, cool rail company emblems, old whistles, badges, and tickets, antique furniture, and vintage photographs (such as the shot of Mahatma Gandhi debarking one of the many trains he used to meet and greet the masses). Nice and interesting, we thought. But it was the steam trains themselves we were there to see, so outside we went. We began touring the giant yard full of bright green, blue, red, and yellow-painted steam engines and rail cars. Finding them more than picturesque, we began climbing on and around for pictures, of course! Snapping and giggling we had not a care in the world. We felt like kids in a giant play pen--a football field full of huge model trains, shiny and alluring, all set out neatly for us to play with! Just as we were on our last train, ready to head back toward the entrance for a Pepsi (because, though exploring the trains was fun it was a sweltering 10 degrees or so and we were parched to say the least), we went for one last "money shot." Okay, I'm digressing here a little but earlier in the day we had a really bad breakfast. Gary's constant motto is that if your breakfast sucks, the rest of your day will too. And he proved more than prophetic on this particular occasion. Just as I was ready to snap the Nikon and capture the epic "Gary as Indiana Jones" moment, Gary slipped out of position on the train he was straddling and came crashing down on his arm. Unfortunately his underarm landed squarely on a razor-sharp piece of fencing that sliced him nearly to the bone. I took one look and knew he needed stitches. Then an Indian came up, took a look, and started screaming: "hospital, hospital, hospital!" When you hear an Indian scream: "hospital" it's bad; "hospital, hospital" is definitely worse; but "hospital, hospital, hospital!" means you're in really deep shit. Luckily, we were within walking distance of a small clinic. The same screaming Indian led us quickly out the back way of the rail yard, through a little shanty town, up a bank, and viola: the clinic. There they examined Gary's wound, had me sign a paper, and loaded us into an ambulance for the main government hospital across town. [So, now we can add another kind of transportation experience to our list: Indian ambulance. And, how many people can boast that, I ask? I dare those "hardcore travelers" in Goa to top that one!]

Okay, this is my second hospital in India--last year it was me who had to go, this year it was Gary's lucky turn--but still, nothing really prepares you for what you find there and, especially not at a big public hospital in one of India's largest cities.

Though the doctors are dedicated, brave, and highly capable people, hospitals here are disaster zones. We were at Safdarjang Hospital in the "chic" side of New Delhi, very near the capital. But I could have sworn that the ambulance driver missed a turn and drove straight to Belgrade--the place could not have been more disheveled if a bomb had just been dropped: Dirt everywhere, broken windows, splintered furniture, abandoned rooms, blood-stained gurneys, leaking faucets dripping polluted water into rusted-out sinks, mosquitoes, ants, and flies buzzing, crawling, feeding, and circling. Casualties and bandaged patients strewn about the lawn (and I use the term "lawn" generously) in front, while others huddled under stairways and around the dusty, litter-filled grounds.

We were ushered into a little room where a guy sterilized Gary's wound with some Betadine, wrapped a bandage around it, and told us to go to the burn ward where they would stitch it. Finding this place was no piece of cake. We meandered through the entire hospital--in and out of doors--our mouths agape at the conditions people were living (or dying) in. There was virtually no staff anywhere, except for old security guards who were guarding no one and nothing. Red pan spit stained the walls near all the doorways and desperate mothers, sisters, brothers, and fathers wrung their hands, paced, and looked wide-eyed and stunned as if they had just seen the Grim Reaper himself.

In another building, with the help of a friendly orderly, we finally found the place we were looking for. And had it not been for the orderly's guidance, we would never have fathomed this could be the correct place. It seemed utterly abandoned and, again, recently bombed. Down a dark, dingy hallway we met with a very nice doctor who was busy diagnosing other patients also in need of stitches. He was accompanied by two nurses who sat at a desk and stared at a phone, which never rang. They neither assisted him, the patients, nor us. Clearly, they were there for the phone and only the phone and spent their days in a room about 8' X 12' staring at it and each other.

Several doctors came to examine Gary and then led us back toward the operating room. They were clearly competent but the operating room was more than frightening. No white paint, no clean sheets, no high tech lighting--just a table for Gary to lie on covered in leather that was stained with blood and God knows what and no sink for washing their hands in sight. I made the doctor promise to use a new needle and then Gary disappeared.

I was worried but, to be honest, the reason why I began pacing back and forth like a caged rat was to get away from the mosquitoes, who were trying to eat me alive. However, when the chief surgeon saw me, he took it upon himself to calm me down. He told me all about the hospital and how overworked and underfunded it is. That, to me, was already abundantly clear. He said that in that particular ward, they are getting about 15 new patients a day--mostly burns of women due to "dowry deaths." Dowry deaths happen to low caste women who are doused with kerosene by their husbands and mother-in-laws who want them dead so the husband can marry another woman to get more dowry money. It is beyond sick and is a staggeringly common occurrence here. Since 1996 there have been an average of 839 such deaths reported each year. And, for the women who end up at the hospital, burned over 80 percent of their body but not dead, there are no statistics. So, imagine that the number of murders and attempted murders must be much, much greater.

I have read a lot about this "custom" and know that it is a major reason why Mahatma Gandhi so desperately wanted to do away with the caste and dowry system. For, under the dowry system, the birth of a girl is a curse to a poor family, as well as a curse to the girl herself. Because the parents of daughters must pay dowry to the husband's family when she marries, many peasants kill their daughters at birth because they simply can't afford them. One recent report said the occurrence in the countryside, where people are the poorest of the poor, is so common that every family has at least two cases of female infanticide within it--that's TWO GIRLS, PER FAMILY. And even for those who can pay dowry, often it is not enough for greedy mother-in-laws and husbands. They harass the wife, beat and threaten her for money, and if she cannot come up with it, they set her ablaze. Makes Cinderella look like a wimp for whining about scrubbing the floor, doesn't it? What's worse, the prosecution of such crimes is very slow and inadequate. The rare husbands who are convicted get a maximum of eight years in jail and mother-in-laws more often than not get off completely.

As the doctor and I were discussing the problem, a woman burned from face to toe, came in. She was wheeled into I.C.U. and the doctor just looked at me blankly as he readied himself to follow. The beginning of another long night.

Why am I telling you these grim tales? Because we strong, empowered grrrls need to know what's going on in the rest of the world. I don't know what we can do about it but I do know that knowledge is power and it's a step toward finding a solution. (By the way, an excellent book on this subject is "May You Be the Mother of a Hundred Sons.") It is also an invaluable gift for us to realize how lucky we are and that we MUST make the most of our very privileged lives. So, do good, grrrls! I have total faith in you.

Addendum: The end of this chapter is that Gary is fine and today we visited the hospital again and got the A-OK from all the docs. The next two days are holidays here so I promise only upbeat news next time. Until then, R.E.I. (maximum respect),

d

5 May 1999
Shimla, "Queen of the Hills"

"Unexamined life is not worth living" -- that's what the signpost says at one of the brightly painted railway stations along the mountainous climb to Shimla, the turn-of-the-century hill station at the base of the Himalayas. Another reads: "the root of all evil is within yourself" and prompts passengers on the tiny toy train to take a look not only outward at the gorgeous alpine scenery but inward where it's not always so pretty. As the little train chugs and winds its way up 68 miles and 6,800 feet to the foothills of the great Himalaya mountain range, a transformation takes place in absolutely every measurable thing: space, time, sight, sound, and attitude. The air gets crisper, the sights and sounds dreamier, time stutters and circles, and the vibe pulses with power and life and positive energy.

Toy Train
The Shimla-Kalka Railway is the ideal conduit for the transportation and transformation to this altered state of India. Built in 1903 and an engineering marvel at any age, the rail line passes through 103 tunnels and 869 bridges--many of which are Roman-style arched stone structures precariously binding two ultra-narrow cliffsides that somehow manage the weight. The train itself is miniature and painted bright blue and yellow, as are the stations along the route. To ride it is like traveling to Make-Believe Land or entering that Twilight Zone episode where the people are living in the model train landscape: it feels unreal and the view from the window only adds to that feeling. Spindly pines, rhododendron bushes, cacti, fir, and Himalayan oak trees flush the hills with shade and shades of green while wild flowers erupt vivid red and purple. Below the tracks, terraced grounds are planted with every imaginable crop from wheat to eggplant and give the land an impressionist air: textured, intricately-woven patterns and rows carving first diagonally then horizontally, patched together and quilting the valley.

The train winds thusly--through fields and forests and tiny villages, past well-dressed school children with book bags slung over their shoulders and sporting little suits and ties or bright red bows in their long black braids. The Kalka Mail stops at each station en route to deliver news--good and bad--to the foothill residents who seem happier and calmer than their lower dweller counterparts. The pace of life is noticeably slow here and the train is even slower. After about six hours of snaking and stopping, we arrive in Shimla--acclimatized and anxious for the Himalayan adventure to begin...

British Roots
Known as "Queen of the Hills," Shimla was established in 1822 by the British, who then ruled India. Hot and weary from the on-going Gurkha wars, officers were in search of a cool and strategic campsite and found the ideal location here. In 1864 it became the official summer capital of the British ruling establishment (known as "the Raj") and permanent construction began. Georgian and Tudor-style buildings and Swiss-inspired chalets were erected, along with two cathedrals--including Christ Church, the second oldest Christian monument in Northern India. By 1945, the hillside was covered with European-inspired houses and halls and Shimla was booming. As one visitor put it: "It is not the Himalayas or any sort of mountain place at all, but a freak of woods and ridges with houses pouring down the steepness like lava" (Freya Stark,1945).

Today, though the British have long gone and Shimla is now the capital of the Indian state of Himachal Pradesh, its European roots remain in full view. Typical is the reaction on coming here: "I don't know where I think I am, but it's certainly not India!" (The Independent, 12/98). In fact, Shimla looks like Switzerland and with its clean walk street--"the Mall"--winding, crooked lanes, and cozy, tucked-away shops, you could easily think you were in the Alps. That is, until a throng of monkeys swung down and hijacked the fruit you were foolish enough to carry. Or, of course, a cow crossed your path, clearly wondering what you are doing here in her space--again! Yes, these are the peppers in that bland British sauce that tell you you're most certainly not in Europe--you're in the East, in a fiery and unpredictable atmosphere, no matter what the facade might fool you into thinking.

On arrival we were fortunate enough to find a super hotel (actually, an employee found us) at the top of the Ridge, called the Uphar (tel. 257670). It's run by a wonderful man named B.K. who's full of wisdom, information, and insights. After recuperating (the hike to the hotel from the train is about four miles--straight up!), we started scoping the city. The tourist season is just beginning here so it wasn't as packed as it gets by June and the weather is perfect. It's easy to see why people come here: it's relaxing, quiet, quaint, clean, and cool. Whereas New Delhi is currently averaging 44 Celsius--that's over 110 Fahrenheit--Shimla is an ideal 80 F. The view from the hills is picturesque: mountainous and green, but because of low-lying clouds and a blanket of haze caused by a forest fire epidemic, the snowy peaks of the Himalayas are invisible. We tried to see them from another town, Narkanda, about 20 miles from Shimla, but there too they remained hidden. That being the case, we tooled around Shimla, seeing what it had to offer. If no snowy scenery, we would have to find ourselves some other amusement-and this we most certainly did!

Shimla Cop Shop
By chance, while looking for a local newspaper one day, we met not one but the entire police force of Shimla. They have a tiny office in the middle of the Mall where seemingly all 40 of them stay night and day. It's quite bizarre, instead of patrolling the streets, they cram the couches of two minuscule rooms and talk, answer the phone, and watch cricket on TV. The head sergeant, Mr. Kali Ram, took an instant liking to us and invited us in among them for tea and a chat. We asked them all sorts of things, including about the very serious problems facing India today, such as the chronic water shortage and corruption among officials. We discussed these weighty issues and answered their queries about Europe and the States and then we got down to what's really important: Who will win the World Cup of Cricket? For the next 30 minutes an intense debate ensued as to whether or not India could capture the title.

A smiling man of small stature but a big heart, Mr. Ram is quite the character. We like to refer to him as "the singing constable" because he openly admits he would rather dance with the girls than shoot guns. In fact, he loves the company of girls quite a lot and told me how important he thinks women are. I was amazed at that statement and started thinking that he was quite enlightened for an Indian man, who are usually very chauvinistic. He told me further that there is no party without women. Again, I was surprised and thought, "how cool of him." Then he said, "Of course, you must have women at a party, otherwise who would serve the tea?" Got me!

After the intense cricket debate, the cops started showing us their equipment. They were so funny--like kids showing off their new toys. They displayed their batons (they don't carry guns), one ancient WWII machine gun that they keep locked in the safe (when Mr. Ram tried to load it, I was deathly afraid he was going to shoot the radio operator by mistake--he's not too deft with it!), and the radio. Mr. Ram asked the radio operator to call some of officers to show us how it works but when he did so, there was no response. He then explained, "It's been a long day. They are tired. I think they're taking a little wine!" Then he offered us some too. As you can see, a pretty cool police force. I wouldn't want to have to rely on them for help, but they're quite good company for watching cricket and having a drink!

Human Zoo & Hanuman Temple
Shimla has been immortalized by eminent visitors and artists alike, including Rudyard Kipling who based his novel, "Plain Tales of the Hills" here. It was once the summer destination for British high society and currently is the same for the Indian upper crust, but I like to think of it as the place where the people live in cages and the monkeys roam free. There is some kind of perfect Buddhist justice in the fact that the Hanuman monkeys are free to swing from the telephone lines and tree branches, eating what, where, and when they choose, and the residents must bar their windows and balconies--encaging themselves--to protect their valuables. It's absolute poetry to see humans looking out from their barred confines at frolicking monkeys bounding on rooftops and running wild in the streets.

And, since the monkeys are so free and at home here, it's only fitting that there is a temple dedicated to the monkey god at the highest point of Shimla, on Jackoo Hill. The Hanuman temple, located at 11,173 feet above sea level, is a brilliant affair--brightly painted in reds and yellows and decked out inside like Christmas. There are bells hanging from the porch entrance to be rung when entering and a resident fakir who tends the shrine at the center and administers communion to those who offer "darshan" to the god, Hanuman. He blesses the pilgrims with holy water and then brushes orange "tika" dye on their foreheads while they kneel before him. They are then free to pray or make the rounds of the small temple, which include various paintings of the deity, musical instruments, and the orange-painted footprints of Hanuman himself. According to Hindu mythology, Hanuman is the child of a nymph and the wind god. In the Ramayana (the epic mythological tale of Rama, the ancient ruler/god of India), Hanuman helped Rama recover his wife, Sita, who had been captured by the demon, Ravana, and taken prisoner to Ceylon (present-day Sri Lanka). With the aid of hundreds of monkeys, Hanuman gathered giant boulders from the Himalayas and brought them to Southern India where he placed them in the ocean and built a bridge to Ceylon, by which Sita could escape. Upon freeing Sita, Hanuman and his monkey brigade were deified.

The Hanuman monkeys (named for the god) remain the most common primate species in India and the Jackoo Hill temple is crawling with them! Playful and mischievous, they thrive on picking the pockets of tourists and performing flips for attention and treats. Monkey food (nuts and sugar candy) is sold everywhere here but the monkeys are so well fed that they don't care much for it--they'd rather steal what you're eating, so watch out!

Getting There & Around
Besides Jackoo, there are several hikes in and around Shimla for the inspired. There's also golf in summer, skating and skiing in winter. Shopping is good for carved wood and there is absolutely no harassment from vendors--utterly astonishing for India! Food is decent and room rates average about 300 rupees ($7.50) per night for a very nice guest house with hot shower, view, balcony, and TV. There are also a couple of five star hotels, including the Cecil Oberoi, the first in the prestigious chain (tel. 252073). To get to Shimla from Delhi you can either take the train or luxury bus. By train, catch the Himalayan Queen to Kalka and from there the Kalka Mail to Shimla (this is the toy train). Second class is free on the Kalka-Shimla line with purchase of the Himalayan Queen ticket but it's better to upgrade to first class for a comfortable ride for an extra two hundred rupees or so. Bus tickets can be obtained from any travel agent or hotel in Delhi for about 250 rupees ($6.50) one way (the train is roughly the same price for sleeper class, double for first class a/c). For more information, contact the Himachal Tourism Marketing Office in Shimla at: tel. 252561 or fax 252557 (add 00 + country and city codes).

Good vibes, fresh air, and cheeky monkeys: what more can you ask for? The Himalayas are definitely the place to head to, especially at this time of year. And now we're off to the epic Himalayan destination: Dharamsala, where the Dalai Lama lives. Until then, peace, love, and maximum respect to all living things.

d

18 May 1999
Dharamsala, India

Below the great rock wall of Dhaula Dhar, where Gaddi maidens tend their sheep and hawks and eagles soar and dance with finches, hummingbirds, and baby blue butterflies, the serene scene of "Little Lhasa" appears. Snow-crested, craggy Himalayan peaks--proud and erect--tower over its pine-forested hills and green-carpeted valleys, which open to colorful houses and lively markets--trees and all bejeweled with bright, waving flags. A symphony of expressive, content creatures serenades the community, creating a soothing yet upbeat tempo of life. Great-winged birds squawk and circle overhead, uplifted and drifting on heavenly winds; tender lambs baaa after their mothers, struggling on brand-new wobbly legs up grassy hillsides; puppies bark after calves--each utterly unsure who is who, which has priority in this shining new land they've just been born into. Along the town's dirt roads, braided merchants and wide-eyed tourists barter over silver and stones while saffron- and gold-robed monks stroll and chant; unshaven, toothless old men sit on rickety porches and string strange-looking guitars as young boys whimsically toot on wooden flutes--they wander past outdoor tea stalls where momos fry and chai steams while, further off, women in long smocks and aprons garden and smile and round up their kids.

Life here is musical and melodious; a picture of beauty and joy and creation, perfectly seasoned. Yet, ironically, this vibrant hill town--where lofty heights mingle with loftier dreams of peace, love, and happiness--is for many nothing more than a refugee camp, a place from which they wish only to escape. For this town is Dharamsala, adopted home of the government-in-exile of Tibet and its divine leader, His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.

A Beautiful Battleground
Historically a hill station occupied by both the British and Indian military, Dharamsala is the site of a completely different kind of battle these days: that of non-violent protest and self-preservation. For the past four decades, it has housed the Dalai Lama and his exiled government and followers, serving as the headquarters for the peaceful independence of Tibet movement and as a sanctuary preserving a most endangered species: Tibetans. It features the world's foremost Tibetan library, where rare manuscripts smuggled out of the country are kept, educational institutions, monasteries, temples, and art schools that are fighting head-on--with intellect instead of arms--the forces who are attempting to erase the Tibetan culture and people from the map.

Tibet: A Brief History
The trouble for Tibet began about 50 years ago when the Communists, led by Mao Zedong, defeated the Nationalist Chinese government and overtook China. The following year, Mao's Red Army invaded Tibet and in 1951 the Tibetan government was forced to sign the "Seventeen Point Agreement," which allowed certain freedoms to Tibetans but ultimately vested power in the Chinese. For the next decade, despite promising cultural and political autonomy, the Chinese began to systematically "cleanse" Tibet of its cultural heritage and relocate thousands of Chinese into the area in an effort to both claim the territory and homogenize society. By March 1959 the Tibetans realized they were in grave danger and revolted against the Chinese forces, demanding that they return to China and grant independence to Tibet. But the Chinese had no intentions of leaving, as Tibet is a strategically-important region and rich in uranium, and responded with force. Thousands died, the Tibetan government and independence movement were formally outlawed, and a brutal crackdown against freedom fighters ensued, which forced Tibet's spiritual leader, H.H. Dalai Lama, to flee the country.

The Dalai Lama found refuge first in Dalhousie, India--just across the Himalayas from his homeland--but set up permanent residence in Dharamsala because of its similarity to the Tibetan landscape and ancient Buddhist roots. He brought with him cultural artifacts, ancient Tibetan manuscripts and trades, and the determination to free Tibet of its Chinese oppressors. At Dharamsala he built the Buddha temple and School for Tibetan Studies to ensure the preservation and propagation of Tibetan culture and philosophy and founded the government-in-exile here to create worldwide awareness of and support for the Free Tibet movement. He hoped his exile would be temporary and Dharamsala just a brief stop en route to a joyous and peaceful return to Lhasa. That was 40 yeas ago. But, despite the deeper and deeper entrenchment of the Chinese in Tibet, he still believes that one day he and his people will win the war and return to their homeland.

Land of Heroes and Dreamers
Some 3,000 Tibetans--most of whom are Buddhist monks and nuns--currently reside in Dharamsala and about 150,000 or so are scattered throughout India, primarily living in the southern state of Karnataka where two large monasteries are located. Among those who make Dharamsala their home are artists who have brought with them from Tibet ancient crafts that would have since died out had they remained in their own country. Sangey Yeshe is one such artist. At 69 he is one of the last surviving masters of "Thongka" painting and in Dharamsala is passing his knowledge on to 10 students to ensure its survival. "Our spiritual life is as important to us as our physical life," says Karma, one of his students. "If our art forms die out, we'll cease to exist as separate people."

Others, including a wood carving master and "Sakya" metal image maker, are also preserving Tibetan culture and identity by teaching in Dharamsala. Pempa Dorji, a 61-year-old Sakya master and political refugee says that in Tibet now there are only two or three masters of his craft still alive but are legally forbidden by the Chinese to teach it to others. "Once they pass away," Dorji says, "this art form will be gone forever." That is why he fled to India and has opened a small school here. Though it takes a solid 12 years to master the Sakya skill, Dorji has eight students who have already completed 11 years and next year will not only be certified masters but will become teachers themselves.

Dharamsala is filled with folks such as these, fighting each in their own way to preserve Tibetan culture and gain independence for their people. It is a town full of dreamers and refugees with tales of heartbreak and dislocation, tragedy and hope.

A Hell on Earth
While eating breakfast one morning we were fortunate enough to meet a veritable hero of the Free Tibet movement. Ven Bagdro, a 30-year-old Tibetan monk, is a friendly, glowing, forthright man, full of life and laughter. He is well-read and outgoing and loves to joke about his round-and-growing "Buddha belly." One would never imagine that just seven years ago he was a mere 43 kg., physically and mentally wasted, and fighting for his life.

Born in rural Tibet, Bagdro became a Buddhist monk at age 19 and joined the Ganden monastery. It was during this time he first learned of the Dalai Lama and the history of the Chinese conquest of Tibet, as both are outlawed subjects under the Chinese regime. Reading the Dalai Lama's biography changed Bagdro?s life and, along with other monks of his order, he began working to further the Lama's cause of freedom for Tibet.

Despite serious risk from the Chinese authorities, the monks staged public protests against Chinese occupation and in 1989 Bagdro and six others were arrested and put on trial for actions against the government and killing a Chinese policeman. The murder charges were baseless but the authorities convicted and imprisoned Bagdro for four years, inflicting the most horrific pain and punishment imaginable. According to Bagdro, they hung him by his wrists for hours on end, kicked and beat his body and limbs, prodded his mouth, ears, and other orifices with electric batons, systematically starved him, and forced him to stand naked in the cold so his feet would freeze to the ground. Unspeakable acts of torture and deprivation continued throughout Bagdro's prison sentence so that by the end he was skeletal, scarred, mentally anguished, and gravely ill with tuberculosis. From being handcuffed for months on end his hands did not function properly (he couldn't grip anything and his wrists always moved as if they were still chained together) and he shook uncontrollably from the beatings and electrocution.

But he was the lucky one--he was released and still alive. The others he was put on trial with had either died from torture, were paralyzed, or had received life terms. Therefore, he felt it was up to him to carry on their mission and to tell the outside world what was happening in modern-day Tibet and to political prisoners there. So, in 1992 he fled to freedom, crossing the Himalayas to Nepal and finally to India. He was hospitalized in both India and France (he received aid from the Danielle Mitterand Foundation and personally from Ms. Mitterand, who has become a surrogate mother to Bagdro) and settled in Dharamsala, where he finally got to meet his mentor and inspiration, His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

Since 1992, Bagdro has worked with the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala to free Tibet and to educate the world about the atrocities committed by its Chinese occupiers. He lectures globally--including a tour last year in universities across the U.S.--has written a book, "A Hell on Earth" and is writing a second, due in July, called, "20th Century of Tibet." I tell Bagdro's story briefly here both to shed some light on the Tibetan cause and to show you what Tibetans living in Dharamsala are fighting against and for. I also tell his story because Bagdro perfectly illustrates the Tibetan Buddhist character that prevails and permeates the atmosphere here: extremely tough and committed but also very positive and pro-active. These are not people who have given up or given over to anger (though, believe me, there is no love lost between them and the Chinese government). No, these are a clear-minded people who refuse to lose their culture and their land. They refuse to let the Chinese take away their pride or their love of life-they are fighting back with a vengeance and doing so a with smile on their face.

Light Your Soul-Fire
It's an amazing experience to be around people like this. I mean, I break a nail and get upset! Tibetans humble me and make me realize what real strength is: it's strength of character and, man, they have it in spades.

Both the mood of the people and the landscape here are infectious. The epic scenery, the glorious food, the Buddhist temples and colorful prayer wheels, the amazing birds and wildlife, the trees, the air, and the utter serenity seduce and satisfy every sense. Educational offerings--including classes on Tibetan language, art, and dance, meditation, Buddhism, and massage, as well as opportunities for you to teach Buddhist monks English--abound. Dharamsala is a place for physical and spiritual recreation where you can get in touch with your inner self, expand both your mind and lungs, learn from others who are truly modern-day heroes, and get inspired to be one yourself.

Getting Around Macleodganj
Though it takes a bit of pain to get here--a long busride through winding mountain roads--Dharamsala itself is very negotiable. It is divided into two regions: the lower Kotwali Bazar and the upper level of Macleodganj, where the Dalai Lama lives. Most of the Indian population occupies Kotwali but Macleodganj is all Tibet and altogether gorgeous.

Macleodganj is curtained by the 14,000-foot "white range" of Dhauldhar, one of the stunning sets of Himalayan peaks at India?s northern border, and despite the lack of "white" this year due to a bad drought and low snowfall, it is absolutely awe-inspiring. Rudyard Kipling once described these mountains as "a revelation of all might, majesty, domination and power, henceforth and forever, in color, form, and substance indescribable" ("Something of Myself," 1880s) and I wouldn't dare presume to disagree. Their granite faces constantly change shape with the daylight and like a clever lover reveal ever more interesting sides of themselves as time ticks by. After a riveting 12-hour show, they quietly blush pink before disappearing slowly into the dark night air, leaving smitten beholders rapt and wanting more.

Below the great range are forested hills, which offer day hikes to lakes and snowlines, and nestled near the base is the Tibetan Center for the Performing Arts where one can experience traditional dance and drama in a truly amazing setting. The town itself is no more than three main roads and encircles the Valley of Flowers, which more than lives up to its name. Guest houses perch in the hills and at the edge of the valley, offering spectacular views in any direction. We stayed at the Ashoka Guest House and had a room directly overlooking the valley. The way the room was situated, we felt we were in the valley pastures and a part of the wildlife. Each sunrise and twilight we were entertained by the most beautiful blue, long-plumed birds busily gathering twigs to build their nests, insects extracting pollen from pastel flowers, and shepherdesses returning their flocks to feed on fresh grass. It really was an Eden-like feeling there, and I sat long hours just soaking it up and seeking divine inspiration.

I don't know if I ever crossed that level of thinking to the profound level but I can tell you my mind was reeling at warp speed! And that was certainly aided by the brilliant Tibetan food we found. You all know that Marco Polo brought pasta back to Italy from China and my guess is that he also visited the region of Tibet, for their homemade noodles are truly an art form. Momos, which are ravioli stuffed with either yak cheese or vegetables and steamed or fried, are a staple of Tibetan cuisine and a real treat. They can also be added to soup, as can their other two homemade noodles: laman (long, flat) and thanthuk (short, flat). Restaurants prepare noodles fresh daily and serve them with vegetable sauces or in savory broths, accompanied by fresh-baked Tibetan brown bread. A couple of outstanding restaurants that feature these culinary delights are Nick's Cafe at the Kunga Hotel (Bhagsu Road) and the Tsongkha Restaurant (on Jogibara Road, just across the road from the Lose Ling Guest House), which has an awesome roof deck for sunsets and inspiration par excellence. In fact, while happily lost in thought on this roofdeck one day--pleasantly stuffed with lamans and sipping zingy-hot ginger tea--I single-handedly solved the problems of world peace, social injustice, and inequity of wealth. And then the truly great revelation came to me: Yak Cheese--what a great name for a band! (I told you, my mind was reeling...)

Missed Him by That Much
Unfortunately, the day we arrived in Dharamsala was the day the Dalai Lama left for--where else?--the States. So we were unable to hear him speak. But we did visit his temple, the Buddha, which sits on the far end of Macleodganj and includes his personal residence, a nunnery and monastery, dormitories, and picturesque grounds that overlook the Kangra valley filled with pines and terraced tea plantations. Just below the temple complex is the Tibetan library and resplendent sets of prayer wheels adorned with hundreds of colorful flags, as well as a home for the elderly (if only old folks' homes were like this in America...). We moseyed the grounds of the temple and spun the prayer wheels (as pictured here). Each has dozens of "mantras" or chants inscribed on its face and turning it is the equivalent of chanting hundreds of prayers. Folks make the circle (clockwise) around the temple, turning all the prayer wheels (also clockwise)--the larger of which are to be turned nine times. The wheels symbolize the cyclical nature of life, death, and reincarnation, and many pay respects to different protector deities. All produce positive energy and herald the message: "May peace prevail on earth."

Inside, the temples are gloriously decorated with murals of gods, goddesses, and smiling Buddhas. Of course, H.H. Dalia Lama's photograph is present as well and adorns a wall of every shop and residence in Dharamsala. Candles and incense burn around the temple too, while followers sit barefoot on the floors, spin hand-held prayer wheels, and listen to the chanting of the monks. Young monks gather together on the grounds, chatting and laughing, which is a surprise to me--there's definitely no vow of silence here! In fact, the amosphere is very lvely and the vibe happy, enlightened, and round like the Buddha himself.

Ticket to Ride
Like I said previously, the trip to Dharamsala isn't easy but it's well worth the effort. There are two main ways to get there: bus or train, but even by train you'll end up on a bus from Kangra anyway so you might as well take the bus the whole way. We took a state bus from Shimla, had a flat tire en route, and an absolutely insane driver but we made it. If you can, though, take a luxury bus from Delhi rather than a state bus and your trip will be a lot less hair-raising. The cost for the luxury bus from Delhi to Dharamsala is 350 rupees ($8.50) per person and can be purchased from any travel outlet. The ride is 12 hours and there are two buses each day. Likewise, guest houses are abundant in Macleodganj, cost from 90 to 300 rupees per night (depending on if you want a cold or hot shower), and can be rented on arrival. I highly recommend the Ashoka on Jogibara Road, where we stayed, the Lose Ling, which is next door and a little cheaper, or the Kunga Hotel on Bhagsu Road, which has double rooms with expansive decks overlooking the Valley of Flowers. For more information contact: Nihan Travels at tel. (022) 2047555 or Nest & Wings at tel. (011) 6442245 or Himachal Tourism at tel. 018924328 (Dharamsala office) or (011) 3324764 (Delhi office).

Help the Cause
You don't have to be Brad Pitt or Richard Gere--or even visit Dharamsala--to help the Free Tibet movement. From your very own keyboard, with your lovely little fingers, you too can further the cause and fight oppression. The Dalai Lama asks that anyone who is interested, write to their government officials and request that they pressure the Chinese government to grant autonomy to Tibet--particularly as a condition of their inclusion in the World Trade Organization, which they so desperately want right now. Also, write to multi-national corporations such as Nike, AT&T, IBM, Pepsi, Microsoft, and Coke and request that they condition their business on China's release of Tibet. It's an uphill battle to get these governments and companies to put human rights before dollars but perhaps if we show that our consumer power is tied to this issue it will persuade some. As the Dalai Lama says: "Whatever way you can show support, we appreciate it very much." And in the words of Ven Bagdro: "Like many tigers of this world, Tibet is suffering and in danger of extinction. Please give me your hand and together let us try to save the land and people of Tibet."

To get a copy of Bagdro's book, "A Hell on Earth," please send $5 to:
.
Ven Bagdro
c/o Tashi Choeling Monastery
P.O. Macleodganj
176219
Dharamsala, (H.P.) India
or email: tchrd@tcrclinux.tibdsala.org.in
.
For information on the Free Tibet movement, please write to:
The International Campaign for Tibet
1825 K Street N.W.
Ste. 520
Washington, D.C. 20006
.
Canada Tibet Committee
4675 Coolbrook
Montreal, Quebec 113X 2K7
.
Free Tibet Campaign
1 Roseman Place
London, U.K. EC1R 0JY
.
Tibetan Center For Human Rights & Democracy
Top Floor, Northang Building
Gangchen Kyishong
Dharamsala, (H.P.) India
176215
website: http://www.tchrd.org

May peace prevail on earth,

d

Diane Renee
Tiger Shooting in Corbett National Park
Word Count: 2,373

Lions and tigers and bears--oh my!

Down a long and winding--definitely not a yellow brick--road, past charging Asian elephants, foraging spotted deer, and scurrying monitor lizards, we finally reached the emerald land of Oz, as far as tigers are concerned. The precarious journey wends through a park 520 square kilometers large, cut by the magnificent Ramganga River, and features deciduous forest, chaur grasslands, arid plains, and Himalayan lowlands. This vast and untamed wonderland, known as Corbett National Park, is wild and ravishing; a true testament to India?s incredible biodiversity and stunning natural beauty--perhaps the strongest statement being that of its most stunning and incredible inhabitants: Bengal tigers, which we were there to shoot...

Save the Tiger
Arguably the finest of the world's few wild tiger preserves, Corbett was founded in 1936 as India's first national park. It was inaugurated Hailey National Park but renamed in 1957 post-humously for hunter-turned-conservationist, Jim Corbett, who went from shooting the "maneaters" of this area with his hunting rifle to shooting them with his Nikon. Corbett's personal about-face reflected the drastic decline in the tiger population witnessed during his lifetime, as well as people's growing understanding of these magnificent creatures. Instead of fearing their strength and ferocity and seeking to conquer the tiger as a sign of manhood, folks were beginning to prize and admire the tiger's formidable traits and to protect rather than destroy the big cats who bore them.

But the change of attitude and behavior came rather late. At the turn of the century there were an estimated 40,000 tigers roaming India; by 1970 just 2,000 remained. To help save the breed from extinction, Project Tiger was initiated here in 1973. The aim was to preserve the tiger in his natural habitat and provide a safe environment in which the species could replenish its numbers. With the help of the World Wildlife Fund, Corbett became one of the first and largest tiger reserves ever created.

Initially the project was a great success, doubling India's tiger population in 10 years. Unfortunately, for a variety of reasons--including lucrative incentives for poachers fueled by a strong demand for tiger products from the Chinese market--tigers are again on the decline. According to published reports, it is estimated that one tiger is killed per day and, given that there are again probably fewer than 2,000 remaining in India, at that rate they will be extinct in less than five years. A census completed in Corbett National Park in June 1999 revealed that there are probably no more than 130 tigers in the park. Though this is up from 90 in 1984, the number is very hard to verify, as none of the tigers are radio-collared and the count is done by photographing "pug" marks or tiger paw prints found in the park and comparing them by aid of computer. Each tiger has a distinct pug--like human fingerprints--but the same pug can appear different if stamped in wet clay or dry earth so it is easy to mistake one tiger's paw for two or more.

Land of the Free, Home of the Brave...
In addition to housing about 130 of one of the planet's most endangered species, Corbett boasts a thriving and diverse population of flora and fauna. It is located in Northern India in the state of Uttar Pradesh, bordering the Himalayas at 1,210 meters above sea level and extending down to 400 meters. This wide scope of elevation and topography account for the host of varied creatures and plantlife, which includes crocodiles, jackals, sloth bears, Pallas fishing eagles, kingfishers, cobras, leopards, and antelope foraying amongst sal brush, swampland, conical and fruit trees, cacti and bougainvillea. Sprightly tan and brown birds--who we nick-named Linda and Paul McCartney--frolic together on the grounds, always in pairs; herds of wild elephants roam everywhere--and anywhere they want!--and herds of spotted deer do the same, but at serious risk since they are lesser known in these parts as "Bambi" and more commonly referred to as "tiger food." Wild peacocks fan and strut across the meadows and brilliant blue Indianolas flutter from tree to tree. Giant water fowl hunt along the river and perch high above in tree branches, while red jungle fowl peck and scratch along the dirt paths below. Languor monkeys--looking like crusty old men with their face frame of coarse white hair--swing from tree to tree, picking leaves for themselves and for their pals, the spotted deer. They warn them of tigers too, as do the peacocks, who shriek distress warnings from treetop lookout posts. Wild boar, oblivious and always in search of a meal, snort and vacuum the valley with their long narrow snouts--animated Hoovers, they don't miss a crumb from riverbank to forest edge.

They say that over 50 mammal, 580 bird, and 25 reptile species reside in Corbett and that the river would be an angler's paradise, were people allowed to fish here. The bountiful sport fish, such as mahseer and malee, can be caught just outside the park boundaries with special permit but inside they are strictly tiger food, like the deer and any other edible flesh!

Dhikala
Deep in the heart of this wild animal kingdom is Dhikala, the tourist complex where we stayed. It is the headquarters of Project Tiger and features the most complete visitor facilities in the park, including rest houses, two small restaurants, a library, and an outdoor theatre. The complex is set up like a summer camp, with a few sets of rustic cabins tucked amid the grasslands, blending perfectly with the khaki scenery. It is a picturesque and peaceful setting: a flaxen prairie surrounded by green hills and forest, with the clear blue Ramganga flowing just in front and the great Himalayan chain providing the distant northern border. The Ramganga empties into a large reservoir about three miles to the southwest, which animals flock to during the heat of the day and roam 'round at dusk. Like all smart creatures, they gather at water's edge to cool themselves and to enjoy the calm and colorful close of the day.

Animals can be seen throughout Dhikala from tall lookout towers erected in the grasslands and forests and along the riverbanks. They also find their way into the complex--especially the monkeys, wild boar, and deer. But the best way to view them is to take an elephant or jeep safari, which we did. Not only are the rides great fun but each type of transport provides you with a different view of surrounding wildlife and a unique thrill of exploration--modern or primitive, horse- or pachyderm-powered.

Elephant Bath & Safari
Come on, baby, surfin' safari... Well, it wasn't exactly a surfin' safari but before we took our elephant safari we did join them for a bath in the Ramganga. We had wandered down where we weren't supposed to go (tourists aren't allowed to roam freely in the park without a guide because apparently more than a few have been eaten or something...) and stumbled right into three of the tame elephants getting their bath. They were undergoing a good scrubbing with stones from their keepers and loving every minute of it! Once soaped up and lathered, they filled their trunks with water and showered themselves off, then daintily rolled over--all 4 tons!--to have the other side cleaned. The keepers invited us over for a closer view and I ended up on-board a charitable female who didn't mind my sharing her bath tub. What a feeling to be with such a powerful creature, knowing that she could crush me at any moment if she wanted to but instead gently maneuvered around me, let me wash her rotund tummy, and showered me with water too!

After their bath, the elephants were saddled up and adorned with chalk decorations and kohl around their eyes--this is done as much to protect their eyes from infection as to enhance their feminine charms. Then we climbed on, about four per elephant plus driver, and plodded into the forest. Thud, thud, thud, thud, the elephant walks through and over everything, clearing her own path through the woods as she goes. And our elephant ate as she marched, plucking sticks and leaves from absolutely every tree and shrub we passed. What was a dinner cruise for her was a tiger quest for us and each of us passengers scoured every nook and cranny of the forest and meadows for signs of Bengal stripes and saber teeth, scarcely uttering a word for fear of missing something or scaring the tigers away. But, alas, there were no tigers to scare. We saw plenty of other wildlife--including two wild elephant herds by the reservoir--but returned to camp sans tiger sighting and a little disappointed.

Touring for Tigers
Pachyderm-power not getting the job done, we switched to horse-power the following day. Our driver, Meharban, and guide, Mahindra, took us by jeep all over the park--switching back and forth through the forests and grasslands, cruising near the reservoir and all along the banks of the Ramganga. We saw the two wild elephant herds again at their favorite haunt by the lake and then, while zipping through the forest en route to the other side of the river, were stopped by our first big bull. Since all elephants--and particularly large males who possess even larger tusk--always have the right of way, we politely waited for him to pass. But that's no fun, Meharban and Mahindra figured, and challenged the bull by revving the motor of the jeep. This seemed to really upset Mr. Elephant and he let out a deafening trumpet and charged at us full speed. We took off too and then stopped after he did. Since my stomach was in my throat, I said nothing, but my traveling companion, Gary, Meharban and Mahindra couldn't stop laughing. So we did it again. And again. And, boy, was that elephant mad! I kept wondering what would happen if the engine stalled but the boys kept up the game nonetheless. Thankfully, the elephant eventually tired of it (I don't know if the boys would have!) and we passed by.

We drove and drove for two to three hours, stopping periodically to listen to the sounds of the jungle and check for tiger prints along the road. We saw a lot of trees where the bark had been scratched off by tiger claws--nature's own cat scratching posts--and plenty of pug marks along the road. We cut the jeep engine to hear better. Peacocks were going wild with distress calls. It was loud and frantic and sounded like a raucous bird party or really bad marital spat between angry whooperwills or something! With the adrenaline beginning to seriously flow, we climbed out of the jeep and took to the riverbank. Meharban and Mahindra looked east, we looked west--all of us on pins and needles, anticipation and anxiety mounting.

We scoped the river and woods and then--just across the water, about 100 feet from us--a sleek tiger was sacheting nonchalantly toward us, hugging the waterline. He was so cool and calm and perfectly in sync with his environment that it was at first very hard to detect him. He--or she--had that Marilyn hip sway down pat--that telltale tiger strut that signals to all he owns this town. As he emerged from the meadow opposite us, he came clearly into view. We had to work fast. Setting our sites, we took aim, and shot without hesitation. Bingo! The prize of a lifetime: the shot, the celluloid souvenir of a wild tiger! And then, as suddenly as he appeared, he disappeared. It was just a split-second sighting but what a sight, what a feeling, what a creature! Pure magic. We tried in vain to see him again, waiting for about 15 minutes or so, but no dice. He was gone, back to the hunt, ready for the nightly adventures to begin.

We took another safari early the next morning but didn't spot another tiger. Of course, we played chicken with another bull elephant who liked us even less than the first one we encountered. And we also saw plenty more tracks. But no sightings that day. Indeed, we were very lucky to see a tiger at all and, though brief, it's something we'll never forget.

Getting There & Expenses
After the second jeep safari we packed up and headed out of the park. Visitors are only allowed to stay two nights and three days and we'd already extended our stay by one night. So, it was back to the mean streets of Delhi for us, to that urban jungle 200 or so miles away.

Again, Corbett is not the easiest place to get to--no place is easy to get to in India!--but it's worth the pain. Just beware though, it's run by the government so don't expect the rules or fees to be logical or consistent. Entrance fees are listed as 350 rupees per person (about $8, good for 3 days), rooms at Dhikala from 600 to 900 rupees per night, elephant safari 100 rupees per person, and jeep safari 450 rupees plus driver and guide fees of 75 to 150 rupees. To get there, take the train or bus from Delhi to Ramnagar, then either the free government bus or hired jeep into the park (about a two hour ride). But, be warned, the free bus leaves at 4 p.m. whereas the train arrives in Ramnagar at 6 a.m. --so, unless you want to waste a day, fork over 450 rupees and take a jeep safari in to Dhikala. (At the time we were there, about 40 rupees = $1.)

There are a couple of other campsite/rest houses to stay at in Corbett also. These require that you bring your own food and bedding, as they have no restaurant or tourist facilities, but the advantage is that you may have a better chance at seeing a tiger with fewer tourists around. For more information and reservations, contact: Field Director, Project Tiger, Corbett National Park, Ramnagar 244715. Tel. (05946) 85489.

Kahjuraho, India
"In Praise of Women"

Can you hear them singing? There on the temple walls, swaying and serenading, singing the song of beauty, of wisdom, of life. Don't tell me they are made of stone, for I know better! They are living, breathing, moving--and have been thus for 1,000 years.

Sensuous and sublime, these are no ordinary songstresses. These are the immortal apsaras who dance and wink and love and sing from the spiraling sandstone shrines of Khajuraho, better known as the Kama Sutra temples of Central India. Mystery envelopes these girls and this site, but most agree the impetus behind their creation is the celebration of life and womankind, in all her beauty and myriad facets.

One thing is certain, the Khajuraho temples are one of the amazing architectural and artistic feats of human creation in the world. Dubbed "the human book" and the "perfect utterance," they are elaborately carved from sandstone and granite and feature thousands of spires and sculptures whose detail and precision simply defy description and overpower the senses. Their layers of consummately-crafted panels illustrate scenes of love and war, myths and life lessons, while the inner sanctums serve as awe-inspiring shrines dedicated to the holy Hindu triad of Vishnu, Shiva, and Brahma. These medieval temples of the Indian-Aryan style are structurally astounding and, thanks to their location amid the Madhya Pradesh jungle, are incredibly well-preserved. They stand not only as a lasting legacy of achievement but provide a fluid, vibrant picture of life as it was here at the dawn of the last millennium.

Moonbeams & Dreams
At Khajuraho, the myths surrounding the temples are as fascinating as the history. Erected by the mighty Chandela dynasty, who claimed direct ascension from the moon, the temples were originally built as an homage to a single mother and as a legitimization of love making. The story goes that Hemvati, daughter of a Brahmin priest of Varanasi, was bathing in a pond one evening when Chandra, the Moon God, overcome by her beauty, descended from the sky and made love to her. Hemvati had a son of this union and named him Chandravarman. Because she was unwed, both mother and son were condemned, shunned by society, and fled to the jungle. Life was difficult but in time Chandravarman grew to be a powerful warrior and eventually founded a kingdom. His mother did not live to see his triumph but one night, after her death, Chandravarman had a dream in which she asked him to build a monument to dignify human passion. To honor her wishes and preserve her memory, he commissioned the temples at Khajuraho, which praise the female form and character and lovingly display the act and necessity of creation.

Originally the complex featured 85 temples, built over a period of 100 years, from 950-1050 A.D. Of those, 25 have been preserved and a 26th was just discovered in March 1999 that may, in fact, be the largest yet found. The temples are in three major groupings: the Western Group, the Eastern Group, and the Southern Group. Of these, the Western Group features the most well-preserved structures and boasts the richest setting.

Set in a sprawling garden spread green with manicured lawns and bejeweled by flowering trees, the temples of the Western Group rise majestically in two expertly planned, reflective rows. Even when prepared for their sight, their sheer perfection and magnificence take your breath away! They resemble enchanted castles from a fairy tale and look as if they've been sculpted by the hand of god herself. This is art and inspiration at its highest level and, let me tell you, there is nothing mortal here: it's a scene of another world, another lifetime, another being--yet one that still pulsates blood, radiates warmth, and exudes energy and pure joie de vivre.

The two most amazing temples here are the Laksmana and the Kandariya Mahadeva, the first and last erected of this grouping, respectively. Typically the initial temple you encounter when beginning your tour of the grounds, the Laksmana was built between 930 and 950 A.D. and is dedicated to Vishnu. The friezes that adorn this 98 x 45-foot structure begin at the shrine's pedestal with cosmic elephants, whom the people believed at this time, supported the universe. The scenes work their way up the strata of life (and the temple) from there, illustrating war caravans, battles, camels in transit, women dancing and preparing food. Daily routine then gives way to the finer pursuits of life, including performing rituals, making art, and making love. Though the Kama Sutra temples have been widely and wildly touted for their erotic sculpture, it actually only makes up less than one-tenth of the artwork. The scenes of love are simply shown as another and most beautiful part of life. Next, priests and Brahmin, gods and goddesses appear in various forms and stages of dress, telling stories, laughing, flying, dancing, loving, and singing. Inside, the sanctum houses mammoth figures of the Hindu triad which, as in Egypt, are configured so as to receive dramatic illumination from the sun and moon as they pass overhead. Talk about theatrical--not to mention stage presence--move over Ethyl Merman! Back outside, the roof of the temple is an elaborate crown of spires, which are designed to raise the spirit to the sky and, believe me, they definitely do.

Across the courtyard that was once cut but a small river stands the amazing Kandariya Mahadeva temple. It has been called the most perfect in the world and architecturally is a masterpiece. It soars a perfectly-symmetrical 116 feet high and features 872 impeccably crafted statues, most of which are more than three feet tall and most of which are women. The sculptures are brilliant artworks in themselves, containing such minute and lifelike detail as sinewy arm muscles flexing, women grimacing as they pick tiny thorns from their feet, and entwined lovers whose faces contort and delight in the rapture and ecstasy of love. Built from 1025 to 1050 A.D. by the 13th and last great ruler of the Chandela Dynasty--Raja Vidyadhar--Kandariya Mahadeva is flanked by stone lions who were the symbol of the Chandela and shows clearly the true power, creativity, and magnificence of this lost kingdom.

Enlightened Society Ahead of its Time
Women, full-bodied and fertile, are depicted far more than any other figure in all of temples at Khajuraho. They are shown flirting, fondling, making themselves up, sipping wine, performing, loving, and laughing. They are shown with monkeys tugging at their feet and scorpions on their thighs, which signify a passionate state, and feature a small lower tummy, which in those days was the epitome of beauty, as the sensuous flesh provided a step for Karma, the God of Love, to a woman's heart. The times revered voluptuous, older women as the ideal because they were both experienced in life and skilled in the art of love making. And one has to wonder if they weren?t way ahead of their time!

All the temples feature scenes from the vibrant Chandela society, from barter and trade to music and amusement to love and war. The temple grounds were a center of society, used for teaching, devotion, and celebration. During these times, procreation was vital to the survival of the Chandela and that is a prime reason for the graphic depiction of love making. With no printing presses yet, the temple was a sort of teaching tool, designed to show couples how to live and how to attain the three noble aspects of life: the true, the good, and the beautiful. Though many argue about the purpose of and message behind the erotic art, the best explanation seems to be this one:

...the erotic sculptures are but a continuation of that tradition which accepts procreation as a major function of life. The presence of these sculptures shows that there were no taboos or inhibitions against sex as we have now. The people of that time took a health view of things and the pursuit of pleasure was deemed to be one of the four "putrusharthas" or legitimate aims of life and was regarded as a stepping stone to "moksha" or deliverance.

What did I say about these people being ahead of their time? I rest my case.

Rediscovery & Preservation
After the Chandela dynasty faded out, the jungle reclaimed the temples and grounds, and thus spared them from the ravages of Muslim invaders, looters, and harsh weather. They were "re-discovered" by British officer, T.S. Burt in 1838 while he was mapping the area for the railroad and in 1901 the area was designated a national monument. In 1980, Khajuraho became a UNESCO World Heritage Site and has been under their care and preservation ever since. Currently, they are at work, along with the Archeological Survey of India, uncovering other mounds in the area in an attempt to find all 85 original temples.

I've visited many temples and sacred grounds during my travels but never have I seen a place as mystical and magnificent as Khajuraho. The temples here are the best preserved I know of and feature the most stunning, evocative, and inspiring art imaginable. Both the message behind the works, including the myths and the real life history, only add to the charm and make this place the enchanted landscape it is. These temples are a must-see for anyone interested in art, in women, in spirituality, or in humanity. If you've lost all faith in human possibility, come here. If you're looking for inspiration, come here. If you're searching for that something you can't put a name to, my guess is you'll find the answer somewhere in these walls. We humans really can be great when we want to be--just come to Khajuraho and see what I mean.

The Dope
Unlike most places in India, Khajuraho is actually easy to get to. They have their own airport which flies in three 737 Indian Airline flights daily during the high season, October-February. This is the best season to come, weatherwise, as it's fairly comfortable. By late spring, when we were there, it was gorgeous--with the flowers all in full bloom--but the heat was unbearable: a solid 120 F in the shade! You can also get to Khajuraho by train or bus, as we did, but don't do that--do yourself a big favor and take the plane! For reservations, call 42036.

There are many hotels and guesthouses to choose from, and decent food--all in any price range. You can go the Five-star route, and stay at the Chandela (tel. 42355), the Jass Oberoi (42344), the Holiday Inn (42301), the Clarks (42365), or the Ashok (42239). Many offer package deals and all have pools. Or you can check out the Lakeside, where we stayed, just across from the Western Group (44120) for about $3 a night. Check with the Tourist Information Center for all the details: 42347.

28 June 1999
Bangkok, Thailand

Wow--talk about a long and winding road! I greatly apologize for the big silence but we've logged many a mile since the last update and the road hasn't exactly been smooth. We got bogged down in a sweltering New Delhi for longer than we'd planned, then went on an incredible week-long adventure to the desert jungles of Madhya Pradesh where we saw the supremely sublime Kama Sutra temples at Khajuraho. We then made our way to Varanasi to see the holiest city of the Hindu and the great River Ganges. The highlight of this excursion (and in my opinion, the only reason to visit) was seeing the old part of town, Sarnath, where Siddhartha became enlightened and preached his first sermons. There are fantastic Buddhist shrines and stupas there, the Bodhi tree where the Buddha attained Nirvana and first professed peace and tolerance to the world, and remnants from a pillar of Asoka from 4 B.C. (he was an amazing emperor-turned-Buddhist who upon conquering most of Asia did an about-face and dedicated the rest of his life to promoting Buddhism and humanism throughout his kingdom). After Varanasi, it was on to Calcutta and some epic monsoon rains! That town, which I expected to be a leper colony a la Mother Theresa, turned out to be the nicest of all the major Indian cities we visited. It was once hailed as the jewel in Britain?s Indian crown and still exudes abundant charm. We stayed at a wonderful old colonial inn--the Fairlawn Hotel (13/A Sudder Street, fairlawn@cal.vsnl.net.in)--which features relics from decades of collecting and feels like a smuggler's hide-out or aging hacienda. It's enveloped in palm green plants, trees, and tropical flowers and is run by a character of an old woman, whose family has controlled the place since 1933. She and her stories alone are worth staying there.

So we ended our Indian adventure on a decidedly up note and then it was on to Thailand...

And here we are in Bangkok and, in a word, girls, it rocks! After three long months traversing India--a richly rewarding but challenging nation--it's actually nice to see pavement again. I realize that sounds rather bizarre, even coming from an LA resident, but it's true. Months of maneuvering around steaming cow pies, unrelenting street vendors, and motorized rickshaws whose tailpipes spew sooty exhaust and drivers red spit, make concrete and steel--even traffic signals--rather appealing! Besides, the food here is to die for and, frankly, I've had enough bad Indian curry to last me a lifetime...

We arrived in Bangkok about a week ago, taking an Indian Airlines flight directly from Calcutta. It was a smooth and inexpensive ride (Calcutta is a great city to fly from if you're heading east and Bangkok's known for its cheap air fares). We took an airport bus straight to Khaosan Road, where most of the tourists like us stay. It's a pumping street, full of shops, guest houses, travel agents, and open-air restaurants that show bootleg Hollywood films and blast techno or Bob Marley 24-7. People from every corner of the globe hang here, most in transit to the islands to the south or heading back home after being there (you can tell the difference immediately: tan, glazed, and relaxed, leaving; pale, uptight, and lost, en route). Far from the seedy sleaze scene I expected to encounter, the vibe here is quite cool and the red light district is but a tiny part of this sprawling city. In fact, it's so far removed from Khaosan Road that if I didn't already know Patpong existed, I'd never imagine that's what this town is famous for.

What truly surprises me about Bangkok is that it's so picturesque and rich in Thai culture. The city has more than 400 Buddhist temples and is carved by the Chao Phraya River, which in turn, splits into dozens of tiny waterways that wend through town, reminiscent of Venice. The narrow canals are filled with colorful boats and ferries that serve as floating markets or transport people from place to place. Since the traffic in Bangkok is among the worst in the world (no wonder I feel at home here!) water transportation is not only essential, it's much more efficient than going by bus or car. It?s also fun and affords you the opportunity to see the city, palaces, and temples from the river. At sunset, when they're all lit up, gold and glittering along with the sky, it's really something.

Bangkok is full of things to do and has a thriving night life. Of course, there's the lure of Patpong, which for better or worse attracts a lot of folks here. But as I said before, it's at the opposite end of the city from Khaosan Road and a good distance from the other night life/tourist spots of Siam Square and Sarasin Road, so it's easily avoidable. What can be had instead is everything from Thai Boxing to dinner cruises to heavy metal head banging--Thai style! The clubs here feature mainly local bands performing pop, blues, jazz, rock, and, of course, The King. In no place outside of Graceland do you find more Elvis impersonators than in Asia--and God bless 'em for that! You also find a lot of metal heads who hang out at the Rock Pub and play flying V's, as well as would-be rednecks who don big belt buckles and Wranglers and mosey on over to the Old West for a shot of Jack and a brew. The huge Saxophone Club, a three storey bar/restaurant by the Victory Monument, features international blues and jazz players, as does the Magic Mushroom. Khaosan Road also has some pool hall/pubs, such as Susie's and Gulliver's, that attract young single travelers and nearly all the hang-outs along the street crank (and I mean CRANK!!!) tunes and sling pints of Singha well into the witching hour. There?s also the mandatory Hard Rock and Planet Hollywoods here too but if you're actually lame enough to hang out there--or, God forbid, buy a T-shirt--then stop reading this column right now and go directly to sucker!.com--and stay there!

As for food, just try to find something bad. All the restaurants selling Thai--even the blatantly touristy ones--rock! The food is fresh, spicy, and so wickedly flavorful that it inspires passion and poetry simultaneously. The Thai soup, Tom Yum Kai (my personal favorite made of chicken broth, coconut milk, lemon grass, Siamese ginger, hot peppers, cilantro, mushrooms, and bamboo shoots--with chicken and/or prawns optional) is liquid heaven and is available everywhere. Seafood, any kind of grilled meat kebobs, great vegetable stir fry, fresh fruit, crepes, smoothies, and even excellent Thai coffee can be had in cafes or from street vendors at all hours. Prices vary from extremely inexpensive (chicken and pineapple kebob @ streetside barbecue for 10 baht per stick [38 baht = $1] to just inexpensive (Thai soup in the most notorious tourist trap, 80 baht for a huge bowl). So, any way you carve it, it's a gourmet's dream. There are also a host of other cuisines available (an excellent Italian and jazz cafe called Primavera, just off Khaosan Road at 56 Phra Sumen Rd.), fast food joints, and 7-11's on--I kid you not--every corner. So, if you're a Slurpee and Thai food freak like me, this is some kind of fantasy land!

Much to Gary's dismay, Bangkok is also a shopper's (read: girl's) paradise. Every few feet of every street, real and fake designer clothes and every kind of cutesy girlie gear are on sale for pennies. Purses, shades, sarongs, tie dyes, T-shirts, batiks, woodwork, jewelry, lingerie, cassettes, software, video games, shoes, beads, candles, books, stationary, Hello Kitty hair clips--you name it, it's here and it's a fraction of what it costs in the West. Of course, the further away from Khaosan Road and other touristy areas you go, the better the deals. And, if you're foolish enough to buy the first things you see from the first vendors you talk to, you'll pay as much or more than you do in LA or New York. But if you're a good little shopper and can get past the sometimes hard-nosed Thai women who have bargaining in their blood, you can truly score, baby! Now, you just need a backpack big enough to carry it all home in (or a stud willing to cart it for you--which the place is crawling with, too, girls, let me tell you...).

Bangkok is a city known for tolerance and so you see just about everything here. Much of the wait staff on Khaosan Road is made up of transvestites--very understated and pretty he-shes who don't wear the typical Divine make-up but instead simply pluck their eyebrows and sport frosty lip gloss and padded bras. On the flipside, Buddhist monks, clad in orange robes and sandals, are an intregal part of society and lend a tranquil presence that perfectly counterbalances the abrasive "tuk-tuk" (rickshaw) drivers and hardcore Thai boxers. Dogs and cats are all over the place too and seem to have a good life here--especially the cats, who are fed and loved by the old ladies who run the fish stalls. Bangkok is also known for its schools, dance, art, and museum. The National Museum is the biggest in South-East Asia and offers free tours and classes, and some of the dance schools also feature free performances.

If you're at all into sports, do go check out the Thai boxing--it's on every night of the week. We went last night to Rajadamnern Stadium and saw about 10 different bouts, each of which last five rounds. The stadium is small and atmosphere charged--even if the place isn't sold out. A tiny band, consisting of an Asian clarinet player, an accordion-type instrumentalist, and drummers, plays in the corner and as the fight gets more intense, so does the music. I've never seen that at a boxing match before--in the States there's no music during the fights--and, I must say, it adds a lot to the competition. We saw a couple good skirmishes, and even a guy who got knocked out and had to be carried out on a stretcher, but unless you speak Thai or know a lot about kick boxing, you don't really know what's going on. It's worth seeing for the spectacle though--and to hear the trippy band!

So, there you have it: the lowdown on Bangkok. It's a cool, fun, delicious, and interesting city and the best part is, it leads to gorgeous tropical islands and mystic temples and sand...

The best time to travel to Thailand is November-April, when it's dry. We're here off-season and as we speak the monsoon rains are pouring down--I wish you could hear it, it's awesome!--but they only hit at certain times of the day and are actually pretty amazing storms to experience. The advantage of coming off-season fewer tourists and cheaper room rates. Rooms can be as little as 70 baht per night along Khaosan Road; we opted for a double room with TV and breakfast included for 290 baht per night just past the Banglamphoo temple (Sawasdee Bangkok Inn, http://www.sawasdee-hotels.com). But no matter where you stay, there's no need for advanced planning, all rooms can be booked once you're here--there's an abundance always (check your Lonely Planet Guide for exact info). Air fare one way from Calcutta is about $120 per person on Indian Airlines and roundtrip tickets from NY and LA get a lot cheaper after September: LA-Bangkok on Korean Air drops to $609.40; NY-Bangkok on Northwest Airlines, $834.40. There are great deals to be had through http://www.priceline.com, as well as through discount carriers and by purchasing around-the-world tickets, where you can stop multiple times for one price. So keep on the look-out!

It may cost a little more to get to Asia than Europe but after the airfare, prices are more than reasonable here. In fact, they're downright cheap--and, believe me, Europe is not! So, save your pennies, look around and surf the web for travel offers, and think East, not West. Our next stop is southern Thailand, Sumatra, and Nais Island, so stay tuned--if I haven't sold you on the East yet, these gorgeous islands surely will...


July 1999
Thailand - Malaysia - Indonesia Travelogue

"Tales of intrigue, tropical wonderlands, and magnificent Mother Nature."

And the quest continues...

From Bangkok, we left by bus toward the island of Penang, Malaysia, en route to our main destination: Sumatra, Indonesia. Medan, the capital of Sumatra, lies just across the Straits of Melaka, a speed ferry ride away from Penang, which is part of the reason why we chose this route. But, honestly, Penang is a worthwhile destination in its own right, full of beauty, charm, and abundant intrigue.

Penang Island, Malaysia: mecca of dreamers
Penang is the oldest British settlement in Malaysia and both looks and feels like a miniature Hong Kong. Its main city of Georgetown spreads across the scenic harbor and serves as a thriving port and commercial center for this region of the world. The city is predominantly Chinese in flavor and character, from the architecture to the people to the food, although there are, of course, Malaysians and a formidable community of Indians living and working here too. The narrow streets are chock full of noodle stalls and herbal tea stands, temples and bicycle rickshaws, while the shore is lined with seafood vendors and wide-open green parks perfect for kite flying, picnicking, and playing soccer--all big pastimes here.

They say it is a mecca for "dreamers, dissidents, intellectuals, and artists" and I can attest that Georgetown definitely has an aire of mystery and creativity about it. Down each tiny avenue you can discover a wealth of strange and fascinating sites: cozy, smoke-filled coffee shops a-brack with bantering Chinese businessmen; small gymnasiums full of kids practicing martial arts; warehouses stacked to the ceiling with ornamental Chinese dragons; palm readers and astrologists parked next to Eastern medicinal shops, each offering remedy and insight into all that ails you. Even the many restaurants and pubs--though typical of any city--feel somehow different here, perhaps because talking, smoking, and eating are favored habits and both the culture and atmosphere encourage long lingering deep discussions. And since there are so many travelers who pass through, the conversations can be quite worldly, with Chinese, Malay, European, Australian, Brazilian, and even the scant American pondering the fate of the universe over pints of Tiger beer and the sweet scent of Indonesian clove cigarettes.

Yee Hoe! Chicks and furniture
Looking for a tung clinic? You can find it here. How about some exotic ostrich oil? No problem. Chicks and furniture? Right across the street from our hotel. You can find literally everything you never imagined and then some on these streets. Got a penchant for porcelain Buddhas? You're ship's definitely come in--the shops can't seem to stock enough of 'em! And then there's medicinal tea, served hot or cold on nearly every corner, and plenty of bright pink and green sweets that look more like Play Dough than food. Yes, it's all here in Penang, which is a thriving international center of business and trade, perfectly situated between Thailand, Singapore, and Indonesia to give it that certain bizarre mix of cultures and appetites. Prices are low too because it's a free port and makes shopping--even for tacky overweight Buddha statues--almost irresistible!

The few days we spent here I must confess I had a hard time controlling my urge to spend--and eat! The food is just fabulous.There are hundreds of quaint, romantic restaurants but most eat at outdoor cafes or stalls, which is really the way to go. There's one large outdoor food court in the city center (on Lebuh Kimberley) in which dozens of vendors serve savory meals ranging from seafood to claypot chicken and rice to satay. You can create your own soups, picking out what you desire (such as crab, herbs and chilies, baby corn, etc.) from a cartful of fresh ingredients, and the cook prepares it for you on the spot--a big bowl, with noodles or rice, for about $1.50. Fresh fruit juices and salads are available too, as is coffee with ginseng--a truly inspired creation simply ideal for those who need an instant pick-me-up. Caffeine and ginseng addict that I am, I'm hooked--Zzzzzzzzzzzzing!

Monsoon mind games
During our fascinating foray into Penang life it rained--and I mean downpoured, as only it can in an Asian monsoon--almost the entire time we were in town but despite that, or maybe even because of it, our experience was more than memorable. Like I said before, the place is brimming with intrigue and you can literally feel that kind of vibe as you traverse the tiny alleyways a-glow with red paper lanterns. Add to those narrow alleyways some mist and rain, shadowy figures criss-crossing your path, and the din of foghorns in the distance and it really sparks the imagination and fills a natural dreamer like me full of ideas and delusions. I mean, I even started smoking in Penang. Cigarettes. Cloves, to be exact, so I guess that's not really smoking. But it feels like smoking. It feels somehow sinister and so unlike myself--it's like slipping into a costume or alter ego. Puffing and dragging, Bette Davis-style. It's so grotesquely chic! Anyway, it was part of my delusional state, wholly caused by the scene and circumstances I found myself in. In my mind, the balmy wet nights in that exotic Asian city provided the ideal setting for a spy novel, starring me. And spies naturally assume disguises...

So, I smoked cloves, feeling very sinister (don't worry, Dad, it was just a passing fancy!), and walked and talked a lot and discovered all sorts of odd characters and bizarre bits of culture. For starters, I learned that I'm born in the Year of the Dragon, the most auspicious year in the Chinese calendar. This is supposed to guarantee me "riches, luck, power, longevity, and perhaps a harem"--can you believe that?!!! With such brilliant news, I was definitely up and ready for anything! However, nothing especially lucky or even hinting at the future formation of a harem happened--but I did learn some fascinating tidbits about Georgetown's notorious underworld. This used to be a big drug and Asian Mafia haven and, perhaps, still is because you see very little sign of police anywhere (there's a huge headquarters here but no one seems to be in it--ever!). Political refugees used to flock here too, as well as dissidents and revolutionaries from around the globe. This central yet hidden Asian island is an ideal locale to both find privacy and plan further escapades--in fact, a few famous regional coups have supposedly been plotted from within these very streets, including the Canton uprising led by Sun Yatsen in 1911. So, you see, I had good cause for my overactive imagination to be running at warp speed--this place has more going on under the surface than even I could dream up.

We also met some interesting fellow travelers who gathered at our hotel, the Blue Diamond, which is a really cool and funky place to stay. It kind of looks like Gilligan's Island in a parking lot. Just outside the main lobby it's got an outdoor pool table, bar, tropical plants, and mini palm-thatched huts and umbrellas that shield about a dozen or so tables from the rain or sun. These face the street, Lebuh Chulia, which is the main drag for guest houses, restaurants, and night life, so it's a pretty interesting view. The place also attracts locals and passers-by, making it easy to mix and mingle with a slew of folks, which we did.

Local schmoozing
While consuming drinks and the atmosphere late one night, we met some local Chinese who offered insight into their culture and also told us a bit about what it's like to be Chinese in Malaysia. The Chinese run most businesses in both Malaysia and Indonesia but are not naturalized citizens--even though most families have been here for four generations or more, since the 1700s. This creates a rather formidable barrier between them and the natives, as well as language and culture. The fact that they are so commercially successful in the face of the majority of locals who are not or have just faced severe economic hardships does nothing to lessen the tension and division either and the result is that they have become a very ostracized though dominant community. For example, the Chinese are the ones who always get their butts kicked and businesses torched when the masses are upset. Hence, they tend to hang in large groups and create their own communities, like Georgetown. During this past year especially it's been no picnic to be Chinese in this region but, despite all that, they feel totally at home here. And, in fact, it is their home. The people we met had never even been to China.

For my part, the Chinese here are very friendly and extremely efficient business people. The art of trade is truly in their blood and they're always the consummate professional, whether they're selling high tech computers or fried rice. Their ancient culture gives them a certain wisdom I don't even pretend to comprehend but can appreciate and which incites in me a deep desire to discover some of their secrets, which they clearly have plenty of. The only thing I really can't dig is the fact that you can find tiger products here. I realize this is a cultural thing but they really need to get over it and realize that tigers are almost extinct and there is no need to kill such a magnificent creature in order to make Band-Aids (yes, we found these here--totally sick) or male potency elixirs (the main draw for tiger bone). As one Australian guy I met said, someone needs to subsidize Viagra for all Chinese men and ship it over in mass quantities--then the tiger might have a fighting chance. Until that happens though, or until someone actually enforces the law against killing endangered species, it looks pretty bad. Anyway, it's certainly not all Chinese who condone killing tigers or use those products, just as it's not all Americans who condone violence or owning automatic weapons (contrary to what most Easterners think thanks to Hollywood and the NRA). It's a small percentage but, like filmmakers and the NRA in the States, I really wish those people would get a clue (and some Viagra--the Chinese men and Charlton Heston!) and have some respect for life.

Mother Nature rocks!
When it finally stopped raining, we stopped day dreaming and took to the streets in earnest. We did more perusing and cruising, took in a horrible film, and ate too much. We scoped the coastline and visited the tropical butterfly farm--and what an awesome, awesome place that turned out to be!

The first of its kind in the world, the Penang Butterfly Farm is a giant hothouse set in the beautiful countryside about 30 minutes from Georgetown. It's a big indoor botanical garden a-bloom with orchids, lilies, lotus, and hibiscus in glorious reds, violets, peaches, and pinks. These are set off by big green leafy palms and ferns and a waterfall that flows through the center into a pond full of coy, eel, and catfish. It's a gorgeous garden but what makes it truly spectacular are the hundreds and hundreds of butterflies that flit, fly, and dance everywhere. It's incredible! The butterflies come in every color of the rainbow--and many that aren't--and every size, from the giant Birdwing of Indonesia to the tiny Slipper of Malaysia. They sip the sweet nectar of flowers, hang upside down on the damp rocks under the waterfall, fly from plant to plant in elaborate mating dances, or perch majestically, in all their regal brilliance, on the windows and walls. They also happily land on your fingers, shoulders, or hair! I had two of the biggest and most beautiful creatures on me for about half an hour: the Hercules moth, the largest of the butterfly species (their wingspan is up to 14 inches across!). They were simply breath-taking and left me feeling truly in awe of Mother Nature. What a rockin? chick she is--and what an imagination!

The butterfly farm also features other trippy and awe-inspiring creatures, including a bi-sexual butterfly (I swear), the Technicolor panther chameleon of Madagascar--he's neon green, turquoise blue, bright red and yellow with brown tiger stripes (I fell completely in love with him!)--and a host of mimicking insects, such as leaf and stick bugs and butterflies, and the unbelievable female facebug whose back looks EXACTLY like a tribal mask, complete with punk rock-style black hair-do. I've never seen anything like it! Like everything else in this region of the world, nature here is simply surreal. It comes in colors, forms, and habits you never dreamed were possible.

Wild sites, fab festivals & TV stardom
Though we didn't really want to go, we had to shove on. But our last day turned out to be a fun one, as we were interviewed by a local TV station about what we think of Penang. We hammed it up to the max for Asia TV1 just to be sure we'd make the final cut (though we'll never see it, I'm sure!) and oozed saccharine about how much we and Cool Grrrls LOVE Georgetown. But, in truth, we do love this place. As the Lonely Planet guidebook says, who wouldn?t?

Penang is indeed a rich brocade of Eastern cloth, affording visitors an easy glance into some very ancient and complex cultures. And, besides that, it's a lot of fun and has a host of fine points and entertainments. There are beaches just a few miles from Georgetown--small but perfect for day excursions--and resort islands for longer stays. There are also a few famous temples, including the ominous Snake Temple, the South Indian Sri Mariamman Temple, and the Wat Chayamangkalaram (home of a 32-meter reclining Buddha--akin to those found in Thailand). Of course, there's the must-see butterfly farm, Penang Hill (a park 830 meters above the city with a glorious view), and a bunch of karaoke bars, if singing off-key to canned music is your scene (apparently it's everyone's scene here!). Every spring there's a major kite festival; in July there's a waterfront food fest; and in August there's the vibrant holiday of the angry ghost, during which mystics and gurus perform sacred ceremonies and ancient rites, sip opium water and speak in tongues, and drink blood from live chickens. This festival features music and dancing in the streets and offers spectators an eyeful of some of the wildest sites imaginable--I only wish we were going to be here for it this year!

Getting here & away
Getting to Penang if you're already in Asia is simple and pretty cheap. From Bangkok by bus it's about $15 (but be warned, the Thai bus drivers stop every hour and make a six-hour trip into a day-long torture), so the train is probably a better idea. It's priced about $30 per person, more for first class. From Medan, it's about $20 one-way by speed ferry. The Blue Diamond is a great guest house (422 Lebuh Chulia; tel. 04-261-1089) and Georgetown is definitely the area to stay in. Oasis Guest House on Love Lane is also recommended. These both have big double rooms for about $7 per night or dorm beds for as low as $1.75, no reservations needed. The Penang Tourist Information Center is at tel. 04-261-4461; the Malaysian Tourism Center is at tel. 04-643-0501; and the railway booking office for Penang is at tel. 04-261-0290. There's an international airport here, so it's possible to fly in directly. Flights from Bangkok are about $100 one-way but flights within Malaysia on Malaysian Airlines are dirt cheap--as low as $20. JAL, Cathay Pacific, Northwest, Singapore, Thai, and United all fly here.

Next stop, Nias Island
After a fun break in a fascinating city, we were on to other destinations--to the big, wild island of Sumatra and the little and very hard to get to island of Nias, just off her west coast. So, we boarded the high speed ferry and in six hours were in Medan to begin the next and most tropical leg of our adventure to date. And what a glorious venture it turned out to be. Indonesia is simply incredible and Nias, famous for its surf and remote beaches, is a little slice of heaven on earth. Getting to it, however, can be hell--but it's well worth the effort. But that, my friends, is a tale for next week. Don't miss it--Indo is the place you wanna go and I'm the girl to take you there, believe me! One look and you'll be hooked.

With that beautiful thought in mind, enjoy yourselves wherever you are and remember, life is short so live it to the fullest and spread as much love as you can--the world needs as much as it can get!

Peace and Maximum Respect,

d

July 1999
Sumatra, Indonesia
Nias Island, Indonesia

"A Tale of Surreal Scenery, Epic Surf, Sick Coffee & Fruit Salads"

Surreal Sumatra
Lush, green, volcanic landscapes blanketed with thick palm jungles and cut by symmetrically perfect, watery rice fields. Forests of arched rubber trees, with tiny colored cups tapping their sap attached mid-trunk, and small villages of ancient ox-horn-roof houses where stone chairs forged in the Middle Ages still invite communal gathering. Dinosaur-sized brilliant flowers and foliage--banana leaves big enough to sleep in!--surrounding fantastical great lakes, painted every shade of blue, that simultaneously lead downward to the center of the earth and upward to reflect the heavenly cumulous clouds that drift and dodge and hang. Cascading waterfalls that pass through caves and over stone cliffs, raining on colorful plants that bloom and alight with chirping birds and butterflies.

Farmers, clad in rolled-up cottons and triangular bamboo hats, wading knee-deep in rice and water, hunching over to pull, pick, plant, and prune. Raven-haired, beautiful women--young and old--tossing grains on circular bamboo trays, separating the chaff and laying the kernels out to dry on larger mats along the roadside. Kids, laughing and smiling, kicking soccer balls in open fields; old men with weathered skin and impossibly bright eyes pedaling past on classic one-speeds; a wedding procession--with bridesmaids carrying giant wreaths of gold, red, and white flowers in their hands, older women balancing bamboo cylinders of grains and other offerings to the couple on their heads, the groom and groomsmen decked in tie and tails leading the advance, and the bride and family, sumptuously dressed in silk finery, bringing up the rear--trodding a dirt path to one of the dozens of white-washed churches that dot this countryside. Ox-horn-