Meg Noble Peterson

Author of Madam, Have You Ever Really Been Happy? An Intimate Journey through Africa and Asia

Category: India

TSO PEMA, THE GOLDEN STATUE, AND THE HOLY CAVES….

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On January 18, 2011

In India

(Continuing my trip with Cary through parts of northern India)

After four days in Suja and Bir, Cary and I headed for Rewalsar, or Tso Pema, a holy pilgrimage destination for Tibetan Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs. Good friends loaned us an apartment on one of the hills overlooking the sacred lake, very near the exquisite, almost-finished golden statue of Guru Rinpoche, known also as Padmasambhava, the yogi who introduced Buddhism to Tibet. Four years ago we had watched laborers, men and women, constructing the immense statue of the revered Rinpoche sitting on a lotus leaf. Now it had been painted gold and brown, and the outside of the buildings underneath showed snow lions holding up the enormous structure. Inside the main hall were outstanding statues of the Buddha and different Tibetan deities. Every inch of the walls were covered with colorful and exquisitely detailed murals of religious figures.

This little town is charming and rather quaint, with the main road leading to a walkway where Buddhists can do kora around the lake shore. Monkeys chatter and swing in the trees, a bank of fluttering prayer flags spans one end, and swarms of open-mouthed, ugly fish gather (which are considered sacred) at the edge for pellets that tourists throw their way. Dogs–all of whom seem to be related–lie around, oblivious to the danger of incessant traffic. One huge black bull, almost a mascot in town, stands chewing garbage and cardboard, or begging for leftovers at the various restaurants. He can be seen scratching his head against a post, unless some kind soul does it for him (yes, I did). A benign creature for sure, he is the animal of choice when a farmer has a cow in heat. Gossip has it that he has an envious life!

Cary has a close connection with Lena Feral, an American Lama and practitioner of Oriental medicine, who lives on the hill above the statue. They met when she served as interpreter for Lama Wangdor’s teachings on Buddhism in the U.S. He resides in the holy caves, and we climbed the steep hill to meet with him and several of the nuns who live there. Cary had done a retreat in one of the caves three years ago.

Meeting with the Lama is always a joy. Like the Dalai Lama, he has a fine sense of humor and a bouncy personality, despite the hardships he suffered escaping the Chinese troops years ago, carrying his elderly teacher on his back. We had the pleasure of two meals with him (the homemade yoghurt is unrivaled in my experience), and of meeting with many nuns who need sponsoring. Cary handed over gifts and letters to those who are already sponsored.

We also continued our search for the sweetest papaya this side of heaven…something we seldom get to eat at home. It became a daily ritual all the way to Delhi.

We had many discussions about the vast differences between our way of life and that of the people we observed. I found it ever more difficult to accept, and was continually trying to rein in my judgment of the environmental pollution, the sub-standard living conditions, the garbage, and the dirt. I was gratified to see that Tso Pema now has a garbage truck attached to a tractor that drives through the streets each morning and picks up trash–or waits while people throw bucketfuls of debris in the truck. This is something both the government and the citizens must change to keep their rivers and water from being completely polluted.

We returned to the Suja TCV school for Christmas Eve just as the director was distributing 1,000 wool shawls to the students, given  by a Swiss benefactor. The children were overjoyed, for it was really cold. That evening we had a festive meal at Sonam and Tsering’s apartment above the Tibetan Medical Clinic in Bir. Sonam surprised me with a Christmas tree made from a leafy green plant, adorned with some small katas (white shawls), and a medallion on the top. There were several candles burning while I sang God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen and Silent Night. We did our own small exchange of gifts before leaving at midnight.

Before departing Suja, we spent time with an outstanding student, Shawo Choeden, sponsored by my grandson, Thomas Bixler. He wanted us to see his book collection, which took up his entire cupboard, and he gave us copies of the literary magazine he edits. At sixteen he’s a very serious student and the year before had asked Cary to bring him books on leadership, which she did. After only having studied English for three years, he is wading through tomes that are still daunting to me! On our first visit, we asked if he needed anything. He was hesitant to tell us, but we discovered that he could hardly read the blackboard and was having trouble seeing, even though he held his books close to his face. He was terrified that he would lose his sight. After getting his eyes examined and fitting a new pair of glasses (750 rupees, about $16.00), he stepped out of the office, grinned and said, “It’s a whole new world out there!”

Shawo arises at 3 A.M., prays and meditates for half-an-hour, then reads and studies until breakfast. We let him know that wherever he goes, or whatever he needs, he has a family the United States that cares very much for him.

During our final four days in McLeod Ganj, we met with an outstanding young man, Thrinley Gyatso, who taught himself English as well as attending the transitional school there, and is now doing translations and working for a Swiss N.G.O. He has already translated a book written by a close friend, who spent six months, incognito, in Tibet, observing the changes going on and the draconian Chinese restrictions perpetrated on the Tibetan community. It’s a candid journal. I’ll write more about it after its publication.

He also made us aware of the current practice of “selling” young children from Bihar, a very poor part of India, as servants to businesses and homes in northern India. This is done by arrangement with the parents, who receive 400 – 500 rupees a month (about 10$), to the detriment of the children, who receive little or no education during their formative years. We saw a lot of this in restaurants and stores, a most disturbing problem, but one being openly discussed by thinking people in Indian and Tibetan society. It is very controversial, with some people claiming that the children are often better fed and cared for than they would be in Bihar.

Back to the present: Our friends from Whidbey Island, Anne and Don Zontine, world travelers extraordinaire, whose philosophy and mode of travel is similar to mine, arrived on Sunday and are hunkered down in a cozy room (for 200 rupees) near us. We’re having a ball–swimming twice a day, poking around the beautiful back alleys of Gokarna where temples abound and sacred washing and bathing takes place in a huge rectangular “lake,” and eating at one of several superior restaurants in town and on the beach. An average meal costs about $3.00 or less. And, yes, the lassis are made from pure yoghurt and fresh fruit. That’s as good as it gets!

IT’S OFF TO DHARAMSALA!

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On January 15, 2011

In India

I trust that you all will continue to indulge me in my attempts to fill the spaces in my journey. Internet cafes are few and far between, and they are not working terribly well. Not to be cynical…just realistic. It ain’t like home, as they say.

The peaceful atmosphere of Gokarna returned for a couple of days after the black-clad young male pilgrims left, but they are back, today, in full force…hundreds of them arriving in identical cars, horns honking, arms waving from windows, and happily shouting as they rush to the ocean and stand in the water. But that’s not what it’s about. This is the first Hindu festival of the new year, Sankranti, and they are here to visit one of the holiest sites, the Mahabaleshwar temple. I also found out that the pilgrims give sweets to elders, neighbors, and friends, saying that we should all be kind (sweet) to each other. Then these people give blessings in return. How come nobody has approached me? Oops, a young man just handed me a package of sweets.

So, since the streets are jam-packed and nobody is moving, this seems like a perfect time to recreate the loving and giving spirit of the three weeks I spent in Dharamsala, Suja, Bir, and Rewalsar (Pso Pema).

Cary and I bid farewell to Martha on December 10, 2010, and boarded a less than optimum second class sleeper to Patankot, which is a three hour taxi ride from Dharamsala. On the 12th we arrived in hilly McLeod Ganj, upper Dharamsala, and viewed the snowy peaks of the Dhauladhar Hills rising in the distance. I felt as if I were coming home. This is the site of the Namgyal Temple and the Tibetan community in exile, as well as the home of the 14th Dalai Lama (when he’s not traveling). It has been four years since I experienced His Holiness’s lectures on Buddhism at this temple.

We stopped on Temple Rd., at the bottom of our street, and started the long, steep hike to the Kongpo House, settling into the same room we had had at the end of our 2007 trip. Immediately, we went to our favorite coffee house, The Ten Yang Café, had a superb cappuccino, poached eggs, Spanish omelet, and real homemade wheat toast (our first and only in India). The café had been redecorated to make space for more tables, so the eggs were cooked at a new sister café two doors up, and served to us at the Ten Yang. It was a riot! We finally decided to go directly to the source and use the new café. The eggs were definitely warmer.

The town looked pretty much the same and we walked around greeting several merchants who still remembered me as a tough bargainer—especially Bilal Ahmed Gunna, who sells high quality Kashmiri carpets, wall hangings, jewelry, and shawls. The shop has a perfect name, Paradise Arts.

Thus started a whirlwind three weeks, reconnecting with old friends, meeting new ones, and visiting sponsored students in two TCV (Tibetan Children’s Village) schools. This first stay in McLeod Ganj was short, however, because we had to be in Suja to see our students before they left on winter break. We had time, however, to look up an old friend, Terry Rollins, whom I’d met on the Kangchenjunga trek in 1996. He had been teaching English at Tibetan Charity for three months with several other western volunteers. We all ate and reminisced together at a favorite restaurant, The Chonor House, not to be missed for tasteful décor and good food.

The ride to Suja, a neat little farming village near Bir, and where the TCV school is located, was through lush forests and over winding roads. This school is where the students are placed who have just escaped from Tibet by crossing over Himalayas to the Nepalese border (an arduous and harrowing journey). The facility is large and laid out artistically, consisting of small houses (family style), basic dormitories with bunk beds, a kitchen, a family room, and a large patio rimmed with flowers and shrubs. The children do the chores and help with the chopping and cleaning of vegetables. Every “home” has a housemother or adult in charge. This year new solar panels and water filters have been installed on the roofs. This kind of living arrangement encourages a feeling of family, and is so important to the children, many of whom have lost their parents or may never see them, again. The older children seem protective of the younger ones, and help them with their studies, which for many start early in the morning. These children are so motivated to succeed, knowing the sacrifice their parents have made for their education, that they voluntarily get up before dawn, go outside in the cold, and can be heard reciting their lessons…loudly. I know, since they wake me up!

There are about 1500 students at Suja, ranging in age from about 5 to 18 years of age. The classes are run according to proficiency in a subject, rather than age. There used to be over 2000 youngsters, but the number has dropped due to the tighter restrictions instituted by the Chinese, in league with the border personnel in Nepal. Some of the children arrive speaking Chinese, which is the only language allowed, now, in the schools in Tibet. Other children have no schooling, since their families, especially the nomads, cannot afford the fees. Can you imagine arriving in a new country and having to learn to speak, read, and write not only your own language and the one you presently speak, but also English? These children are amazing!

Parents send their children to the TCV schools, started by the Dalai Lama’s sister, Tsering Dolma (who passed away in 1964), because they want them to know their own culture and religion, which is being systematically destroyed by the Chinese. It’s a heart-breaking situation, but it also has produced a group of dedicated, educated young people determined to work for a better world and the eventual freedom of their people.

Cary tracks more than 20 students for whom she has gotten sponsors in the U. S. Every year she visits these children, some of whom have graduated and are now in college. I am amazed at their progress in English (a requirement from kindergarten on), their dedication, and their goals. I am also impressed with the teachers, many of whom came up through the system as refugees, themselves, and are willing to work for small salaries to give back to others what they, themselves, have gotten.

The motto of the school—Others Before Self—sets the tone of personal responsibility and the Buddhist tenants of love and compassion.

The Tibetans and their families, with whom we spent time, are very upbeat, happy people. They have endured great hardships and are grateful for the haven provided by the Indian government. Nobody we visited had central heating, including the room where we stayed. We enjoyed reading our digital thermometer every morning, finding that the typical outside temperature ranged from 49 to 54 degrees (I know, it’s nothing like New Jersey right now). This was true morning and evening, but midday was warm. The secret was to wear layers. Hey, traveling makes you hardy! No more complaints when the furnace goes on the fritz for a day!

THE CHARM OF DARJEELING IS MORE THAN THE TEA….

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On January 14, 2011

In India, Sikkim

…even ‘though it’s mind-boggling to choose among the dozens of varieties grown on the hills outside town. It reminds me of the vast tea plantations I visited in the Cameron Highlands in Indonesia in 1996. Rows and rows of beautifully pruned dark green bushes (always make me think of boxwood), their tender leaves being hand-picked by an army of sari-clad women. These jobs are at a premium and coveted–paying well and providing benefits.

As you may have surmised, I’m skipping back to December 6, right after our trek in Sikkim, hoping to catch up while resting my injured knee. Bear with me as I relate the highlights of the last month of 2010.

Our driver from Gangtok, J. P., met us the last day of the trek and squired us for two days over the winding, pot-holed country roads to visit our last two monasteries, Sangacholing, considered the oldest in Sikkim, which lay amidst thick forested hills opposite the Pemayantse Monastery. All the monasteries we visited on the final days of our trek were like this…way up in the mountains, not open to cars, and reached by banks of stone steps. We were in good shape, however, having climbed many much steeper hills in the previous three weeks.

It took hours on roads not to be believed to get to the outskirts of Darjeeling. At times the switchbacks were so severe that J. P. had to stop and go into reverse, then turn sharply in order to stay on the road. But the scenery was well worth the ride: deep valleys, bamboo forests, and ever-climbing terraces. Finally, Darjeeling appeared on several hills…a bustling, noisy, rather beat-up-looking old hill station from British colonial times. You could see relics of the old mansions and government buildings squeezed between the dilapidated wooden buildings that dotted the hills. Streets wound around and the bazaar was extensive and colorful. Alleyways connected the upper and lower levels, but I found the shrill honking of motorcycles and cars (where do they find these horns?) jarring after about thirty minutes,  and begged for mercy. There is still an appalling amount of trash and garbage everywhere, but a truck comes around in the early morning hours and shovels it away, leaving room for the next day’s offering. Stray dogs abound, rummaging through the smelly debris.

To visit Darjeeling you need stamina! Streets go down, down, down and up, up, up. And the climbing didn’t stop when we checked into The Dekeling Hotel, a comfortable haven run by a delightful Tibetan family. It’s  nestled into a hill and we were given a sixth floor attic room, reached by climbing innumerable stairs, turning corners, walking through reading and breakfast rooms, and, finally, the laundry. I felt very proud that I found my way back without dropping bread crumbs! Note: this was the first night in three weeks that we’d slept in sheets. It was heavenly.

There is a charming old train from British days that runs from Siliguri to Darjeeling, called the “toy train.” Very popular with tourists. We saw two stations and enjoyed following the small tracks as they wound back and forth from one side of the road to the other. It was funny to see women sitting on the tracks with their goods laid out for sale in front of them. Obviously, they knew the train schedule well.

The day before we left, we arose at 3:30 A.M. and met J. P. to head for Tiger Hill to view the sunrise. This is a tradition and is well worth waiting for hours in the bitter cold. We arrived about two hours early in order to find a parking space. Hundreds of cars soon lined the hill road, and droves of people stood and shivered together to catch the first rays of light. Excitement and expectancy filled the air.

At 6:20 they were rewarded as pale pink streaks crept over the Kangchenjunga range. Where we were standing was an entirely different view and took longer. But what a sight! Way over to the left I could see the white cone of Mt. Everest next to Makalu and Lhotse. This was the first time I’d seen Everest look like what it is…the highest point on earth. It was an emotional moment for me. When I saw it from Kala Pattar in 1987, it was in the distance and did not look so powerful. Close by were the Three Sister, also white with snow. I had last seen them in Nepal in 1999 on the Annapurna trek.

The next day we visited the Himalayan Mountain Institute and The Climbing School, where Tenzing Norgay’s ashes are entombed, and where equipment and clothing used in the historic 1953 Everest expedition with Sir Edmund Hillary and other major climbs were on display. Close by was the Padmajo Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park, where we ogled the tigers, Himalayan wolves, and red panda bears.

So it was off to Siliguri, visiting a tea plantation factory en route, which probably hadn’t changed since British rule. A camera crew was making a documentar and photographing the women as they sat cross-legged on the floor sorting leaves.

I have to say that it was a great experience to take a first class sleeper to Delhi, complete with three meals, tea, and free bottled water. We giggled as we luxuriated in these small excesses. Little did I know just how great they were until I experienced 2nd and 3rd class!

I’m still in Gokarna, happy to have had my mosquito netting installed, and loving to listen to the roar of the Arabian Sea every night. I finally went swimming, lay down in the sun, and didn’t even flinch when a cow walked two feet from my head. He takes his morning and evening constitutional in front of our guest house. It’s the only beef I’ve seen in southern India.

KRISHNA IS HAVING A WILD TIME IN UDUPI AND IT’S A CELEBRATION TO BEHOLD!

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On January 10, 2011

In India

I’m about to begin a whole new phase of my Indian adventure in Gokarna, which is about three hours by totally chock-a-block, standing-room-only train from Udupi, and two hours south of Goa. Lee and I found a pleasant bungalow near the beach for $10 (a bargain for two), so I can take my aching knee to the Arabian Sea for cooling therapy twice a day…and swimming,too. But, first, let me tell you a bit about the excitement of the two days before we left Udupi.

Good fortune sent us a new friend, Bharat Devnani,who is an Indian who has lived in Australia and California, and is well aware of both worlds. He is also a Hindu,  conversant with the complicated theology of the religion. He made it come alive for me and actually was able to get me into the most venerable temple in this part of India. The pilgrims seemed to be pleased that a westerner took such interest in their ceremony and were most welcoming. The statue of the baby Krishna, which resides there, is over 5,000 years old, and is revered by thousands of devoted pilgrims, who swarm into town several times a year. This particular celebration will last six days, two of which we experienced.

Many of you may have seen the ancient chariots that abound in towns throughout southern India. I shall put some photos on this blog when I return, to show you their immense size (several stories high) and the colorful decorations with which they’ve been adorned. And the ones in Udupi are not the biggest. During these celebrations they are pulled by hundreds of men grasping thick ropes in an attempt to move the massive wheels. The other night, before the men attempted this feat. a female elephant, Subhadra, did it by herself, resting her huge head against the body of the chariot and grunting wih exertion as she strained every muscle and moved the structure. Then she went to the other side and pushed it back. I have it on video. Something else I shall post when I return. This amazing elephant, decked out in fancy headpiece and sparkling cloth, is a show person in her own right. Before the ceremony began, she stood in a wide circle and cajoled people to come over, put one rupee into her trunk, after which she gave the rupee to her trainer and gently tapped the lucky person on the head. Yes, I did it.

There is an oblong palate that is prepared for Krishna, ringed with lights and kept lit by a generator that is pushed  behind as it circles the entire square and moves in front of eight other temples, each one administered by a priest. Krishna has been placed in a cradle on the palate and the crowds follow, with several bands playing, costumed children dancing, and candles being lit at intervals on the ground. The drummers in the band are phenomenal…muscular young men with costumes, jewelry, and the fastest drum beat I’ve ever seen. It’s like a trap drum on steroids. Sweat pours off their bodies as the drumming becomes faster and louder. One of its members plays a clarinet-type horn in a squealing, insistent alleatory fashion that would surely please Benny Goodman or Artie Shaw. A litle further on someone shoots sparklers and small rockets, and then a long piece of white cloth is set on fire and burns furiously to cinders. This is symbolic of eradicating evil spirits from the earth. All the time that this is going on, Subhadra is marching backwards, with open mouth and upraised trunk, waving white pom poms and bowing to Krishna. She seems to have an affinity for the deity, or at least for the warm attention and cheers of the crowd. When a complete circle has been made, Krishna is returned to the temple, the pilgrims continue their wait to get into the inner sanctum, and Subhadra returns to her “residence.” Just for fun we walked over to watch her get fed and this was a blast! First, since she can get excited when fed, they chain her left rear and left front leg to the pavement with a thick chain. Boy, do they pull it tight. I was amazed that she just stands there and helps them…but I guess she knows what’s coming next. When this is done, handfuls of what looks like wheat is thrown into her mouth. I suppose she chews it, but I couldn’t tell. Then, several large branches are placed in front of her and she deftly removes all of the leaves and eats the stems. The trunk is an amazing appendage with functions too many to innumerate here (this is why we have google?), but she is able to twist those branches and manipulate them and be ready in no time for a second helping. Since I read that elephants eat about 500 lbs of food a day, I didn’t stay around any longer.  Besides, I had to get up for an early train. Happily, I was told that Subhadra would be unchained after eating, so she could spend a restful night before the next performance.

In our final discussion with Bharat he clarified several things about the Hindu deities that I had studied when first in India in 1987, but gotten rather scrambled up. I don’t want to get into heavy theology here, but it is fascinating how similar all religions are when they talk about the soul, values, fear, the material world, the spiritual world, and the struggle to find meaning in life. Krishna, who was the center of these ceremonies, is considered the supreme male…a symbol of the head of the house taking care of the family. We are all family, and within us is both male and female. He has his home only in the spiritual world. Brahma is considered the creator-architect; Vishnu the maintainer; and Shiva the destroyer. These three take care of the material world.

You can imagine how much I’ve been contemplating religion and spirituality during my weeks in India…first with the Tibetan Buddhists and now with Hindus and Moslems. How much better we all would be if we allowed everyone to find joy and fulfillment by followingt his or her own path, without judgment, realizing how similar we are after all.

Two old cows just walked into the internet cafe, mooed, nuzzled my leg, and walked out. No food here, Bossy. Go to the dosa restaurant. Or go find the rest of your clan. They may be in the town square, obstructing traffic. I’m outa here….

GREETINGS FROM UDUPI IN THE STATE OF KARNATAKA–

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On January 7, 2011

In India

I’m halfway between Fort Cochin, Kerala, and Gokarno, near Goa, India at the famous pilgrimage town of Udupi. A lot has transpired since I left my daughter, Cary, in Delhi, on December 30 and boarded a plane for Cochin in the hot, humid Kerala region. Guidebooks tell you how relaxing and charming and peaceful it is. Don’t believe a word, unless you’re on a backwater canal and lake cruise. Interesting, always, but brain-numbing with horns honking in high-pitched decibels, and garbage strewn everywhere. It’s as dirty and chaotic as Delhi, with cars, tuk-tuks (auto rickshaws), huge local buses, and trucks all spewing forth black clouds of exhaust. Hey, folks…this is India. I’m not judging, just observing. And I might add that there are many Indians with whom I speak who are very upset about the growth problems of their country, and are trying to find solutions, for the sake of their people and the environment.

I found a quiet homestay, the Kovil, run by a delightful couple, in Ft. Cochin, 1 1/2 hours by cab from Cochin. It was nestled away from the riotous New Years celebration, and next to a Moslem minaret that woke us up in style at 5:30 every morning. I stood outside as the new year was greeted with fireworks and dancing in the streets. This was all done by men, while the women stood on the sidelines. Someone started a bonfire near the temple, and someone else threw an old bicycle into it, tires and all. Imagine the smell. But no one cared. They were having too much fun! The celebration continued the next night at fever pitch, with a million people invading the small town. To walk anywhere or try to cross a street was life-threatening…and, at times, rather humorous. We just laughed, shrugged, and pushed on. I consider that my biggest accomplishment in this Indian journey is staying alive. Sidewalks are all but unknown in most small towns, and pavement near the shops is upended and crooked. Even small children have to wend their way through the maze of vehicles as they return from school. With it all, however, the people seem calm and are most friendly and welcoming. More about my five days in Ft. Cochin later, when I can upload photos.

My friend from Whidbey Island, Lee Compton, arrived New Year’s Eve after an eighteen-hour ride in an open-air bus from Tiruvannamalai. He collapsed for two days with the malady most prevalent among Westerners, cured only by the miracle drug, Cipro, which is readily available in India for 1 rupee a pill.

Two days ago on the night we left, we had dinner in a small dosa shop with a Dutch couple, Bas Brackhiuze and Susanne Gabrieel–he a massage therapist, photography teacher, and avid Scottish fiddler, and she a nurse, who is preparing to open a bed and breakfast in The Netherlands. They’ve been traveling in India for several weeks and tempted us with tales of an ashram they had visited. But that meant going south into more heat. No thanks. I elected to go north, so we reserved on a train leaving at midnight from north station, with third class tickets for an AC sleeper to Mangalore.

Just before boarding we ran into Christian Fischer and Renata Rossbach, a delightful young German couple from Cologne.  He is a film and TV producer, having studied at NYU, and she is a psychotherapist. We had spent several hours together during their stay at the Kovil and I had gone with them on an interesting country boat cruise  through narrow canals and village backwater areas, ending with  a houseboat ride on Lake Venbanad.

Our bunks were in the third tier near the ceiling, and our luggage had to be placed at the end, giving us only enough room to curl up like snails, until 6:30 A.M., when our compartment mates left the train. It seemed smart to transfer to the bottom bunks and get some sleep before we arrived, but since my luggage was blocking the ladder I decided to swing my legs over the side and slide down. Not smart! My right leg got caught in one of the holding straps on the opposite side and flipped me upside down. I heard a terrible ripping sound in my knee. Fortunately, Lee caught me before my head hit the floor. Now what? I could see the end of my trip, of my trekking, of my ability to walk at all. My knee swelled and ached…but at least I could walk!

We found Christian and Renata and together we took a cab to Udupi, since it’s a big Hindu pilgrimage site that sounded interesting and restful to all of us. Yesterday, I visited the local hospital’s emergency room and was examined by an orthopedic doctor, who said that I was really lucky not to have detached the medial collateral ligament. I had only stretched it.  He put on a flexible cast and told me to rest for a couple of days. Total cost: 200 rupees, about $5.00. Is my guardian angel working overtime, or wot? I’m overjoyed!

When I returned to the Vyavahar Lodge opposite the Sri Krishna Temple, where we’re staying (on a quiet pedestrian square), Lee informed me that he had just seen an ear doctor and would need to go to the hospital and have the remains of a silicone earplug removed from his ear.  He had pushed it down too far ten days ago and it was resting on his ear drum.  I told him this was the kind of thing I expected of a five-year-old and asked him when he was going to grow up! The cost of the surgery,  pre-op tests, blood work, medications, anesthesiologist, surgeon, scads of pretty nurses, and operating room came to under $100. This took most of the afternoon, but all’s well that ends well. We decided we are quite a pair. I had to buy the equipment at the hospital pharmacy to replace what they used on Lee, such as the IV drip, syringes, and anesthesia. It’s a whole new system to me and there seemed to be way too many people doing the various jobs, but this is India and very labor intensive. That hasn’t changed since I visited a hospital in Udaipur in 1987, but the hospitals sure have. I was duly impressed by the courteous and thorough service.

At the moment we’re scrambling to find another hotel, since a huge celebration is being prepared for tomorrow in the square. Last night we saw dozens of young boys with shorn hair, bare chests, and colorful dhotis parading into the temple. The giant ancient chariots are being decorated and  grandstands erected. Everywhere a spirit of excitement pervades.

I apologize for the sporadic and incomplete posts on this blog, but cyber cafes are few and far between, and I am hobbling a bit at the moment, confident, however, that I’ll be up to speed soon.

A belated Happy New Year to all of you. Enjoy your snow. It’s hot as blazes here.

MY ADVENTURES WITH THE TIBETAN COMMUNITY ARE OVER AND I’M OFF TO SOUTH INDIA

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On December 27, 2010

In India, Sikkim

I’m now in Dharamsala just a day away from the grueling overnight bus trip to Delhi and then a flight to Cochin in Kerala, South India. Am working on getting my blog updated on the events of the past three weeks. Stay tuned!

To read about my travels in Sikkim, scroll down to my post from Dec. 6th, or go to http://megnoblepeterson.wordpress.com/2010/12/06/sikkim-is-everything/

AM I CRAZY, OR WOT?

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On November 16, 2010

In India, Sikkim

SEEMS TO ME THAT THIS….

IS A LOT EASIER THAN THIS….

…BUT THERE’S NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTES.

As most of you know, I’m off, tomorrow, for 3½ months in India, starting with a three-week trek in Sikkim with my two daughters, Cary and Martha. Sikkim is way up north and will be my taste of winter for this year. Am I blessed or am I blessed? This time I shall be looking at Mt. Kangchenjunga, the third highest mountain in the world, from the Indian side instead of from Nepal, where I trekked for a month to its base camp in 1996. It was a wondrous sight and I’m sure will be just as wondrous from Sikkim.

Martha will leave on Dec. 10th and Cary and I will spend the rest of the month in Dharamsala, visiting our Tibetan friends, the TCV (Tibetan Children’s Village) schools in Dharamsala and Bir, and the lovely mountain village of Tso Pema.

In January I’ll be on my own, but have enough alternatives to choke one of the many elephants  (and tigers) I hope to see in the wild animal parks that abound in central and southern Indian. I plan to meet up in Tiruvannamalai with Lee Compton, from Whidbey Island, with whom I spent some time in Myanmar in 2007, and three weeks later on the beaches of Gokarna near Goa with Gullvi Eriksson, with whom I trekked in Norway and Sweden in 2005. Some of the places I have my eye on are Khajuraho enroute to Bandhavgarh National Park; Mangalore; Mysore; Hyderabad; Bangalore: Kerala; Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary in the Cardoman Hills; and the Ellora and Ajanta caves. India is one big country and the guidebook, alone, takes up a good hunk of my daypack. I’ll probably be traveling by train, but who knows? Things have changed since I spent time in India twenty years ago and wrote about it in Madam. Those were the days when just making a call home was an all-day adventure. It’s a whole new world out there! So keep an eye on my blog posts. I’ll try to be brief, but hope to hit the high spots.

I’m overjoyed that Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, the Nobel laureate, has finally been freed by the military dictatorship in Myanmar, after spending fourteen of the last twenty years under house arrest. I urge you to check the web and follow the events as they unfold. I had planned to visit for a month in February, but changed plans at the last minute. It was just too difficult, logistically.  But I shall return soon.  Suu Kyi, whose father was assassinated in 1947, was duly elected in 1990, and immediately imprisoned by the military junta. She heads the National League for Democracy (NLD), and is still wildly popular and a symbol of hope for the Burmese people. I think the military has greatly underestimated her support among the people and somehow thinks that because an election was held, which has been condemned by most countries as a sham, she would be sidelined. As she says, there is much to be done and she intends to continue the fight for democracy in Myanmar. This is a struggle worth watching and supporting.

My blog would not be complete without mentioning at least one outstanding play. This month it is The Pitman Painters on Broadway, brought to us from England and written by Lee Hall, who also wrote Billy Elliot the Musical. Don’t miss it. We also had a concert of Mahler’s 1st Symphony at the Plainfield Symphony. This is the year of Mahler and we started it with a bang (and the crash of cymbals!).

In conclusion, let me share with you the waning days of autumn as seen through my bedroom window. This gorgeous maple tree is so intense in the early morning sun that its reflection imbues my room with a rosy glow, filling my heart with warmth and happiness as only nature’s perfection can.

And down the street, not to be undone, we have a blaze of yellow that dominates the entire hill.

GREETINGS FROM LAKSHMANJHULA, NORTHERN INDIA

By

On February 16, 2007

In India, Myanmar

Valentine’s Day has come and gone and I’ve been sitting on my balcony overlooking the Mother Ganges (or Ganga), watching the sun rise, listening to endless chanting, which starts around 7 AM, and admiring the intrepid Hindus who are bathing and doing their morning ablutions in the river. The 16th of February is Shiva’s birthday, so there are celebrations all around town, dancing, chanting and all kinds of things I can’t pronounce. Will report on them as I live them.

Not much has changed in this exotic, chaotic, disorganized, and beautiful country, except that the trains have improved and people sit talking on their cell phones as annoyingly as they do on the US trains. I was sitting next to a young man with an automatic weapon on his lap while on my way from Delhi to Haridwar two nights ago, and he let me know with a wink that he was guarding the VP’s sitting in front of us (the ones with the cell phones). Then, as if nothing had changed in twenty years he asked for my phone number and started in on the “happiness” line. I couldn’t believe it! Yes, folks, in India older is better. Ladies take heart.

I’ve just had two hours of blog disappear into cyberspace as a result of a power outage. This is something that happened often in Myanmar, but I hadn’t expected this in India. Fellow tourists said I was dreaming. Nothing worse than being snuggled up in bed ready to write and having the lights go off, and waiting for some time until the generators kick in with a loud clatter and they go on, again. Nothing worse, except if you’re on the internet and there’s no chance of retrieving your material. With that said, here goes again, a recap of my wonderful month in Myanmar and the chaotic aftermath.

To add to my former entry, let me say that not only do they sell car mufflers on the street, but shortly before leaving Yangon, I happened upon an enterprising fellow who was squatted on the sidewalk, making mufflers out of pieces of used metal. These people are amazing and have to be to cope with their deteriorated infrastructure, their lack of power equipment, and the appalling scarcity of basic goods and services. Every American who complains about a leaky faucet, a cracked sidewalk, or a dead battery needs to visit these hardy people who, despite their almost hopeless situation, still find the time to smile and greet you and welcome you to their country. They know a great deal about us as well. I was surprised, as I talked with people from many areas around the country, at how they knew about our government and its policies and talked openly about our problems in the world. Though they still admired us as a super power, they were critical of our present policies. They also spoke harshly about their own military dictatorship, taking a chance, since there are ears everywhere. They are a very accepting, long-suffering people, but there is despair lurking underneath. This was clear. But the women who run most of the guest houses, as well as their staff, are the happiest, most bubbly people I’ve ever met. It was a joy being around them.

Nobody mentioned Aung Sang Suu Kyi by name (the Nobel prize winner under house arrest since 1988), but referred to her, as my cab driver did, by pointing out that “she lives over there. You know. She is a brave lady. Everybody loves her.” And I was surprised when I went to the largest monastery in Myanmar, while in Bago, where 2,000 monks live, and saw a statue of Aung Sang on a white horse prominently displayed in the courtyard. By the way, the monks all over Myanmar are friendly and also very playful, getting a kick out of my taking their picture and, of course, showing it to them. This was a lovely monastery, off the beaten track, and without one tourist present.

After my experience at the Golden Rock Pagoda, I left my Seattle/Whidbey Island friends and hurried back to Yangon to meet James Wilson, my traveling companion, who had been having trouble getting his passport and visa back from the Myanmar Embassy (they don’t like us, but they like our money…and it better be new and crisp!). This wasn’t to happen for another week, so I tried, desperately, to get a bus for Taungoo to see the elephant training. That, too, was a disaster, since the bus schedules are chaotic and you must book at least a day ahead, if you can find someone at the haphazard central station who speaks English. I’m not complaining. It was an adventure…but one I’m not eager to repeat. So, off I flew to Kalaw, a small trekking town, by way of Heho, the nearest airport. I met a beautiful Canadian traveler, Donna Smiley, at the airport, munching the same tasty Thai cookies as I, and we compared notes as women traveling alone. I knew we’d meet again. Two weeks later in Hsipaw I found her sitting in the courtyard of Mr. Charles Guest House.

Since the internet is almost non-existent most of the time in Myanmar, it was nip and tuck to try to get a message to James about my change of plans. I could see him tooling into the Golden Lilly in Kalaw, with me at the May Guest House in Naungshwe, Inle Lake. I trusted that the lady at the Kalaw guest house would send him a message, and it got through. Miracle of miracles!

My two-day trek up and down the hills of northern Shan territory started with a harrowing ride over a dirt road so rutted I thought we might roll over. These rides, in cars that are so old they still have the steering wheel on the right from British days, were the most dangerous part of any trip. If a truck appears, you just move into a ditch or a shoulder, if there is one. You pass, mostly on hills, since you probably won’t meet another car, and after awhile it becomes a game of chance, of the thrill-a-minute variety. Most cars and taxis are metal shells with only a seat and no padding on the doors. The windshield is usually cracked and the windows won’t roll up or down. One taxi driver proudly announced to me that his car was 40-years-old. And still running. That’s ingenuity!

Our trek guide was a Sikh from the Punjab, whose family had been brought over by the British. He was a handsome fellow, Harri Singh Gill, who thawed considerably when I took a photo of him and said I would put it on the cover of Entertainment Today when I returned, complete with his coiled topknot and baseball cap. His cook, Taung Yo, was extraordinary and gave me an enthusiasm for Shan food that followed me the entire trip. His meals were extensive, loaded with fresh vegetables that he gathered along the way, and seasoned to perfection. The avocado salad was a winner at every meal, including breakfast.

The other two participants on the trek were a French couple, Vincent Richard, and his partner, Iisabella. They had been traveling for 8 months and had four more to go. We hit it off immediately, and the lively conversation kept me from dying of the heat, which was oppressive. I had no idea how little forest we would go through…none, in fact. The terrain became hilly, but still was incredibly dusty, with multi-colored cacti, a few bamboo plantations, and banana and pineapple groves. After lunch the cook gave me his jacket to cover my arms. It was a godsend! I was burning up.

That night we stayed at the Ponegyn Buddhist monastery on the floor with mats and quilts. It was a cold, but very special experience. At sundown the young monks started chanting in those wonderful boy voices, punctuated by the drone of the old monk. I taped this as I’ve taped so many chants during my trip. It was here that I lost my favorite orange T-shirt, by leaving it over the side of the humongous cement tub at the end of a courtyard where everyone was sent to wash. I thought I’d have to use it for a towel, but Harri surprised me with a towel from the monks, whereupon I left the shirt. It’s probably still there. That night the lights were supposed to go off at 10, but the novice monks were sitting, wrapt, on the floor watching some horror movie on TV. I couldn’t believe it! Even in a monastery those Bollywood/Chinese shoot-em-ups are playing.

We passed through eight different hill tribes with dramatically different scenery during those two days. Each ethnic group had its own headdress and traditional clothing and its special occupation, handcrafts, and farming. We saw several instances of cooperative house-building and peaceful endeavors utilizing the whole family. And. boy, did they have children! What fun we had photographing them and what fun they had seeing themselves on our LCD screens. Can’t wait to make an album of my pictures when I return. Harri was a big help explaining the various cultures and also got me a ride on a traditional cart pulled by bullocks. This was an experience I’d been hankering for. The huge animals went in and out of the ruts and the cart tilted sideways, jolting me until I was certain it would capsize. I’m glad I have a strong back.

Our trek ended at the village of In Dein, on one of the outlets leading to the main body of Inle Lake. There we took a long boat equipped with an outboard motor, and headed for the dock at charming Naungshwe. What a trip that was, but how glad I was to get to the May Guest House and make the acquaintance of its owner, The The ( pronounced Tsi Tsi), with whom I became friends for the next four days. I’m hoping to put the interview I had with her on this site, once I figure out the technology. And I have several other interviews I think you’d find interesting.

It was so great to get to an area of fresh air and, even though there was a lively market, as there is in all Myanmar towns, Naungshwe was relatively laid back. My first adventure was an evening paddle in a dugout canoe to see an old monastery at sunset and some of the houses on stilts hidden in the channels off the main lake. I didn’t do the paddling, but enjoyed the quiet after being in the loud motor boat.

The next day was a full day’s tour of the lake and some of its high spots, monasteries, and homes, all on stilts. More than 800,000 people of varying tribes live on the lake and it’s a fascinating place, watching people go up and down the river doing their work, digging up the weeds and the bottom soil, and making their own floating gardens, and even trying to walk on one of the gardens as it undulates beneath you. There are also unusual crafts–silver, linen weaving, and the spinning of lotus flower thread into cloth that tempts even the most hardened shoppers. I shared this day with another French couple, Christian Vandendaele and Sylvie Morin. At lunch we also met another couple, Canadians Peter de Groot and Sheila Wyn.

I noticed the friendliness of the Myanmar people more than ever in this town. I’d walk home from dinner late at night…not a streetlight around…and people would walk up to me and ask my name and my country. At first, I was wary…what did they want? To sell me something? One asked me where I was staying and I asked, “Why are you asking?” He looked perplexed, then rode off on his bike. I told The The about this and she said he was just being friendly and welcoming me to his country. How suspicious we have become. But Myanmar is most unusual in this respect. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work this way everywhere. In my next installment I’ll tell you about an experience I just had in Delhi which turned out quite differently.

The next day James finally arrived. Hooray! Thus begins the second and final chapter of my time in Myanmar. Now I’m off to celebrate Shiva’s birthday. I can hear dancing, music, and chanting. This is, indeed, a special time in India.

Was I happy to see James! It didn’t take long before we were on one of those fast, skinny boats tooling in and out of the byways of Inle Lake. We made a special tour, eschewing the tourist spots and seeing bamboo houses on stilts hidden way back from the main river in the rushes. The extensive gardens, both vegetable and flower, were amazing, and the number of children playing near the water on flimsy docks (all of bamboo), or hanging out of open second story windows gave me the willies. But everybody waved…said Mingle-a-ba or Hello, and seemed overjoyed to pose for pictures.

There is a plethora of designs for these many houses on stilts, and each one has its unique pattern of bamboo and palm on the outer walls. The houses, usually one large room, are reached by beautiful curved bridges and walkways over the labyrinth of waterways that connect each village. Wait until April and you will see the pictures.

We decided not to spend time at the floating market, but, instead, headed for the monastery in the forest. This was definitely off the beaten track, and a long walk and climb in the noon day sun. I had finally found a white linen shirt that covered my arms, but it also kept me warm, something I didn’t need. The sun and I do not get along!

Halfway to the monastery we passed a new building with two ladies out front. They bowed and greeted us warmly. It turned out to be an orphanage for 46 girls, from 4 to 16, all of them coming from situations of destitution, death of the parents or caregiver, or families so large that they were starving. The girls were selected for their “potential,” and when we saw them all assembled and heard them talk, we realized that this was a very special place with a noble vision and the ability to make a difference to the hill tribes of Inle Lake. The woman in charge was a 65-year-old Christian lady, Helen, who said that her mission was to help the children of the world. She gave us the daily schedule, and since the children were all Buddhist, they started with a religious service before breakfast, then intense studies in math, English, history and their own language and literature. They also participated in the chores of the school, and the care of the garden. A busy day. Many of the children could not even speak Burmese when they came to the school, but now they were becoming fluent in both English and Burmese.

Before we left, the girls sang for us…Christmas carols in English. Then several of them stood up in turn, and told us their name and what they hoped to be when they grew up. This was a very moving part of our visit, and I taped both the singing and the children’s words. Ambitions ran from doctor, lawyer, tour guide, nurse, to pop singer. Helen said that these girls were the hope of their people. They would go back to their various tribes and inspire others to strive for a better life.

There was also a boy’s orphanage close by. Both of these institutions are supported by donated funds from one farsighted restaurant, and money from foreigners like us. We tried to give dollars, but Helen said the government would wonder where she got the money, so we gave our donation in kyat (pronounced chat). This was the most encouraging sign of change that I saw during my trip. The need is so great that it’s almost overwhelming, but when you see people like Helen and her staff, you realize that there is still hope for the people of Myanmar. Improvement comes in very small increments, but it comes. I’ve left out real names to protect those who are trying to make a difference in a land where human rights are non-existent and life is a daily struggle to survive.

As often happens when we headed for a monastery during the next two weeks, a little boy would attach himself to us, trying to explain the history of the area and, of course, hoping to get a small payment. This time we had skinny Obe Wa, who took a great liking to James, and stuck with us through the heat and the dust to the very top. And got his reward.

Our only tourist stop was to see the Monastery of the Jumping Cats, where a man has trained cats to jump through hoops. This was a lot of fun, and it was amusing to see a very bored Buddhist monk near the stage, sitting cross-legged, and reading the paper during the entire ceremony. Several cats sat at his feet, waiting for their turn to perform. Monks seem very casual in Myanmar and very approachable. We spent a lot of time talking with them and they were eager to talk to us and “practice English.”

The morning before we left for Mandalay, James and I strolled around the back streets of Naungshwe as the day was beginning. School children were bouncing along, dressed in uniforms (the lucky ones whose parents could afford the price of school, uniforms, and books. This is a very small percentage of the children, most of whom sell post cards or trinkets to tourists, instead of attending school). Several little girls followed me, fascinated with my huge camera. The little girls posed, arms around each other, giggling like little girls everywhere, and led me to their school, where I was required to photograph numerous friends. Walking back from the school, we saw people washing clothes in the river and men and women going to work on bicycles. Very few cars passed us, though now and then you’d see the heavy, three-wheeled tractor-like truck that I saw twenty years ago in China. Smaller motorized rickshaws with people hanging out of them, are also a main source of transportation in small towns. But mostly you can walk down the middle of the street…often a dirt road…and feel perfectly safe. By the way, my new EOS digital camera, though it takes great pictures, has been sent home with James. It was just too heavy and awkward with its two large lenses. I now have James’ Canon point-and-shoot digital and it makes a lot more sense, even though the photos aren’t so good, and I go mad without a view finder.

At 2:30 we said goodbye to our beautiful small town and the charming May Guest House and headed for the chaos and pollution of Mandalay. Little did we know, but at least we had a reservation at The Peacock Lodge, another fine guest house surrounded by flowers and run by a warm, congenial woman, Alice (her English name, of course). The smog, exhaust fumes, and dust hit us immediately upon leaving the new airport (new and nobody there…empty carousels, few passengers, empty parking lots). There were no street lights, but light came from the many tiny restaurants and business cubicles lining the streets and still going strong late into the night. I had to adjust to the big city, again. Walking to the restaurant that night I said to James, “I think I’ll just hop up on that sidewalk.” “No, no, Meg…it’s an open sewer.” In the dark I had seen what I thought was a black strip of pavement running down the middle of the walk. On closer inspection, it was an open sewer. I would have disappeared up to my waist. I quickly became more observant. This was closely followed by potholes and cracked pavement. From then on I took my headlamp on evening “walks.” It was like being back in Yangon. Vigilance!

Mandalay was a hoot. Most people don’t like it, but we enjoyed it, probably because of the wild rides in the trishaws, especially at night, and the exhilarating walk up Mandalay Hill (1770 steps) to the temple overlooking the city, and the hike down the road in the dark. And our full day of exploring three powerful historic spots, Amarapura (with the feeding of the monks), the island of Ava (Inwa), and Seigang, returning to see the sunset on the teakwood bridge of Amarapura. All of these are covered thoroughly in guidebooks and well worth a day. Riding in horse carts, haggling with children selling necklaces, eating in open air restaurants whose floors are packed dirt, and climbing up a huge unfinished temple after our boat ride to Mingun (have a photo of James under the famous Mingun bell) was made complete by the ride home in a trishaw after dark. They don’t have headlights and neither do the bicycles…only cars and motorcycles, which dart around you with inches to spare, while the driver seems to have a sixth sense about when to stop, swerve, or pass. I loved it! One motorcycle driver pulled up next to us and throttled down, asking us where we came from and telling us how much he wanted to get to the U.S. He was dressed in army fatigues, but that is typical of many men in Myanmar. Army surplus clothing abounds and is cheap. James whispered to me, “He’d better stop chewing that beetle nut if he wants to get into the U.S.” Yes, so many men here have red and rotting teeth as a result of this habit. Benign, maybe, but as disgusting as the pioneer days when chewing tobacco was prevalent. And here there are no spittoons.

The best part of Mandalay is the several monks we met, one of whom went with us to the royal palace and shared some of his ideas about the government and his life as a monk. All of this I have written in detail and these are the reasons for taking such a trip. The monuments and temples are beautiful. The people are more beautiful and ARE the country.

Some of you may have noticed, when seeing pictures of Myanmar, that the men and women wear long skirts, called lunghi for women and pa so for men. I decided I must try one, so bought a large piece of material with a typical Burmese design for a couple of dollars in the local market and had them sew up the side and show me how to wear it. Well, what a disaster this was! But the women loved it. Much laughter at my clumsiness. At the May Guest House several people of various nationalities tried, again, to show me how, but it was always crooked and, with my sneakers, I looked like Minnie Mouse wearing a blanket. Not my style. So someone will get a nice gift and can use it for a horse blanket as a last resort. Come to think of it, I have a niece who likes horses. But I did buy a silk lunghi with ties at each side and fared better. And a Shan blouse to match. I plan to wear them at a Myanmar slide show next summer on Whidbey Island.

James decided to go native our last day in Yangon, probably because I told him he couldn’t go back to Shwedagon in shorts. He bought a beautiful plaid pa so and learned to wrap it with a large knot protruding from the front. And he had the sandals to match. I have a picture to prove it. He looked absolutely stunning!

Early one morning, two days before we left Myanmar, we took an open-air taxi (small blue trucks with two small benches in the back, facing each other) to the railroad station and embarked on an expedition to Hsipaw, a small town high in the mountains ten hours from Mandalay. What a ride that was! The train negotiated several switchbacks before reaching a narrow trestle 500-1,000 ft. above the valley. It went very slowly and nobody moved. These old trains tend to sway from side to side, and the crossing was a bit tense. We bonded with a family and their 11-month-old baby boy. When the baby became fussy, James and I would entertain him with rhymes and songs. Both parents shared in the care of the infant, and it was a pleasure to watch. The train was a colorful caravan of Burmese types–middle class; tribal; dark-skinned; almost white. Everybody brought baskets of goodies and cylindrical metal containers for hot food. Thank heaven we had an ample breakfast packed by Alice. Nobody spoke English, but we felt accepted, and the people were eager to point out interesting sights along the way, letting us sit by their window to catch the views.

After a cold night in Mr. Charles Guest House in Hsipaw, we took a long morning walk, observing the stream of monks that file through the market with their large bowls clutched in their arms, begging for food. This is common practice in Myanmar, and the Motherland Inn in Yangon always kept a steaming pot of rice out front on a pedestal to serve them. I also saw my first display of debris for the evil “Nats,” under a tree by the river. I remembered the huge statue of Grandma Nat at Swerdegon in Yangon, where people came to light incense and pray for success in business.

In late morning we hired a shared taxi and sped down a road of harrowing hairpin turns all the way to the former British colonial resort of Pyin oo Lwin. Every now and then the driver would reach into his pocket and grab a small folded banana leaf full of beetle nut, and pop it into his mouth. I watched the wad in his cheek recede as we roared down, passing only a few new Isuzu trucks laden with cargo going to construction sites. Otherwise there was no traffic. Just before we reached town, the driver stopped at a local restaurant where we had our tastiest meal–rice with numerous veggie and meat toppings–all for about $1.00.

The remainder of the day we rode in a colonial buggy around the quaint old town and visited the magnificent National Kandawgyi Gardens. Started by the British as a botanical garden in 1917, they were fashioned after the Kew Botanical Gardens. Not to be missed.

Our last day in Mandalay was spent going from market to market, an open-air pageant to delight the eye and the pocketbook of any consumer. It’s good that my pack is full, but I did my part when it came to bananas (I like the ones in Asia–they’re small and sweet), oranges, and avocados. And we found children all around town who were thrilled to be given a piece of fruit. I’d buy a kilo for less than a dollar, and the children would swarm. They seemed to emerge from nowhere–dirty, in tatters, barefoot, but smiling ingenuously. Sometimes their mothers were sitting on the sidewalk under a flimsy shelter with a nursing baby, and they would bring the fruit to her. I think this was the first orange some of them had ever eaten. They didn’t even know how to peel it. Whenever children asked me for money, or indicated by putting their hands to their mouth that they were hungry, I’d buy them food from one of the many stalls on the side of the road. I noticed that they always shared the food with their younger siblings. As I’ve mentioned before, Asia is a place where children take care of children.

I could never get used to the pockets of poverty in this city. Going to the river one day we came upon a community of homemade tents housing families on the sloping river bank. It was morning and small fires burned for warmth as well as cooking. Barefoot children clung to their mothers. One woman sat alone combing her hair. When she saw me she called a child from the tent and posed for a picture. She was delighted when I showed her the image. Garbage was everywhere, though each family swept its small section of packed dirt. I imagine that these families simply move elsewhere when the rains come and the river rises. Nobody asked me for anything. They just smiled and nodded.

Our final adventure in Myanmar started with a ten-hour ferry ride down the Ayerawaddy River from Mandalay to Bagan. We enjoyed conversing with people from many European countries, but met few from the U. S. I especially enjoyed talking with Lisa Lotte, a Danish woman living in Germany with her partner, Christof Rauch. Happily, we met them later on at a small restaurant we frequented.

We approached Bagan at sunset, its stupas silhouetted, dramatically, against the darkening sky. Before we could get out of the area we were required to register with our passports and visas and pay a fee of $10.00 to the government. This happened whenever you entered any tourist area. Locals go free. I hated the thought of giving money to the government, but there was no way around it. I dare not mention some of the strategies used by guides I’ve met, to keep the government from getting this money. I will only applaud their ingenuity and wish them luck.

Bagan was a town of over 4,000 temples of which only 2800 remain today. This was like no other place I’d been in my travels. A huge flat area dotted with ancient temples that gave me a real sense of antiquity. Some were crumbling from neglect, some were being refurbished. All had at least four statues of Buddha, each defining the inner corners, and many had exquisite wall paintings, faded with age. We explored these in our bare feet, climbing up narrow stone staircases and banks of very steep steps connecting the tiers of the various levels. Views from the top of some of the larger stupas showed miles and miles of similar temples, each with its own special charm, color, and design.

The story of this town is tragic, and we were told about it by our taxi driver while we rode to our hotel, and by several families we met subsequently. In 1990 the military government evicted every family from Old Bagan (now the home of fancy large hotels used by tour groups, but mostly empty), giving each family the equivalent of a dollar, and two weeks to vacate. They were sent to a barren area with no water, no housing, no electricity, and no buildings of any kind, and given a small piece of land. The families tried to bring as much of their old homes as they could dismantle. They had no water for a year, and many died of snake bites and broken hearts. We met one family with children they are struggling to educate by running a small restaurant. The wealthy tourists go to fancy hotels in Old Bagan, so they are being squeezed out. But it’s amazing what the people have built up in those 15 years.

We found a marvelous hotel, The Thiri Marlar, with rooms opening onto a balcony overlooking gardens in a lower courtyard. We decided to splurge…$25.00 for a double! The next morning we climbed to the roof cafe for our breakfast and who was sitting there but Lee, Yana, and Dale. What a wonderful surprise! Lee had just said, “I wonder where Meg is,” and I appeared. It was uncanny. A perfect coincidence that made our trip.

We spent the next four days visiting temples I can’t even pronounce. Some of us went by bike, but after the first day of negotiating sandy ruts and riding home on a perilous highway in the dark with no light, I decided to join Dale in a horse-drawn cart. Slow, but sure!

James became our unofficial guide, since he is a fount of cultural information and had read The Lonely Planet and a history of Burma before he even arrived. Lee knew the people and had close friends in the antique, lacquer, and restaurant business. We were a compatible, happy group.

Bargaining, as you know, is a way of life in Asia, especially in Myanmar and India. Lee is the champion, but I’m a close second. He specializes in Buddhas and textiles while I concentrate on the small stuff, like watches and jewelry. My watch gave out, so I decided to buy another. It went like this: “How much?”

“Ten dollars. Genuine Swiss.”

“I’ll give you one.”

“Three, Madam. Very good watch.”

Reaching into my pocket I produced my last two dollars. “This is all I have.”

“O.K., O.K.” End of deal. The watch was pretty good, but the strap broke.

It was difficult to resist some of the bargains in handcrafts and paintings, superb in Myanmar. Lee had been here before, and knew the number one maker of lacquer ware in the area, The Golden Cuckoo workshop in Myin Ka Par village. There are two grades of work: very fine and tourist quality with fewer layers of lacquer. I’ve never seen such exquisite work. We toured the shop and watched the artists as they designed and polished, starting by weaving a basic shell of bamboo or horsehair. This is an ancient skill. Dishes, platters, flexible cups, vases, and urns are made and decorated by hand with tiny sharp tools, adding new designs with each layer. Over twenty coatings of lacquer are applied over a period of a year. Orders come in from temples all over Asia, and the work sells for thousands of dollars in the States. We went a little crazy. On our last evening we were invited to the birthday party of the owner’s son, where we were asked to sing Happy Birthday “just like in America.” You can imagine what a thrill it was to participate in this authentic Burmese festival.

One day, after visiting three temples, we looked around for a restaurant. We were hot, tired, and generally rung out after crawling up cracked stairs in old stupas and examining artifacts in dark places that required headlamps. Often we were prohibited from taking pictures, and were followed by a custodian who, for some reason, didn’t trust all those Americans and their cameras. Hmm.

We stopped at a farm in Minnanthu village and walked into a pleasant courtyard housing farm animals, including the big Brahman cattle with the hump. Vegetable and flower gardens abutted the property. It was an idyllic pastoral scene.

“Where can we find a restaurant?” we asked.

“You can eat here with us,” was the answer.

We sat under a shelter and watched several men thrash cornstalks into silage, and a young woman spin cotton into thread. There were plums drying on the ground. The seeds would be sold to the Chinese. And a litter of puppies played in the dirt. James bought a white shirt with Burmese trim. Totally ethnic.

Then came lunch. The appetizer was chunks of papaya dipped in sesame seeds, followed by boiled tea leaves, ginger, and peanuts with white beans. The main course started with a hot chili lime soup with cilantro and ended with a tasty noodle veggie dish. Hot tea and fruit were dessert.

All of this food had been prepared by Grandma, who graciously allowed us to photograph her in the kitchen. A proud lady and a proud family.

As I leave Myanmar you must understand that much was unspoken during our many conversations, although much was inferred. I am in a quandary about just what to tell, since any inkling that an individual is criticizing the government can land him or her in jail, and jeopardize the family. So I have to be very circumspect, not easy for me. I do feel, however, that despite the few times you pay government fees to enter temples, visiting Myanmar is a good thing, if only to talk with people, patronize their establishments, and let them know that the rest of the world is aware of their plight and we, as individuals, will support those working for change.

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© 2024 Meg Noble Peterson